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 ancestorsthat 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, thewoman’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.
27
After Byne’s guests departed,she gave Trisha a measured nod. “Thank you for your music, Mistress an Tilia. You did well.” Trisha’s mouth opened, but Byne had already turned to Dietric. “Did you listen closely?”
Beneath his freckled tan, the boy’s face was pale, his narrow chin tense. “Yes, Mother.”
“Good. We’ll be going through the practice, and then we’ll talk about what you understood.”
Biting her cheek, Trisha held in her questions. She glanced toward the landscape, draped in the hues of the setting sun. Her dinner with Blainor was approaching. She rubbed her arms, but it didn’t soothe the restless roiling of her stomach. As she slipped the lyre back in its case, Dietric’s wavering voice filled the quiet.
“…flood or drought that year, the chief gives him an allowance of…”
By the door, she stopped and met Byne’s steady gaze. Next to his mother, Dietric’s fingers pressed against hisforehead, a pained expression twisting his features. A slight nod from Byne. Trisha walked away.
She descended, the cold granite around her. Her mind spun in a maddening circle; her feet followed the uneven steps. What had happened to Blainor’s son? Who was his mother? Blainor didn’t carry a marriage tattoo. A memory wormed into her brain of how he had looked at Fjorten, surrounded by his family, upon their arrival in Moorhafen. The pressure around Trisha’s chest pinched tighter. Why had no one told her?
As soon as she entered her room, Aina stepped forward. “Come along now, mistress, before the water cools more.” She pointed toward a bowl and pitcher on her table. “You won’t have time for a full bath.”
