“If you say so, mistress.” Aine chirped, sounding unconvinced as she pushed the door open.
Trisha followed her into the bright room. She lowered her bags. Bright tapestries overlaid the cold granite, giving the room a luxurious, premium feel. More comfortable than anything in her life before, for sure. With a bed, a table, and a wardrobe far too large for her meager clothes, she’d be content for weeks. Or months.
Irritation nipped at how effortlessly Blainor had exerted his authority and ensured her stay. Pushing the thought aside, she drifted toward the table. Beyond the green fields, the hills rose, their rough ridges eroded into soft waves. Heather and grass rippled in the wind.
The sight tugged at her, the memory of the moorscry echoing in her ears. Once, this land had been her home.
Trisha’s fingers formed a fist. All those years, abandoning the safety of her adoptive home, to find this place. She would find her parents and make them take her back.
“Mistress?”
She turned, mind still tangled in the past and in the bird’s haunting song.
Aine gave her an assessing look. “While we wait for the bath to be brought, let’s talk about your attire, miss.”
“My attire?” Trisha asked.
“What are you planning to wear for dinner?”
Nodding toward her bags, Trisha said with careless sincerity, “I’ll have a spare. Clean tunic, breeches.”
Aine pinched the bridge of her nose, closing her eyes. “Ancestors help me. Master Usmer’s warning was true,” she muttered, shaking her head.
Her voice gained steel as she stepped forward. “Mistress an Tilia. You’re the Warlord’sBard, not some wayward minstrel. And I’ll be twice damned if I allow you to leave this room looking likethat.”
7
The bodice compressedTrisha’s chest, tightening around it with every inhale. She squirmed as she followed Aine down the flight of stairs and through the long corridors, tugging at the stiff leather trimming in an attempt to ease the tightness it forced upon her.
Her feet caught on the shifting woolen fabric. Curse the nameless gods. “Stupid, too-long dress.” She kicked at the hems of the skirt.
Aine had pressured her to wear it with something just shy of brute force. The trim swept the hall’s stone floors, collecting dust and dirt. Already, they were getting dark. Aine may have been a maid, but when it came to propriety, she acted like a warrior, deflecting every argument and opposition with a sternness that edged on violence.
So, here she was, walking to her official performance as the bard of Eichlandt’s Warlord.
She couldn’t breathe. And if she couldn’t breathe, how could she sing? The panicked thought ran through her mind before magic, as though sensing her agitation, tickled her skin.Its honey-like aura soothed her like the mother of a restless child.I’ll guide you.
Her unpredictable magic, if she didn’t control it, would expose all she kept hidden—the past, what her magic was capable of. Trisha’s hands taughtened around the lyre in its case. Never again. She reminded herself about Graystein: a room full of warriors ready to abduct her just because of her song.
The memory clung too close to her skin. She flicked a lock of hair from her face as though to swat that twilight evening away. One small victory—she’d left her hair open, despite Aine’s insistence.
“Only unmarried girls keep their hair open,” Aine had said.
“I’m unmarried.”
Aine raised a brow. “Girl, are you?”
Trisha would not give in. It was about keeping something of herself, even beneath this swaying woolen skirt and the vest that cinched her chest and hugged at the waist. The fabrics covered a lot, yet left her feeling exposed.
Scents reached her before anything else: the smoke teasing her nose, the smell of roasted meat and spices—rosemary, parsley, pepper. Faint laughs, the clink of cutlery and glassware followed. Growing and dimming shadows painted the granite as Aine led her through the open doorway.
Richly woven tapestries covered the walls; thick stone pillars carried the ceiling’s weight, the purpure Dewingar banner hanging proudly at the top. Long wooden tables lined the hall, and warm light spilled through the windows, glazing everything in a golden hue.
The maid glanced at her. She pressed a hand to Trisha’s shoulder. “When you wish to return, ask a servant to lead you to the eastern wing.”
Trisha nodded, observing the clusters of people before her.Among the strangers were a few recognizable faces: Fjorten next to his wife, Kaiden with his long-braided hair, and Hurti’s brawny form. A fraction of the weight she’d been carrying lifted. Not friends, not really, but people she knew. And perhaps, some she could hope to trust.
Aine lingered. “Good luck, Mistress an Tilia.” A shift in the air, and she was gone.
