“Tonight we celebrate. Our Warlord and his men stand among us. Fierce and victorious in battle, feared in the south, where people whisper their names like a curse. True men of the moors, of our people, carrying forth the history of Ergoth and his five. Carrying forth the banner of his clan that his father—Holden the Furious, Dewingar’s man—raised over Eichlandt. Blessed by our forefathers in the Netherworld. Let his shield never shatter. Let it not be said that Graystein or Lichtal’s clan refuses the Warlord of the Twelve. Edith, carrying my brand as I carry yours,” he said, turning to the stern-faced woman, “pour their cups full. Tell your servants to keep them overflowing.”
The room erupted in shouts and cheers, peoplebanging the tables with their fists in a rhythmic beat. Trisha instinctively hugged her lyre, warding off the ear-ringing sounds. A tremor within, a swell of heat strengthening. Drawing a deep inhale, she soothed the burn of her magic.Not yet,she told it.But soon.
Similar speeches followed, including a somber one for Ilker, the dead soldier. Solemn toasts were raised on behalf of his fallen soul.
“May he rest with his ancestors,” Blainor finished.
“Hear, hear,” came the answer.
Trisha trailed toward one of the tables where a group of people near her age sat. They made space for her, expressions open, curiosity in their faces.
“You rode with the Warlord, is that right?” said a man with a short, trimmed beard.
“I did,” Trisha replied.
“Why?” asked a woman with a short veil covering her tied hair. She frowned faintly, gaze lingering on Trisha’s wavy hair reaching her back. “Are you and him…?”
“No,” she said, resisting the temptation to touch her hair. Most of the women in attendance had covered their heads, save for children running between the tables and servants tending to them. With a sinking feeling in her stomach, she tried not to think what it might imply. “He’s invited me to play at his home. Moorhafen.”
A silence followed.
“Play?”
She lowered her head toward the leather case in her lap. “I’m a bard.” More people turned to listen. She suddenly grew insecure. Was being a bard really that odd? “We met in Normark.”
Someone chuckled and elbowed his friend. “Heard Baron von Dornhelm invited him. Consider. Him—hosting Holden’s son!”
They snickered as though at the best joke before the woman next to Trisha hushed, “That’s risky. With so few men. What was he doing there, and dressed as some common noble and not our Warlord?”
“If I knew, I’d tell you,” Trisha muttered with a vehement stab at her pork chop. “He offered me the position.”
“Oh, Bran must’ve taken that well,” the man chuckled. “Thinks he should have his teacher’s place.”
“When in cups, he goes about it all the time,” sighed his friend.
Trisha chewed her food slowly. Blainor had refused Bran Jovell already once? But the victor of this bardic duel would win the title of his bard. “Both the Warlord and Chief Lichtal mentioned him, but I’m yet to meet the man.”
“Over there,” the woman next to her said, pointing across the room to a man in a bright green tunic. Dark-haired and gaunt-faced, with a long nose jutting in the air, he reminded Trisha of a knobby-legged moose. More than that, his face was pulled into a deep frown.
“He doesn’t look very happy.”
That garnered low chuckles from her table. “The only time Bran smiles is when he plays. His only passion.”
“So, you’re pretty good, then?” The man’s eyes lingered on her half-open lyre case. “With that… thing?”
“I can strum a tune,” Trisha said simply. “But I know plenty of better players.” Her eyes strayed back to the sour-faced lute-player. “I understand that Bran Jovell’s very good at his craft.”
The bearded man let out a wry smile. “He thinks so. Lynjef Sostung taught Bran himself. His last pupil before Lynjef passed over.”
“Oh?” By the reverent tone, Trisha guessed this Lynjef had been someone cherished. Across the room, Chief Lichtal’s bard met her stare. The man’s mouth twisted into a jeer, his gauntchin raised in a gesture that spoke as loudly as the surrounding noise.
Trisha smiled in return, plucking a soft chord. Even if the room’s noise swallowed the sound, the lyre’s vibration soothed her nerves; the crisp strings on her fingertips comforted. Magic whispered.
Soon.
It didn’t take long before Chief Lichtal stood. Banging the table, he demanded the room’s attention.
“Time for music, and this time not only by our Minstrel Jovell. The Warlord’s brought with him a player—a southern bard.” He paused, adding. “We’ve agreed. The one to move the audience more shall earn the righteous title of the Warlord’s Bard.”
