The people nearest to her clung to their drinks, a blur of emotions on their faces, eyes shining with wordless pain. A song heralding death and loss, she’d spun it into an elegy.
An older man with a broken nose wiped away a shedded tear, leaning into his companion’s arm, his daughter with ink-black hair. Next to them, the shoulders of another woman in a dark mourning gown shook.
Trisha exhaled. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to belong.
Beyond the row of thick pillars on the raised dais, Blainor was leaning back in his chair, but the angle of his shoulders was too tense, his jaw too taut. A shadow of the wound she’d glimpsed at their arrival, when Fjorten’s sons had run to their father, clouded his face. He carried some heavy and unbearable pain he’d rather not remember.
A few seats away sat Fjorten. Sentiments wavered across his face—softening in sorrow, even compassion, before tension replaced them. The others seemed to sense the mood, uneasy gestures and glances aimed at Blainor’s table.
He exhaled with a ragged breath before lifting a goblet to his mouth.
The room hummed as life returned, tentative voices rising, people moving.
Blainor’s eyes met hers, and he gave a subtle nod. Senneth exchanged meaningful looks with Byne.
Unsettled by what she didn’t understand, Trisha played once more. The magic purred, eager to fly again, but she lacked the nerve to free it. Keeping it tightly tethered under her will, she ignored its restless energy. Her mind kept returning to Blainor and how the whole room had shied away from his display of sorrow.
What did it have to do with Lynjef, the bard who’d been Bran Jovell’s teacher?
The Warlord didn’t look at her again.
The servants had added wood to the fire three times, ambient noises dulling into a blur, when Trisha struck her last chord. She rested against the chair’s backrest, the lyre’s weight comforting in her lap.
Placing the instrument into its case, Trisha rose from the chair. Byne’s words rang in her ears—an order she couldn’t avoid: she was expected at the Warlord’s table. How had she been pulled into his orbit so easily? Escaping it seemed almost impossible. And she was still no closer to understanding him or his reasons for bringing her to Moorhafen.
Blainor’s head tilted as she approached. “Starling…” He inclined toward the empty chair on his left.
Trisha pulled out the chair but refused to meet his eyes. The strange clothes constricted like chains. Next to her, Fjorten moved to give her space, turning toward a young woman Trisha had caught by Kaiden’s side—Marleen, she assumed, Kaiden’s new wife.
“I couldn’t help but notice your lack of the strange languages this time,” Blainor prodded.
“Surely you can’t expect me to always sing in foreign tongues.”
“I thought birds always did.”
“Often they flee to the trees.”
“Thinking about migrating already?” Blainor asked. “I thought we’d agreed to wait until winter.”
A servant stepped forward to pour her a cup. At his retreat, she took it, making its contents churn. Flowery honey and yeast drifted to her nose. On Blainor’s other side, Byne turned to speak with Senneth.
“Perhaps I’m not that interested in freezing weather,” Trisha offered. “By your own admission, come winter, birds are drawn to the south.”
His eyes narrowed before he placed his elbows on the table, abandoning the mock. “What is troubling you?” A quick nod toward the room. “I’ve kept my word. No shackles, just music.”
“And still no answers. Just evasions.”
He drew breath. “Ask, then, Trisha. What do you want to know? I’ve told you no lies.”
“What is your game? Bran Jovell’s teacher held my position. Why would you bait Bran, having refused him already?”
He looked up the cast-iron candelabras hanging from the ceiling. “You’ve met him. Do you seriously think I’d tolerate a man with his attitude?”
She gave him a long look. “Even so, you took a risk. He’s good.”
“Maybe,” he admitted, sipping his drink, “but I knew he wouldn’t stand a chance against you.”
A shiver of pleasure went through her. “There must be plenty of talented musicians. What prevented you from nominating one?”
