She unleashed her magic to carry the notes to the furthest corners of the stone hall. The sizzling torches swayed, shadows dancing on the walls, as though a gust of wind had entered. A hint of fragrant jasmine, heavy and cloying, hung in the air. Trisha started to sing, low and dulcet, to match the sultry sounds of her lyre.
“Southern bard,” they’d said. One to play mawkish ballads. Well, then. She’d prove them right.
It was a song of lovers. An unashamed ballad to the touch of skin, heat-dappled lust, and how it burned the heart. Shesang of bodies pressed together, of the surging need to find completion and purpose. Not in battle but in oneness, in desire.
Her hands slid over the thin strings, cool under her touch, and the music demanded her surrender, too. Eyes closing, she fell into the heat of her lustful song, into the ache it summoned.
Burn for me, magic crooned.Want me. Desire me.
She almost did, then. Nearly let herself abandon the control and plunge into the flames of her song. The chords waned; her voice thickened. The long strands of her mahogany hair tickled her neck like the hand of a lover. The smoky figures moved in their embraces, and the heady scent of jasmine grew stronger. Gasping, she flung her eyes open. Her pulse raced.
Soft sighs filled the silent hall. People sat statue-like, mesmerized by the visions and emotions her song teased. It wasn’t enough. Couldn’t satisfy her. She needed to reach deeper to make a true impact. To break their walls and show what they truly wanted. Prove herself.
The notes sank while her voice rose, trembling at the edges. A tremor went through the room, shapes of smoke writhing as in bliss. A fracture. At last. The audience yielded, their minds caught in the embrace of her voice.
Drawing out the last note, she plunked a final chord. The magic purred in her ears. A drop of sweat trickled down her brow, tickling as it fell.
Trisha looked around. Stillness. Absolute stillness. Smoke coiled, eating the traces of jasmine as the fading figures in embraces dissolved before her eyes. The lyre’s echo vanished. As it did, the atmosphere changed. Awe gave way to tense silence.
Trisha’s throat dried. Their fists clenched, faces in frowns, the people glared at each other. A shift of a hand, another onereaching toward their weapon. They watched each other as though waiting for a sign, and still, no one talked. Her eyes flew to the high table.
Blainor watched her. No anger in his gray eyes, only a hunger held tight. A muscle ticked in his jaw. He squeezed his cup, but the storm beneath his gaze betrayed him. Next to him, Orin’s burly shape was half-risen. Bent over the table, it seemed he was straining under a horrible burden. His face snapped up, lust twisting his features as his scarred hand reached forward.
Trisha stumbled back. Damn her magic. She’d only wanted to light their fire. And damn her too, for forgetting that once set free, she wouldn’t be the one controlling how it burned. Her steps shattered the unnatural stillness. The air changed as the others moved, too. Steel hissed, bench legs scraped, when the men began to rise.
“That’s enough. Everyone.” Blainor’s words whipped through the air. He was standing, face hard.
It wasn’t a shout, yet Trisha winced at the cracking power in his voice. A shudder traveled across the space. People paused, blinking away their stupor, and looked around. Feet shuffled and wood groaned under their weight. Everyone avoided looking up, cups at their mouths, their cheeks still flushed. The hum of mutters and embarrassed coughs echoed off the walls.
Trisha shot a glare at Blainor. How did he do it? Commanded them all like that, and even broke the lingering effects of her song? In his travel-worn woolen tunic, he watched the room, his expression dark. A twinge of annoyance and something uglier nipped at her. She raised her chin.
“Bard an Tilia.” Blainor didn’t even have to raise his voice. “You’ve made your mark.” Although his words remained even,an edge of steel rang underneath them. “I believe the victor is clear, Chief Lichtal.”
Blinking away his stupor, Orin leaned back in his chair. His jaw tightened before he nodded as much in obligation as in surrender. “Yes, Warlord,” he rumbled. A flicker of dread tensed his face before he inclined his neck. Orin’s gruff words sounded like a toll. “The Warlord has chosenTrisha an Tiliaas his bard. May her song never die.”
She made a bow, with less flourish and much more haste. Chin held high, she strode back to her place while everyone tracked her path. Magic still hummed, gleeful and eager to fly again, but Trisha kept it tightly contained. She suppressed a shiver, remembering the expression on Orin’s face and the way he had reached out to her.
In muted, wary silence, Trisha’s table companions gave her space. She cursed her pride. It wasn’t respect that she caught in their eyes, but fear.
Gradually, the atmosphere relaxed. Voices arose, laughter and jokes resumed. But even those sounds wouldn’t dispel the undercurrent beneath. It kindled her earlier unease. Trisha couldn’t pinpoint what unnerved her: the hungry look, sudden movements, hands twitching almost instinctually? Or, the stillness that followed?
They glanced toward the high table and their Warlord, lowering their heads.
Trisha saw it all, but she didn’t understand what it meant.
With a grumbled apology to her companions, she sought solace behind the shadows of a wooden pillar. Within the light of a flaming iron cresset, she slipped her instrument into its case and started.
Bran Jovell had drawn up beside her. Resentment darkened his brow. He ogled the leather case in Trisha’s hands. A flashof hunger before he schooled his features. “Bard an Tilia. Well played.”
“Th-thank you, Minstrel Jovell,” she stuttered.
His strong jaw jutted, face twisted into a scowl. “But it takes more than one song to know what it means to be the Warlord’s Bard.”
“Excuse me?”
“You may have won here at Lichtal’s hall, but don’t think your position is safe.” A bitter curve bent his lips. “The Wolfbachs will tear you apart,” he said in a pitying tone. “A southern bard? What was my lo—the Warlord thinking?”
Her anger blazed like the fire in the cresset next to them. “If you’re unsatisfied with the outcome, I suggest complaining to the man himself.” She nodded toward Blainor. “Maybe this time he’ll take you in?”
