Fjorten spat on the ground. “Thought it best if I keep my distance.” A wry smile showed, as though linked to a memory. “Annath’s nephew and I… don’t see eye to eye.”
The man with the red scar?
Fjorten went on, “Byne will manage the Wolfbachs better without me. She knows how to use a knife.” He paused, bearing a toothy grin. “Can’t say I’m surprised m’lord put an end to your solitary forays.”
Above their heads, the black-and-purple Dewingar banner hung alongside another, the gray wolf’s head against a blue background. They swayed faintly, the servants moving in and out through the doorway.
“I don’t need a guard,” Trisha muttered, annoyed at the warmth creeping up to her ears. Being the Warlord’s Bard felt more like trouble than it was worth. Blainor’s order to be leashed to an escort meant having an unwanted witness to her every move, and any idiot would see through her questions about a family with a missing daughter. Fear clutched her heart. What if she’d arrived too late? Two decades was a long time.
Fjorten chuckled. “Don’t look so crestfallen. I’ll show you the barracks tomorrow and make the introductions. Wouldn’t dare keep you away from Dapple.”
“You?”
He pretended to be offended. “I am the Shield Master.”
She snorted, smoothing her vest. Thank the nameless gods that Aine hadn’t pulled the laces too tight. “And you’ll tell the Warlord, I assume?”
Upon a shake of his head, Fjorten’s gaze turned distant. “I’m in charge of every shield and soldier. Let me see who you choose, for my comfort.”
“So I’m not just some bard, even if you never call me by name.”
Fjorten stroked his beard. There was an expression in his eyes she couldn’t decipher, something close to guilt. “Nothing to do with it. I know your name, just choose not to speak it.” She opened her mouth, but he cut over, “Come find me tomorrow morning at the barracks.” A slight nod to one of the guards in the shadows before his attention returned to her. “You like your morning rides, don’t you?”
“Usually.” Trisha wasn’t sure how to feel about her routines being clocked by Blainor’s men. “Won’t it interfere with your… scheduling?”
“I’ve enough shields to fill in for a few hours’ absence.” He waved her apology aside, attention moving somewhere over her shoulder. “Best I find Senneth before he finds me.”
Fjorten’s left her side, boots thumping against the wooden floor, fading as he walked into the swallowing crowd.
Trisha traced the carved morrowflowers on her lyre. The magic’s warm glow was a persistent itch, like water boiling under a lid, but Senneth had told her to wait for a signal from Blainor.
Across the age-darkened floorboards, servants carried roasted swan to their lord’s table, already laden with dishes of fish and vegetables, cheeses, and breads. Although based on the harried expression on the cupbearer’s face, the guestsseemed more thirsty than hungry. The men emptied their goblets at an ever-increasing pace.
Annath’s crew’s rambunctious voices boomed in the hall. No wonder, then. All these weeks, she’d never seen Blainor as tense as now beside the Wolfbach chief. The streaks on Annath’s hair glistened almost the same color as his cloak. A sour expression marred his face, the man’s posture radiating tension.
The voices grew louder. Each passing moment, her magic burned brighter, winding Trisha’s nerves tighter. Did he even want her to play? Blainor turned his head toward where she stood. He nodded. She almost scoffed. Was that a signal?
Trisha told herself to breathe; she had her lyre and her magic, yet words failed to pacify the churning storm within. The Warlord’s Bard was expected to know the sagas. She doubted Annath Wolfbach would pick a song such asErgoth and His Five. Not if he wanted to test her. And he would, if she could trust Bran Jovell’s words from Graystein.
Pressing the lyre to her chest, Trisha lifted her chin and walked across the floor—not in her usual spot by the hearth, but before the table.
She bowed. “Warlord.”
Annath pulled his lips back, ready to speak, but his adjutant leaned into his chair with a smug expression.
“Bard an Tilia, meet Chief Wolfbach and his… nephew.” Blainor's voice was cool and stern. “To honor the bonds between Dewingars and Wolbachs, the right to the first song belongs to my guests.” He turned toward Annath, whose face hardened. “What's your request for my bard, Chief Wolfbach?”
Annath swiveled round his chair, face twisted into an ugly sneer. The dead wolf stared straight into Trisha’s eyes.
“The rumors were true. Ye chose an outsider to replace Lynjef?”
Trisha’s mouth clamped tight. She’d challenged Orin, and what had it brought?
“I did. Chief Lichtal agreed,” Blainor said, bringing the cup to his mouth. “Feel free to ask him at Summer Solstice.”
Annath’s pale eyes were as cold as his voice. “She’s frail. Won’t last past winter, m’lord.” An edgewise glance toward Blainor. “Ye seem to like collecting tokens from the south.”
Blainor didn’t skip a beat. “Indeed?” His word dropped like an icicle.
