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.”
