Chapter 25 #2
Despite Blainor’s permission, she didn’t want to play the fae’s songs here.
And from the magic’s sense, it seemed to agree.
Instead of the wild music of the twilight world, her fingers coaxed out songs from her travels: ballads from the south, folk songs from the east, with the lyre’s clear sound carrying them all.
Safe tunes. The new string, fashioned from cobweb and the light of a constellation named after her kind, trembled with the purest chord.
Perhaps some of its magic truly stemmed from the mortal world.
Silence fell over the room. People turned to listen.
With a small smile, she wreathed the Fir Hall with the pealing sounds of her lyre and her clear voice, magic lending them strength and a soft glow.
Tonight, it didn’t attempt to enchant, just to share beauty, warmth, and gratitude.
Afterward, she rested, enjoying the moment.
The instrument’s wooden arms were solid against her palms, the flames reflected on the windows once night had darkened.
Settling her instrument down, she got up to take her spot by Blainor’s table.
He watched her approach, but didn’t speak.
“Nice playing, Bard,” said Fjorten after she’d sat. His mouth twisted slightly as he nodded toward Kaiden on the other side of Blainor. “But you still owe us that sword march.”
Trisha huffed, eyeing the rich weave of their tunics and the craftsmanship of their leather belts. Neither carried weapons. “Then bring your blades; I won’t indulge for nothing.” She cast a demure look toward Blainor. “Although I’m unsure your lord would approve.”
“Swords?” Blainor said. “You should know my stance already.”
A servant hurried to pour Trisha’s cup. At his retreat, she rotated it slowly. Warmth blossomed in Trisha’s chest. Her face low, she sipped her drink. Sweet honey coated her tongue, almost too flowery, a lingering aftertaste of the Undying Lands. She swallowed it away.
Life soon folded into itself into routines, and the gossiping whispers faded. As the evenings grew darker and the servants lit Moorhafen’s lights to breathe life into the waning summer, she reclaimed her seat in the Fir Hall and played. True to her word, Trisha had stayed.
All the while she was aware of how Blainor watched her, the weight of his attention, the quiet tension that still lingered on his shoulders.
Aware of how his people observed them, and the unvoiced questions in their eyes.
But the Warlord’s word was the law, and Blainor had made it clear to his people that he’d welcomed her back.
If only his seneschal would accept it. Trisha stifled her growl.
She’d sneaked out of her room before Aine’s arrival, hoping to grab a quick bite before heading out to the stables.
Dapple needed exercise, and she needed fresh air.
The mattress might be soft, her blankets warm, but the cold walls were silent.
The bedrock hummed in her bones, aching to sing its songs.
“Are you even listening, Bard an Tilia?” Senneth’s nasal voice shattered Trisha’s thoughts. He’d caught her in the corridor, latching himself next to her.
“My apologies, Master Usmer. You were saying?”
Senneth dusted off his spotless sleeve, brass buttons on his woolen tunic glinting. “Do try, if not for me, then for the Warlord.” He stopped, facing her. “Mistress Tifbrunn is hosting a gathering and would wish entertainment for the occasion.”
“Byne could ask me just as well,” Trisha muttered.
Over Senneth’s bony shoulders, a row of windows opened to the east where waves of the eroded mountains swelled, crowned by misty clouds. The weight of her unanswered past clutched her chest, making her breath catch. But one day, it would stop hurting.
Senneth’s answer snared her attention. “Mistress Tifbrunn is unavailable for today.”
“Has something happened?”
Senneth waited for the passing servant’s steps to fade. “The Warlord has a need for his aides. I’m sure he’ll inform you when he deems it appropriate.”
“Very well, Seneschal Usmer. I’ll attend Byne’s gathering.”
“Excellent. She expects you in the Solar at noon tomorrow.”
Trisha inclined her head, and the aging seneschal turned to depart without saying goodbye.
Trisha rolled her eyes and continued on.
Senneth, with his deference for tradition and decorum, would not change.
Yet it grated to know that she was expected to endure his snide comments and contempt.
No matter, she’d chosen Moorhafen. Let Senneth think he intimidated her with his spite.
To the relief of her growling belly, the leftovers still remained on the trestle tables near the side wall.
Her boots echoed in the quiet hall. Trisha nodded to the maids sweeping the floor and setting candles in the lowered chandeliers.
Roast, bread, cheese—some plates were empty, but enough remained.
She pocketed a slice of rye bread for Dapple.
He’d prefer a carrot, but wouldn’t refuse a treat.
At the sound of approaching steps and a forceful argument, she turned.
“Pa—” The voice squeaked between baritone and tenor. “I told you already we’d take a cart. Jaun knows how to drive it.”
“No, Dietric.” It was Fjorten’s familiar gravel-like timbre. “I don’t want you to spend time with those two swamp rats. You’re not leaving before you’re well again.”
The pair came through the open doorway, Fjorten in his black-and-mauve uniform, accompanied by a tall youth, his oldest son. The boy had the same light russet hair, same sharp cheekbones.
“So unfair. I’m not a cripple,” Dietric said, glaring at his arm as though it were its own fault it was wrapped in a sling.
Mouth full, Trisha watched them bicker, waiting for them to notice her by the dark pillar.
“Then, how did your practice with Shield Fritlingen go?”
“One little accident, and suddenly I cannot even step outside Moorhafen,” Dietric grumbled. “Why can’t I go to Havbrun with my friends?”
“Didn’t you listen? I won’t have my son outside, as long as wolves prowl these grounds.”
Trisha swallowed the bread with the rush of melancholy. Firmly, she banished the thought. She had Tilia. Steady, immortal. Tilia’s love should be enough.
Dietric snorted. “I thought the Warlord and his shields got them already.”
“What you think is irrelevant.”
Dietric’s jaw clenched, his chin jutting forward. He spun around. A flurry of hurried steps grew fainter.
“If my men catch you sneaking out today, I swear arrow-fetching will be the least of your laments,” Fjorten shouted after him. “And don’t forget: your mother expects to see you in attendance tomorrow!”
Dietric waved but didn’t look back, disappearing from sight.
Fjorten exhaled, shaking his head. Surprise washed over his face as his eyes landed on Trisha. “You were silent. Did something happen to your bardic voice?” Fjorten’s gaze hovered over Trisha’s travel-worn tunics and boots, his forehead creasing. “Planning to go somewhere, are we?”
“Just to stretch Dapple’s legs. I’ve not ridden since my arrival. He needs the exercise.”
A wry smile as he joined her at the trestles, softly chuckling. “And did he tell you that?” A pause. “If you want, I could… join you?”
Trisha leaned back. Blainor’s closest man shouldn’t have time for idle rides. “That’s quite all right. I’ll ask for Reike if she’s still available.”
“How many times did you evade her again?”
Trisha looked down. “I won’t do that anymore.”
A creak of rope and a clatter of chain filled the space, the servants pulling up a heavy iron hoop. “I’ll come see you leave. If something happened, my cousin would flay me alive.”
“You’re joking,” Trisha exclaimed.
He gave her a pointed look. “Were you here after Midsummer?”
Trisha didn’t have an answer. Together they left the grand hall, its tall pillars and dark stone. The purpure banners with their black wheels hung still.
Dapple neighed from his stall when he saw them approach. He was even happier to chomp on the bread Trisha offered.
“Was that why you were out with Blai—the Warlord?” Trisha almost bit her tongue, pretending she was inspecting the buckles of Dapple’s saddle. “Hunting wolves?”
“Aye,” Fjorten answered after a moment. A black-and-brown dog ran to him, ears perked up, tongue lolling out. He bent to scratch its neck. “A pack was seen near the northeastern shore.”
“So close?”
“They don’t stray here often. Not without a reason.”
She resumed saddling Dapple. “Do you know why?”
“Know? Who knows what animals think? The others have also reported trouble.” He fell silent. “Gend said that his people have sighted Stoneclaws.”
“Stoneclaws?” Trisha asked.
Another voice answered. “Beasts of the northern mountains.”
Reike joined them, gleaming helmet held in her armpit, short-cropped curls framing her chiseled face. She saluted Fjorten. “Shield Master.” A quick shift. “Bard an Tilia.”
“Call me Trisha. Please,” she politely said, hating the condescending tone in Reike’s voice. “Are those the beasts of Everfrost?”
“Stoneclaws reside in the southern mountains of Everfrost,” Fjorten answered. “They’re vicious but few. So, no.”
“My father told me he needed five men to kill one,” Reike said.
“Aye. Holden kept one as a pet.” Fjorten’s tone was flat, but a quick emotion, like a painful memory, dulled his gaze.
Reike frowned. “Chief Blutmeer won’t take even their furs. He’d rather burn them.”
“So, why did the Warlord’s father have one?” Trisha asked. Stone slabs, gravel, and turf of grass around them, servants and soldiers walking across Moorhafen’s grounds. She tried to imagine where Blainor’s father could have held such a beast.
“Training.” Fjorten’s tone was final, his jaw locked. A shrug of his shoulders, but an echo of his memory shaded his expression. “Anyway, I must go.”
“I’ll get my steed,” Reike said, passing them to the stables.