Chapter 26
The knotted pinewood boards creaked under Trisha’s feet as she entered the castle’s solar.
Woolen tapestries covered the walls, and dark support beams crisscrossed overhead.
Wrought-iron candelabras hung low, the beeswax candles unlit.
By the cold hearth, the servants were setting the logs ready for the night.
“Good day to you, Bard an Tilia.” Byne’s long woolen skirt swept against the floorboards as she approached, the flared sleeves of her gown swallowing her hands.
“Please.” She gestured toward a wooden chair in the corner near a row of tiled windows, their stained glass turning the sunlight into a kaleidoscope of colors.
The one nearest to her depicted a vessel with unfurled sails pitched over churning waves, entwined in the embrace of the thick tentacles reaching from the deep. A phantom pain of sharp nails throbbed in her hands, a faint hum of magic and memory resonating in Trisha’s bones.
“What is the occasion, Mistress Tifbrunn?” she asked as she moved to settle the lyre’s case on the chair. “Seneschal Usmer didn’t give me much information.”
“A group of court ladies. Wives and daughters of the Dewingar clan.” A spin of her heels, Byne directed the maids who were setting the oak table ready.
Trisha’s stomach dropped. She’d not prepared for local ballads. Even if she should be able to pluck Lament at the Vinthorn Pass or Ergoth and His Five, both songs had too many stanzas to remember by heart. She cleared her throat. “I can fetch notes if you want me to play something local?”
Byne swiveled around. “No singing. Choose easy melodies that are pleasing to the ear. You know some, don’t you?”
A scrape of steps against the floor grew louder, and a lanky young man with russet hair appeared in the doorway: Byne’s son, Dietric. His sling-held arm rested against his gray-blue tunic, the other hand tugging at his high collar. He dropped it, dutifully kissing his mother’s cheek.
Stepping back, Byne straightened the seams on his attire. “Did you bring your book?”
Dietric nodded toward a leather-bound book in his armpit. “Yes, Mother.”
“Good. I’ll be quizzing you afterward.”
Dragging his feet, Dietric went to the table at the room’s center.
He set the book down, grasping for the chair’s back.
Its legs scraped against the floor, and a low hiss escaped Dietric as he banged his injured arm against it.
His sigh was loud; he glanced over his shoulder with a forlorn expression.
Then, with a resigned air, he bowed over the book.
A quiet rustling of turning pages followed.
“Place it on the other side,” Byne commanded the maid who was lowering a basket filled with loaves of soft wheat bread near her son.
Trisha tightened the pegs, testing the lyre’s pitch. The magic in her bones shook at the sound. No, not now, she told it firmly. From what Byne had said, the woman needed her guests talking. She wouldn’t appreciate enchantments that silenced them.
Unheeding of Trisha’s command, a rush of energy flooded her blood, a pinprick-like sensation crawling over her skin.
She ground her teeth, wrestling with her magic.
Why this sudden flare after days of calm?
Trisha’s thoughts wandered to the evening, her throat going dry.
If Blainor asked, could she trust him with the truth?
She shook her head slowly. If she ever exposed the Undying Lands to a mortal, the High King would know. Teoryin would bar her entry.
Would it be such a bad thing? asked a voice within.
She stilled, head tilted. Slowly, she picked at the strings, one after another, wreathing the room with the sounds of a southern hymn.
The gentle harmonies soothed, their simple melody offering a piece of relief.
The wool of the servants’ gowns whispered as they complied with Byne’s directions.
They set samples of cheeses and honeyed cakes on the linen-covered table near painted ceramic cups.
Across from Trisha, Dietric kept reading. The chair creaked as he shifted, and another time as though on purpose.
Trisha didn’t stop playing, but Byne turned, her hands settling on her hips. “What’s bothering you?”
Dietric glowered at his mother, then, dodging her gaze, directed his eyes toward the open book. “I already know these laws.”
Byne’s mouth pursed. “Do you? Then quote me the Vis’ tractate on carry-off.”
Trisha’s brows creased. The term knelled at the back of her skull, a specter of a forgotten song. Where had she heard it? Her fingers tumbled when an image from Graystein emerged, of Orin’s strained face, the audience about to pounce. Bride abduction?
Dietric scowled. “It’s ancient, Mother. No one in their right mind follows such nonsense.”
“You said you know them, then let me hear it.”
Silence.
“You know the others will test you when you’re presented,” Byne explained in an irritated tone as though this same conversation had been discussed multiple times.
“The only one quizzing me about carry-off would be you,” Dietric muttered, bending over his book again.
The rustle of pages filled the space. Byne sent an exasperated look in Trisha’s way before schooling her features.
From the open doorway, steps and quiet voices approached.
Smoothing the fabric of her gown, she raised her chin.
The brown-haired lady who entered first, Trisha knew—Marleen, Kaiden’s wife.
Following closely came another woman dressed in a dark mourning gown.
Trisha didn’t know her name, but she’d been married to Ilker Steiken, the man King Leopold’s soldiers had killed in the ambush in the spring.
Had it truly been so long? The fight, the dead… Pushing the memories away, Trisha refocused on the song. The women kissed, exchanging softly spoken greetings.
With a bright smile, Marleen nodded at Trisha.
The colored light painted her slim figure draped in linen and wool.
She went to the chair closest to Trisha, her friend occupying a seat beside Byne.
Marleen placed a wicker basket near her feet, stocked with yarn and fabrics.
The two seats between her and Mistress Steiken remained empty.
The women’s murmured voices wove through Trisha’s mellow notes.
Their sharp needles glinted in the sunlight like weapons.
Not long after, the door swung open. A tall, striking woman dressed in a wine-red gown with heavy gold chains adorning her neck stepped inside.
Her jet-black hair was piled up into loops, and the veil of fine lace and silk set over her head.
In her trail came a shorter woman. The pale yellow of her gown was finely embroidered, silver chains of her girdle gleaming over her rounded hips, her neckline dipping low.
Trisha’s teeth pressed together. That same woman in a red gown had sat next to Blainor on the eve of Annath Wolfbach’s arrival, before Midsummer. She hadn’t failed to see how eagerly the lady had demonstrated her ample bosom.
Rising, Byne nodded politely to the other woman. “Welcome, Lotte. May the ancestors bless your household.” She addressed the dark-haired beauty next. “You seem to be in good health, too, Sarie.”
“Always so delightful, Byne,” Sarie said, but the look in her eyes was vile. She stroked Byne’s hands as though the other woman were a venomous snake. As Sarie’s gaze trailed across the room, it settled on Dietric, pausing. “Your eldest, I presume? Is he here to learn embroidery?”
Lotte covered her mouth, shoulders shaking. Dietric’s ears turned red.
Byne smiled coldly. “An injury prevents him from partaking in shield practice with the other boys.”
Sarie shrugged, attention moving to where Trisha was playing. She froze, brows arching high.
“Trisha an Tilia,” Byne said, “is the Warlord’s Bard. You’ve seen her.”
Life returned to Sarie. Wiping her hands on her gown, she settled into the center chair. “Didn’t she leave?”
The ladies’ faces turned toward Trisha, and her fingers slowed under their attention. Was she expected to speak?
“Where would she have gone, Sarie?” said Byne.
“Well, how should I know what goes in a southerner’s mind?”
“Are you accusing the Warlord of scorning the old ways?” Byne asked, steel in her voice.
Marleen’s spine straightened, worry twisting her features. She exchanged a glance with her friend.
Sarie smirked. “You sit at his council, don’t you?”
Marleen leaned in to address Sarie, but her words were strained. “T-Tell me, Sarie, how was your travel?”
“Miserable,” the other woman said, settling an embroidery hoop in her lap. She shook her head at a servant who was offering her a clay cup. “Dust coated my carriage. I had to order a bath to be drawn upon my arrival.”
“Right,” said Lotte. “My husband said that the water is lower than in years. The wells are drying out, I understand.”
Echoes of her chords faded before Trisha picked a new song. Wolves, frosted pastures, and dried-out wells… Was that common?
Byne’s fingers moved, the needle weaving through the fabric. “The Warlord’s aware. There will be rain.”
Trisha’s head tilted. The way Byne said it, as though it was given. Could Blainor somehow impact it?
“Good,” said Marleen. “We need a good yield to last through winter.”
Murmured sounds of approval, the servants weaving between the ladies and the table, offering fresh vegetables and breads. A moment of silence followed, Trisha’s gentle plucking filling the space.
Sarie turned to Byne. “And the other clans are coming?”
“Starting tomorrow,” Byne confirmed. Her gaze locked onto her son, who still craned over the book, though the pages weren’t turning.
Sarie followed her line of sight. “I guess congratulations are in order, Byne. If the rumors are true.”
Byne inclined her head. “Thank you. But you know that the clans are yet to endorse Dietric’s nomination.”
A pointed smile over the rim of her cup. The other woman spoke. “Such a good thing they’re coming tomorrow.” She paused, then added in a poisonous voice, “But it is a pity that the Warlord’s own son can’t lead the Dewingar clan.”
Trisha’s fingers stumbled over the strings, hitting a discordant note.
Son? Blainor had a son? Quickly, like a caged animal, her magic slipped out, soaking the notes of her song.
The lyre trembled. She struck a fractured chord, wrestling her magic back under her control, but a whiff of honeysuckle lingered.
Why had Blainor never mentioned his son?
Byne lowered her needlework. “Let the dead rest, Sarie. It was hard enough for him to bury his child.”
A sudden ache stabbed Trisha’s heart. Blinking hard, she dropped her face.
“It’s been years,” Sarie said, voice cold. “The Warlord should bed a woman.” Dietric’s eyes widened. Sarie leaned back, toying with a curl of black hair. “He’s young enough to sire more children.”
“Yes,” echoed Sarie’s friend with an enthusiastic nod. “Ergoth’s blood should not dwindle.”
“Indeed, Lotte,” Sarie said, smiling slowly. “The Warlord has a duty to his clan and his people. Nothing prevents him from choosing a bride. The others will wonder.”
Despite her attempt to focus on the Normarkish ballad, an ugly sensation twisted in Trisha’s stomach.
Byne’s words sounded deceptively mild, but the temperature in the room dropped. “Master Arlund, too?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Sarie snorted. “My father is a loyal vassal.” A sly look in Dietric’s direction, and she said, “Great Father has blessed your kin. You must have thanked the ancestors that your husband wasn’t among those whose heads rolled when the Warlord claimed his title.”
Trisha’s eyebrows arched. Surely Sarie wasn’t talking about Fjorten?
“Indeed?” Byne’s face was like carved from stone as she flicked her fingers toward her son.
With a ghost of a smile, Sarie sipped her drink. “Come now, Byne. I was here. The water in the moat was dyed red on that day.”
“The families bowed their heads,” Byne said. “As did the other clans. The blood has gone dry. Only Great Father judges us in his halls of the Netherworld.”
“Oh, all this talk about death makes me ill,” said Mistress Steiken, visage pale against her dark mourning gown. “And the nomination is a formality, isn’t it? The clans won’t intervene with the succession. It’s been in planning since—”
Sarie snorted.
“What?” Mistress Steiken cast her an irritated glare.
“Why now?” asked Sarie after a moment. “You know what it will mean. If the Warlord nominates your son, it will feed into Annath’s claim. He insists on making his nephew the Wolfbach heir.” An ugly frown marred her smooth forehead.
“Hjorsen is Annath Wolfbach’s legitimate son,” said Byne. “As you said, the Warlord has none. My son’s appointment won’t change the law. He’s only taking… precautions.”
Sarie’s brows creased further as she leaned against her chair.
The women continued their embroidery. After a second, Lotte set her needlework down.
With a brush over her neckline, she turned toward the tiled windows.
“Ingmar said that the Warlord is demanding more shields and swords. It’s not a raid he’s preparing for, is it? ”
An expectant silence followed as the ladies waited for Byne’s response. Resting the embroidery hoop in her lap, the woman’s gaze glided to where Trisha was seated. “It’s not my right to share that which the Warlord hasn’t.”
Lotte’s voice went low. “My father laments his son lost in Halsdal that winter. My brother…” Her words broke as she wiped her eyes.
“If the ancestors will, it shall never happen again,” Byne said, picking up her hoop. “But should the worst come to pass and winter blow from Everfrost… Certainly, you see why succession must happen now.”
Trisha continued playing. The conversation resumed, but something chilling lingered in the room that not even the last warmth of the waning summer could dispel.