Nothing could surpass the quiet song the bones and flesh of this mortal world sang.
The honeysuckle scent of her magic filled the air, indulging. But following the tune she’d picked up on the ride, she forgot to fear what it meant.
The last note faded. Trisha grew aware of her body’s weight and the crisp wind.
A tint of gloomy dark had spread across the sky, sundown setting the treetops aglow. Smoke from the fire mingled with the earth’s loamy, damp scent. The rest of the group stood around her, their expressions vacillating between guarded awe and surprise. The sated content in her bones told her the same as their reaction.
She smothered a curse. Lost in the road’s music, following its beat, she’d let her guard down. Echoes of eternal twilight of the Undying Lands must’ve seeped through her songs—the wild magic she’d never dared reveal.
Beneath the hanging arms of the thick spruce, the lichen-covered rocks loomed. She exhaled, brushing the flowers thatwere carved into the lyre. At least her unruly magic hadn’t reached beyond the clearing. She could only dread the men’s reactions if a shimmering gateway of light had appeared there.
Across the fire, Daworth sat motionless. His attention burned. Surprise, yes. But also something contemplative, as if he were trying to place her in a story only he knew about.
“Not a ballad,” she mumbled, unable to bear the wordless weight around her.
Kaiden let out a dry chuckle. “No, not a ballad.”
“By Great Mother’s tits.” Fjorten slumped onto the ground beside her. “If you tell me there’s a song called ‘North Road,’ I’ll burn a goat on my ancestors’ shrine.”
“Just a tune,” Trisha said with a smile, relaxing a little. “But I was inspired by today’s travel.”
“Knew it.” Fjorten grimaced. “North Road—it hates me as much as my arse hates it.”
“That’s because ye’re getting old,” said another soldier, one built like an ox.
Fjorten gave a tired wave of his hand. “Piss off, Hurti. You’re older than me.”
Mouth full of crooked teeth, Hurti tugged at his long beard. “And d’ye hear me complainin’?”
Trisha’s music and the men’s voices filled the clearing, and she soon glanced to where Daworth sat.
Could he be telling the truth? If his people truly appreciated music, a bard like her could find a place there. She’d be free to search that rustling field of reeds from her dream…
Trisha’s fingers pushed against her lyre. She’d be a fool to trust Lord Daworth. No. Whatever he wanted, it wasn’t to help her.
While she played, Fjorten grazed his arm, itching, revealing the black markings tattooed over his skin. Firelight lit up theink. Trisha’s eyes lingered on them before she dared to press. “Fjorten?”
The soldier turned, distracted by the half-gnawed piece of jerky. His answer came through chewing. “Aye, Bard?”
“I do have a name, you know,” Trisha scoffed but forgave him easily enough. She hinted toward his arms while playing a song that another in their group, a younger man called Jurgen, had requested. “Can I ask what your tattoos mean?”
Daworth leaned against his strong arms, sleeves rolled up to expose their naked tattoolessness. The fire drew shifting shadows over his forehead and a few dark curls framing it. At her question, his head turned.
“These?” Fjorten stroked a swirling black mark on his forearm and grinned as if enjoying her curiosity. “These tell that I’m wed.” He took another bite of his jerky. “To my wife, Byne.”
“To whom else, ye daft?” Hurti guffawed.
A small chorus of chuckles erupted from the others. Fjorten ignored them.
Trisha tilted her head. Her gaze traced the other men, noting how each bore slightly different marks. “You get tattoos at your wedding?” she asked, then hunched, mortified at how incredulous she sounded.
Fjorten nodded.
Her eyes flicked toward Lord Daworth and his smooth, unmarked forearm. So, he wasn’t married, then? Not that it mattered. For all she cared, he could be wed or not to anyone, which made it all the more annoying that he noticed.
“Seems our southern songbird has more than a passing curiosity about our ways,” he obnoxiously called loud enough for all to hear.
Her face burned. “Curiosity isn’t a crime.”
