Surprised murmurs filled the smoke-infused space, Trisha’s table companions giving her shocked looks. Orin’s face tightened before he inclined toward Minstrel Jovell.
“First, Bran. Your turn.”
Trisha’s jaw set. Orin might think he was setting her at a disadvantage by having his own man play first, but it would serve her. She stroked the curvy frame of her lyre, readying her magic to read the room’s cues. Still. Damn Blainor. She’d need to succeed from her first note.
Minstrel Jovell rose, the lute firmly in his hands, walking in front of the high table and inclining his head in a curt bow. Trisha watched closely, picking up the signs and gestures, storing them in her mind, glad to know what to do when her turn came.
Bran raised his chin with a contemptuous glance in her vicinity. His voice was steady and calm. Melodic and low, he’d have a pleasing singing voice. Trisha’s grip on the lyre tightened.
“In honor of our Warlord and my chief, I’ll offer youBallad of Ergoth and His Five.”
Approving jabbers filled the room, and then he played his lute.
From the very first note, it was clear Bran’s reputation was sound. Worthy. The chords came sharp, demanding attention. The rhythmic strumming evoked a sense of something fierce and relentless, sweeping the audience along. His fingers danced over the lute’s strings, building further on the harmony, deepening the sounds. When needed, he tapped the lute’s frame, producing sharp taps that imitated hoofbeats or a snapping wood. Trisha’s brows raised. He was good, indeed. She felt almost sorry for the man.
His voice carried through the air, dipping low or creeping higher, never breaking. And the way he modulated, pitching the song mid-trill, was when he truly gained Trisha’s respect. Despite their mutual circumstance, no matter how sour the bard was, she’d gladly take some lessons in technique from him.
Focused on his technique and skill, it took Trisha a moment to realize how the mood had altered. The room had been rowdy and noisy, but now there was another undercurrent. Her table companions were softly tapping to the tune, humming the music, eyes gleaming, heads nodding.
Bran was taking them on a ride across the moors and through the battles. The lyrics spoke of the men’s unyielding strength, their will defeating the poorest of odds. Betrayal, blood, and war. Ergoth, it seemed, was a man whose name carried more than just history—a legend, the first Warlord.
His audience knew the story, knew the ballad. As the last notes droned into silence, the room erupted in deafening sounds—men and women standing, shouting, and banging at tables with zeal.
“Ergoth! Luthern, Fjern!” they chanted. “Ride on, even in the Netherworld!”
Bran stood in the middle of the chaos with a self-satisfied leer. He spread his hands and bowed deeply to the seated lords and ladies before him.
“To my lords—may your shield never shatter,” he said smoothly.
“Well played, Minstrel Jovell,” Blainor responded, raising his drink. “Our forefathers are as pleased as I am.”
“Indeed,” said Orin, nodding. “You did well, my minstrel.” Then, his face turned toward the table where Trisha was seated. “And your Bard an Tilia, Warlord?” His voice spiked just a notch, enough to carry over the worst of the noise. “Let us hear how a southern bard spins a tune.”
Despite expecting the call, Trisha’s throat went parched as the room’s attention shifted. Resisting the impulse to smooth her hair or shirt, she rose without a word. The stares prickled, her ire and anxiety rising with each stride. A snare, and each struggle tangled her more tightly in it. Worst of all, she still didn’t know what Blainor wanted. To humiliate Orin or his bard? Very well, she’d prove herself to them.
Bran Jovell inclined his head, that leer lingering.
“Go ahead. Do your best, southerner,” he murmured under his breath, stepping aside.
Trisha swallowed her scoff. Turning to face the high table, she pressed the lyre’s frame so hard her knuckles blanched.
Her eyes met Blainor’s, but she couldn’t read his expression; however, seated on his right, Fjorten, Hurti, and Kaiden gave her encouraging nods. Fjorten’s crooked smile reminded her of the song she’d played to the men at the campsite.
Magic burned against her skin, begging to be unleashed.
She swept into a bow—a deep dip with a flourish, a twistof her heel spinning her around as she did it. If they saw her as an outsider, she’d show just how much she was one.
A quiet murmur followed. Her magic whispered to her; she’d made them wary. Trisha hid her smile. Good. That’s what she wanted.
Her spin brought her back to her original position, to face the Lord of Lichtal’s Keep and the Warlord of the Twelve.
“My lords. This southern bard is grateful to play before you. Accept this ballad from the shores of sunlight.”
She prodded the lyre against her chest, her fingers hovering for just a moment. Her magic strained, ready to leap the moment she allowed it. Her eyes met Blainor’s again, the faintest smile lifting the corner of his mouth. Trisha’s expression hardened before she unchained her inner beast and plucked the first note.
The cressets flared.
A pealing sound lingered in the smoky air until another joined it, so close in tune that they merged. Then, a third. Her music became a cascade of sounds, delicate and sensuous, teasing and coy. She’d pitched it lower than the original song, each chord finding a spot before being replaced by another.
