“I didn’t ask for special treatment. You could just ignore whatever his invitation entails.”
He barked a dry laugh, shaking his head as though her words were a punch line.
“Kaiden,” Fjorten said, slapping the man on the shoulder. “Stop torturing our bard.” He flashed another of those toothy smiles at her.
Kaiden snorted. “Doing nothing of the sort, Fjorten. She blames us for obeying Master Daworth’s command.”
“Southern ignorance, I reckon,” said Fjorten.
“This ignorant southern bard can hear you.”
“Then,” Fjorten said, turning, “you’d do best to sit down and play something. If you can hear us, the same goes both ways.” He looked around the thin coppice.
“No ballads,” Kaiden said firmly, striking the flint. The kindling caught its spark. “Not those mawkish southern ones.”
“Your lord insists you adore them, though.” Trisha beamed, unable to resist the opportunity to needle. “He told me so yesterday.”
“Not exactly the words I used.”
The low-spoken words came too close, shooting cold tremors down her neck. Of course, he’d be behind her. This lord had the most uncanny timing to appear when she leastexpected. Trisha turned, willing her heartbeat to steady. She tapped her chin as though recalling something.
“Apologies, my lord. I forgot. Forbidden love, you said.” She paused. “A fine choice. Though perhaps somewhat… melodramatic. A reflection on your personality, perhaps?”
Kaiden sputtered, and Trisha resisted the temptation of an indulgent grin. Pushing Daworth was reckless, but she couldn’t help herself. Nothing fazed him. No matter what she threw at him, his irksome calmness remained intact.
“I didn’t realize our little chat left such a lasting impact.” His voice dropped as he leaned in. “I’m all ears to learn what else I left simmering behind.” He smiled—laced with something exciting and razor-sharp that made Trisha’s heart skip a beat. “You could tell me all that back in Eichlandt.”
Trisha’s breath hitched before she controlled the reaction, furious at herself. She threw him a dark look. “You just don’t give up, do you?”
A stunned silence. Fjorten’s and Kaiden’s movements broke the bold awkwardness, but the men continued to set up camp regardless. A fire crackled in the space between them, the tang of smoke spreading through the air.
“Of course not,” he said as though offended by her suggestion. “I will persuade you to follow. Don’t deny you’re not tempted.”
She glared at him. “Persuasion is different from control. No one likes being told what to think. At least I don’t.”
“I’ve noticed.” Moving to sit by the fire, he settled himself more comfortably. “But while you think, I find merit in Fjorten’s words.” He smiled then—not genuine, not really, but inviting. “Blunt as he may be, music does brighten up a campsite. Especially music as lively as yours.”
“A glowing endorsement. No wonder your Warlord is still lacking a bard.”
Relenting, she moved closer. Trisha’s fingers were restless to test the strings, to tease out her memory of the fog lingering between the trees, that stillness humming somewhere deep in her blood. The quiet yearning of the ground begged to be heard.
Accepting a place near the lord was out of the question. Instead, she chose a spot that left space between them. Not directly across from him either. That would land her squarely in his line of sight—an equally dangerous place to be.
His crazymaking smirk told her he’d noticed her deliberate choice.
She opened the lyre case and stroked the instrument, admiring the delicate polish of its warm wood and the fine, silver-sheened strings. Eyes half-closed, she cradled the lyre in her lap, adjusting the tune as she went and listening to the drum under her skin.
“Your instrument,” Daworth interrupted her meditation. “I don’t believe I’ve seen anything like it.”
“I’d be surprised if you had,” Trisha muttered, half-gone in the road’s song. “I commissioned it. There’s only one.”
Ah, there.The second string and a pressure point to raise its pitch. A strum, and the music she’d listened to came to life—a low, rhythmic one. She gave it the rhythm she’d picked up from the endless trot. Next came a cascading harmony, like the wind skimming her cheeks.
Her magic heard the music too. But its push was tender, reaching inward instead of out. And she let it, savoring the heat of its sway like a river that carried her. Its power fed into the music, helping her sense the sedate shift of the earth, the deep pulse of roots below.
Trisha lost all sense of time. The soldiers around her, the watchful attention of the man across. The only thing that existed was the weight of her lyre, the press of its stringsagainst the skin. Her fingers followed the song breathing around her—the slow throb of the trees’ hearts, water seeping through gravel, the mumble of the stones.
This. This was what she loved—the beat of the land. The turn of the seasons. How everything ebbed, pulling forward in time. Always changing, never the same. This world, with or without her, would whisper differently, new. The eternal twilight of the Undying Land with its cloying magic never changed. Despite its dancing constellations and ever-verdant forests, it left her wanting. Somehow, here—under the sun and rain, amidst the death and rot—she had found it; the music that spoke to her soul.
