“Don’t think that you’re the only token he’s dragged from the south,” he sneered. “A piece of advice, Bard an Tilia. Next time, be mindful of what you choose to play.”
Without another word, he made a clipped bow and spun around.
Trisha looked after the retreating figure, unable to decide between irritation and pure incredulity. Still, something deeper in Bran’s words stoked a nagging feeling she couldn’t push away. The idea that her performance had somehow endangered her.
Smells of grease and yeast on the laden tables laced the thick smoke. Her eyes itched.
At the room’s center, Blainor sat, in control of everything. Domineering.
Some unease from the whole ordeal lingered. She’d won, had she not? Bran’s snide comments had confirmed it, so why did it feel sowrong?
Unable to tolerate the weight of this unbearable tension, she fled to the courtyard.
The wind brushed her cheeks, cooling remnants of the anxiety her song had left behind. The breeze carried smoldering fumes and manure, but beneath it whispered the sweetness of distant flowers. Crickets chirped, and a mosquito wailed. A slap at her neck finished the pestering insect. The dry dirt crunched, and Trisha wiped her eyes.
Damn the Warlord. Hadn’t he wanted her to prove her worth to his dismissive chief and Orin’s proud bard? She’d done just that, and yet it felt like she’d been the one to lose. Bran’s ominous words echoed in her ears, the way Orin had watched just before declaring her the winner. She chewed her lip hard enough to hurt.
The few guards on station watched her idle meandering, dispassionate but wary, holding their spears. Would they try to stop her if she left the keep? She toyed with the thought before abandoning it. Where would she go? Back south, to Normark? No, she’d chosen this path, and she’d see it to the end. She’d use this opportunity to find her parents.
The restless energy drove her to the stables, where Dapple rested. He nuzzled her shoulder.Oats.Real food, at last.His thoughts were smug and a bit accusing, too.
“I’m glad, my boy,” Trisha whispered, petting his head. At least someone was content with their present predicament.
From the stables, she wandered toward the closed front gate, and then back to the corner where worn wooden poles separated an enclosed area—a fencing yard, she guessed. By then, the rhythm of her steps had chilled her temper. The burn of her magic remained only a hum in her bones.
The long northern day drew to an end, the sky darkening to violet and ink, but a faint glow lit the horizon. Trisha restedher elbows on the wooden fence, the planks chipped over the years of rain and sun and children vaulting over it.
Dark granite stood around her, watching, silent and unyielding. The stone hummed with the bedrock, the land echoing under her feet like an enormous drum.
She breathed, releasing her hold on her magic. The soldiers’ march, its staccato beat, wound into the same long sound. The depth of it sent her heart ringing with a song she almost remembered whole.
Eichlandt. She’d been here before, this land.
Trisha would see through this charade to find them. Blainor had said that she could leave. A title didn’t mean anything different.
She had a sudden image of his still form while a storm grew beneath his gaze. Trisha’s shoulders fell. She’d better return, lest her absence be noticed and gossiped upon. A faint scoff left her. If Trisha had been smart, she would’ve asked Blainor to draw her a contract. Instead, it felt like she was plunging into the unknown headfirst. Turning, she took a step and froze.
A wail broke through the night. It warbled low, plunging even lower, before rising to a near-heartbreaking cry. Trisha’s face lifted. Its echo stirred the evening. The sound repeated, the mournfulness of the bird’s song tugging at her heart. She closed her eyes.
The birdsong disturbed a memory. No, not even that. A feeling. She swallowed, clutching her hands to her chest. A faded image of a tree against the pale sky flashed before her eyes. A smell of something too deep to recall ached in her marrow. A vague impression, like a dream forgotten.
The wind’s whisper threaded the bird’s song. The world stilled. That distant impression became more solid. Colorscreeping from the edges. Shapes. A tree before a house, still half-formless. The gnawing in her heart grew.
A smooth voice shattered the tranquility, “It’s a moorscry.”
The image crumbled, vanishing like dust in the wind. Trisha’s arms fell by her sides.
Blainor stood not far away. The evening’s hues cloaked him, but even they failed to hide his height or diminish the impact of his broad-shouldered presence. He stepped closer. “The bird, that is.”
“Moorscry,” she tested the name, quietly shaken. Quickly, she clamped her lips shut, holding back that she’d recognized the sound. It would invite questions she wasn’t willing to answer—not to him anyway.
A low chuckle sounded as he neared. “I much prefer my Starling. Moorscry have a certain reputation.” Reaching her side, he placed a hand on the rough gate plank and lifted his face as if to listen.
A cedar note carried to her nose. The echo of her song, its hollow desire, flickered like a flame. Just a lingering aftereffect of her magic, she told herself. “What kind?”
Blainor glanced down at her. “Sorrow.”
She waited, and he, recognizing the question in her gesture or expression, turned toward her. “To some, hearing its sound heralds deep grief. Loss. Death,” he said. A tremor of unspoken pain wove through the words before he fell silent. Then, he let out a soft scoff. “My people fear it for its song.”
