Trisha shrugged. “I need a place to sleep. But I’m not picky.”
The innkeeper rocked on his heels, hesitating. “You seem certain enough. Should prove amusing to see if their lord agrees. A daunting fellow, that one.”
Oh, she wasn’t afraid of some haughty noble. “Well, then. I suppose I’ll find out if they know how to sing along.”
“Or throw their ale,” he snorted.
Amusement lit Trisha’s green eyes. “I’m good at dodging.”
She wove through the tables in search of a spot near the fireplace, thanking a serving woman who brought her a stool. Trisha’s fingers strummed a chord to warm herself. A few heads by the nearest table turned before returning to their conversation. Trisha’s jaw set. This lot of merchants, soldiers, and farmers could not be any harder to captivate than nobles in their hallowed halls.
If only her magic would obey. Untamed and barely listening to her at best, even she didn’t know what it could do.
Controlling her nerves, Trisha strummed the first chords.Then another. And another. The bright, joyful melody of the sowing song made the smoky air spiral. Faces of the black-capped men with weathered skin brightened, their fingers tapping clay mugs. A fair number of patrons’ feet drummed the earthen floor in the song’s rhythm.
But no such luck with the northern men, nor with the pedlars.
A hum of magic burned in her bones. Ignoring it, she considered an alternative plan and pitched a harmony from the east. The march’s brisk tempo seemed to please the merchants and the northerners, yet it left the farmers cold.
Nothing worked. Not the marches, not the sweeping ballads of the west. As much as it pained her to admit, she had no other choice. With a sigh, she reached within, readying herself.
A touch, she thought.Just a nudge.
The power swelled, a sweet scent of honeysuckle crowding her nose. She almost gagged with its strength, her fingers stumbling over the strings. Just barely, she regained control, adjusting the song into a transposition she prayed others would think was intentional.
Trisha’s lyre trembled under her hands. The fire flared, blue and silver streaking its glow, and the shadows in the corners shrunk. The spines straightened, the chatter ceasing. Trisha’s shoulders fell. No matter her skill or understanding of the craft, the magic ruled supreme.Oh, well. She did want their attention, after all.
A nigh-invisible shimmer cleared the smoke, and a warm breeze blew in from the land where fire didn’t burn, where songs made stone weep. The honeysuckle scent grew stronger. Sharp and pointed. Homesickness stabbed her
Yes, sang her magic.This is the right one.
Trisha didn’t care about the transition. Just plucked a chord and changed the song.
The unfurling notes laced the pungent aromas of hops and wool with the fragrant sweetness of morrowflowers.
The smooth wood under her fingers brought a rueful smile. Unique, her lyre was her most prized possession. Not the least because it was made to her specifications, and she had paid its price. Her lyre was created to hold her song and magic. It was one of the few items connecting her to her past.
The magic tugged at her once more like a child pulling on a parent’s coat.Sing, it demanded.
Trisha’s voice rose to tell the tale, even if no one here would understand the words or know her song. The smoke stirred further, and a cackle echoed. Beings of strange light winked in the dark shadows.
The entire room froze under her spell. Transfixed in their chairs, with tankards hovering in mid-air, her audience had abandoned their ability to breathe, unknowing.
Then a wall of resistance suddenly pushed back. Trisha shrugged to break the pressure, but it persevered: an itch of something outside her song. She looked up, searching the room to find the source of this disturbance. Her breath caught.
There, in the doorway: a man with dark, curly hair framing a finely shaped face, shadows etched around sharp lines. Trisha’s fingers stumbled over the strings, her voice faltering. Even the magic seemed to sense him. For a heartbeat, the images that never existed, treading through the room, flickered. Hastily, Trisha continued.
The man stood half-eclipsed in shadows, as though summoned by her song. His eyes pierced from the dark, bright and whetted. Like steel, they cut through the vapor-infused air and kept her as their captive.
She kept plucking at the lyre. Lyrics left her lips. And yetTrisha didn’t know if she now played for him or because of him.
When her last note faded, the silence in the room was unbreakable. Rain pattered against the windows, and the hearth’s fire crackled. Time asserted itself, shadows of her magic fading, and the audience breathed a sigh. They looked around in wonder, forgetting what never were.
With a tight smile, Trisha bowed. Her pulse hammered in her ears, and her skin crawled under the weight of gray eyes. Bewildered and embarrassed, she wanted to run away. How had this man resisted her song?
Magic, sated for now, retreated into her bones. Trisha raised the lyre, beginning once more. The music continued with a clear and pure timbre. Laughter broke out. Mugs clinked. As though accepting that no more visions of the vanished land would follow, the ominous man left the doorway. Trisha tracked his progress from the corner of her eyes. Her brow lifted when he joined that group from Eichlandt.
At his arrival, they all stood with spear-like spines, hands pounding their chests. Her stomach dropped.
