With a deep inhale, she clenched the lyre’s case against her chest and stepped forward. It didn’t take long for Fjorten to notice her. He’d changed and now wore a linen tunic, the purple and silver embroidery indicating his connection to the Dewingar clan. “Got settled, I see?” he said with a wry grin, his gaze tracing her appearance. “Enjoying being the Warlord’s Bard already?”
“Don’t you dare.” Trisha resisted the desire to tug at her skirt. “Or I’ll make you wear this dress instead.”
“Won’t fit. So sorry.” Fjorten grinned, pressing his wife closer to his side. “Byne, this is the bard our warlord decided was good enough to replace Lynjef.”
Fjorten’s wife shook her head slightly, with a serious expression. “And the bard has no name, my dear husband?”
“Senneth’s influenced you poorly during my absence,” Fjorten said. “Tomorrow, I’ll pray for a cleansing at my ancestors’ shrine.” He fell silent, then added, “Or perhaps I should just kill that man.”
“Master Dewingar sees value in him,” Byne said, and although her expression remained composed, her lips softened. “Besides, it would hardly qualify as a just fight. He’s the same age as your father.”
“Age has never prevented my father from lifting a sword.”
Byne gave him a bemused look before turning toward Trisha. “Since my husband insists on ignoring my request, I’llhandle the introductions—Byne Tifbrunn, of Rydlegen, and now, through marriage, Dewingar’s.”
“Trisha an Tilia. No clan.”
“Welcome to Moorhafen, Bard an Tilia,” Byne said, leaving her husband’s side. “Come. I’ll show you where to play.”
“Thank you.” Trisha complied.
While threading through the crowd, Byne continued, “After your music, you’re to join our table.” She pointed toward the long table on the dais.
Blainor sat there in an attire of purple and soft white. He wore no crown over his dark curls, not that he needed one to command the space. Tension wound in Trisha’s chest as she turned away.
“Is that a custom?” Trisha asked, unwilling to fold into Blainor’s expectations without a challenge. “For the bard to join the lord’s side?”
Byne watched her, face unreadable, before speaking. “Customis what the Warlord decides, and the Warlord chose his bard.”
A memory rose from the roadside inn of Blainor’s men obeying a mere flick of his hand. He wouldn’t expect such blind obedience from her, would he?
“Here we are.” Byne stopped, gesturing toward a straight-backed chair near the fireplace. “A servant will bring you food and drink soon.” She lingered, then noted, “I look forward to hearing the music of the southern lands, Bard an Tilia. Until later.” With a sway of her dress, she vanished.
Trisha sat, drawing out her lyre. The touch of its smooth wood roused her magic, and the kindling presence grew warmer.
Free me, it whispered,and we’ll break their minds.
Tuning the instrument, Trisha observed the room and itspeople. Music of the southern lands, Byne had said. Was it a warning? Or a challenge? Suspicious gazes of Blainor’s court, their discreet murmur grated on her nerves. If they knew she was one of them, would they regard her in a different way?
She fidgeted to ease the bodice’s compression, a distraction she’d be better off without. The snapping fire coaxed her back; the magic hummed in her ears. Its restless energy had itched her skin ever since their arrival. She tested the lyre’s pitch, and a few people closest to her turned, their conversations quickly ceasing.
Beyond them all, by the high table, sat Blainor. Clean-shaven, now stripped of the journey’s filth, he, too, was watching. Why couldn’t she read his mind? It stood like a wall, closed off, and still he saw through hers.
A Warlord’s Bard, he’d declared. How naive she’d been, imagining she knew what she agreed to. Why hadn’t he told her about his previous bard? Lynjef, who taught Bran, whom people talked with such reverence. She steeled herself. He wanted another proof? Very well. She’d prove that she belonged.
With a pluck, Trisha released the first sounds. Music swept through the room, pure and clear, like a birdsong at dawn. It warbled high before dropping, the pitch contorting in mid-plunge to a heartbreaking chime.
Yes, give it a voice. Your sorrow. Your loss,themagic cooed.
Trisha’s fingers danced over the strings, pressing and releasing, switching the timbre even as the sounds broke free. She created the harmony that had so unsettled her in Graystein: the moorscry. Her eyes closed, the notes pulling her into the twilight-filled grief, just a breath away from remembering. A firm press of the hand led her away into that strange, cruel place where nothing ever changed.
The audience had faded into ghosts. Mute, they listened asshe held them—a southern bard, a curiosity, playing a song of the moors as though born under these northern stars. Bitterness caught her tongue. This place could’ve been her home.
The music surged, anger and sorrow waging war within. Her parents had given her away like a mere trinket.This is what you made of me. This is who I became.
She played as if they stood among the crowd.
When the last note dissolved into nothingness, the silence was absolute. She released a breath, straightening, mind still tangled with the things too early lost, mourning what she’d never known.
