“But you don’t?”
“Most things surviving the moors are something to be feared. Just not because of their voice.” He added with a faint smile, “Unless they’re birds from the south.”
“I won’t apologize for my song,” she said sharply, cringing at her defensive tone. “I played just as well as that arrogant bard, Bran.”
“I’m not here to chastise you.” The Warlord’s tone carried an edge of satisfaction. “Orin challenged both you and me. He wanted a battle of bards and got exactly what he deserved.”
“I thought I’d already agreed to play in your home. Why all that pomp?”
“It’s… an old tradition. Sometimes that’s the only way to ensure my people obey. You’ve now officially claimed your title. Congratulations, Trisha.”
“It won’t change anything we agreed to back at Isdet, will it? You won’t hold me just because of some silly position, right?”
The steady cadence of the soldiers’ steps sounded on the battlement, dust rustling against the ground.
Blainor tutted. “Not even in my home, and you already want to leave. I must be a poor host.”
“I haven’t even seen Moorhafen,” she snapped. “But I’m a traveling bard.”
“It’s a title, not chains, Trisha,” Blainor said in a low voice. “I keep my word if you keep yours.”
“How about your promise to Orin, on raiding Normark? I hope you’re not expecting me to play along to your soldiers plundering farmsteads and small towns.”
“After witnessing your song’s effect on them, I’m not sure I would even want that myself,” Blainor said dryly. “Relax. Your aversion to war is clear.”
“All right. I’ll accept this title, for now,” Trisha muttered.
“Your regard toward our customs is staggering. It’s a good thing Orin isn’t here. I can only imagine his reaction.”
“Is that why you came, to honor your northern traditions?”
“No.”
“Then why?” she asked warily. “I heard your chief clearly enough at our arrival. The celebration is for you.”
“Always with the questions, Starling,” he grunted. “Don’t you get tired of asking them?”
“Not when you refuse to answer them.”
“Do I?” A quiet, cheeky smile wove through his voice. “I thought I just answered a few.”
She crossed her arms. “When it suits you, or your needs.”
He breathed out a soft chuckle, the gray in his gaze deepening. “And do you know what they are, Starling? My needs?”
“And here you are baiting me again.”
Her annoyance seemed to feed his playful smile. “One day you’ll bite.”
Heat flared across her cheeks, but before she could speak, he straightened.
“We leave tomorrow at sunrise.” Blainor’s tone had advanced to a serious one. “You’d do well to keep your door locked before then. Your… music stirred old memories to life. Some might mistake your song for an invitation.”
His warning was clear, but she didn’t understand its reason. “Invitation?”
He stared somewhere in the distance. “Abduction, Trisha. Brides, to be precise.”
A door slammed open. A scream in the night. To be taken against her will, to marry a stranger? The thought petrified her. Is this what Bran Jovell had meant?
