“A man that silly deserves to be birched.” Dark amusement laced Blainor’s words as they started toward the entrance. “He didn’t specify who could join, and I’d be a fool to enter Nortwurd without my shields.”
“True, true,” Orin barked a laugh. His gaze landed on Trisha, a puzzled crunch forming in his brows. He turned back to Blainor. “And this—” He gestured at her. “A keepsake or a war prize?”
Trisha scowled.War prize, indeed.These people seemed far too keen on attaching nicknames to her.
Blainor let Orin’s remark linger for a bit. “Bard Trisha an Tilia has… agreed to play for me within Moorhafen’s walls.”
Orin’s brows shot up. “Asouthernbard?”
Unable to contain her annoyance, Trisha snapped, “Something wrong with that, Chief Lichtal?”
“Oh, don’t think I’ve not heard their tunes,” Orin sneered. “All that southern courts favor are ballads of unrequited love. That’s not the music of our people.” He turned toward Blainor. “This is folly, Warlord.”
“Are you telling me whom I can listen to, Orin?” Blainor’s tone was light, but something harder rang under the words.
“Forgive me.” Orin yielded subtly, though a simmer of wily challenge lingered. “But I urge you to reconsider. She is not one of us.”
Trisha’s hands balled by her sides. She hadn’t followed Blainor just to be dismissed by this condescending man. Hadn’t sacrificed the road only to be sent away. More than that, now that she was finally here, she wouldn’t leave. At least, not until she found her parents and made them realize what their decision had wrought.
“Perhaps a demonstration would change your mind, Chief Lichtal?” she suggested in a saccharine tone. “I understand you employ a bard of your own. Why not see for yourself how I fare against him?” She faced Orin and Blainor, shoulders erect.
Blainor’s gaze narrowed. “Indeed,” he said, smooth like honeyed mead. “Let Bard an Tilia prove herself against Bran Jovell. It’s been far too long since I’ve heard his lute playing.”
Orin crossed his arms. “I’ve no doubt who’s better of these two.”
“Then there should be no objections,” Blainor said. “You agree then? The victor shall assume the official position of the Warlord’s Bard.”
Orin’s throat worked before he managed, “M-M’lord?—”
“Or should we call the wager off?”
Chief Lichtal’s lips screwed before he gave a stiff nod. “Very well, Warlord. The title for the winner.” Without another word, Orin turned around and strode through the entrance leading into the keep.
“I hope you’re up to the task,” Blainor murmured as he fell in step with her.
She snorted. “Don’t tell me you’re concerned, my lord.”
“Of course not, Starling. Why should I be?”
Trisha’s brows knitted. Instinctively, she brushed her lyre’s case, seeking comfort from its weight. A battle of bards she didn’t mind; Trisha had long since learned to prove the doubtful wrong. Magic whispered beneath her skin, a constant force always waiting to burst through her control.
Loosen me, and we’ll bring them to tears, it sang, a reminder that she had more than just her music at will. Yet doubt had sunk in its hook. Blainor seemed almost too eager to set her to perform before his chieftain and people. A chance to prove her worth? Something more?
Not knowing his intent, as usual, was maddening. She wanted to burn through his skull and see into his mind. What was the Warlord after? What hadn’t he shared with her?
Shaking her head, she drove away the questions. No matter what he wanted, she’d show both him and his scornful chief that she wasn’t some trifling keepsake collected from the south.
A servant guided Trisha to a room she’d share with a brown-haired and slightly younger woman living in the keep. She smiled shyly at Trisha, showing her where to freshen herself up.
Cleaning off the dirt of the road, Trisha changed into a spare tunic. Not that her clothes were much of an improvement, but at least they weren’t sweaty and soiled by days of traveling and the sight of blood. Still, recalling Chief Lichtal’s sneer, she’d be damned to give Orin or his bard, Bran Jovell, any additional reason to dismiss her. As she recalled the exchange between Blainor and Orin, her mouth flattened. A challenge, too intentional to be dismissed for a whim. The Warlord had set a game, and here she was, playing straight into it.
After some hesitation, she left her hair unbraided. Reaching her waist, it curled slightly after being tied down for days. Trisha smiled. Rilka always adored the silkiness of her hair; she’d be nestling in it now if she were here.
Sighing, she pushed aside the memory of her closest friend and childhood home aside and grasped her lyre. Trisha left theroom. It was high time to face Orin Lichtal’s people and his bard.
The evening descended. Torches burned on the walls and smoke whorled. Blazing fireplaces spewed heat across the wide stone-walled room. The people—soldiers, both Blainor’s and Orin’s—traded laughs and stories while servants loaded food onto heavy tables lined with long benches. The tang of roasted meats and root vegetables mingled with the scent of fermented mead. There seemed to be little order or care in the seating arrangement, with people switching places as they pleased.
The only exception to the rule was the table in the middle of the room. It hosted Chief Orin Lichtal and his people alongside Blainor and his closest men. Waving away a servant with a cup of mead, Trisha watched the group: Blainor, Fjorten, Hurti, and Kaiden discussing unheard matters with Orin and his men. Next to Orin sat a woman with such a severe expression that just looking at her made Trisha think a north wind had blown into the room. Orin’s wife, she guessed—and was later proven correct when Orin rose to his feet.
