The servant pouring Kaiden’s drink froze, mead spilling over the rim.
Annath scoffed, stroking his gray-streaked beard. “Yer serious, then? Could have any Eichlandtian as yer minstrel, yet ye choose her.” He reached toward his goblet. “Didn’t take ye this soft.”
“My patience is running thin, Annath. Choose your song, or I choose for you.”
The other man shrugged, but a slight tension around his mouth revealed him. He leaned to his side. A few low-spoken words, his nephew nodding and whispering something back.
“Very well, m’lord,” Annath said, straightening. “Let yer bard show us her skills. I want her to singLament at the Vinthorn Pass.”
“How… traditional.” Blainor's voice was cold.
“That’s my choice,” Annath snapped. There was a gleeful glow in his eyes as he turned to Trisha. “Play it, southerner. If ye can.”
Trisha’s throat went tight, but she masked it well. She bowed. “As you wish, Chief Wolfbach.”
The Warlord’s hands rested flat on the table, pale ridge of scars running across his knuckles. Did he organize these situations intentionally to test her? And why? A moment of doubt. Each chord from her lyre, every single note he heard… What did he expect to find in her songs? Had he found it already, or was he still listening for it?
No matter. She wouldn’t dare let this brute of a man humiliate her.
A few steps backward, Trisha’s fingers slid for a better hold on the lyre’s arms. Beneath her skin, her magic swayed. Restless. Eager. And most of all, ready.
At the trace of its honeysuckle, her teeth set. Too late to regret. She plucked the first chord and let go.
Her magic, this eager beast, folded itself into her notes and carried them across the room. The strings spun of moonlight, and rays of the nameless gods hummed, the lyre vibrating in her hands. She summoned all her power, her control firm.
She wouldn’t make the same mistake as in Graystein.
Before her, Annath’s eyes turned glossy, grip loosening. The goblet clanked as it fell on the table. His second-in-command sat frozen, and the servants entirely paused. Even the air itself seemed to go still.
They were hers. To warp their perception. To suck them into her music. To command them however she wished. They’d never remember.
Then, that familiar wall. That damn wall. The echo of her chords reverberated in the air, bouncing back. Trisha’s lyre trembled in her rigid hands. Of course. It would be too much to ask if Blainor Dewingar succumbed to her songs even once.
He sat, back straight, proud. A single tap against the table, but no other movement. It was only her, her music, and him. The rest of the room remained frozen, locked in their places.
She lifted her face to meet him.
Watch me. See me.
A flicker of emotion. Fear? Hunger? Perhaps both. Her magic soared, sweeping away any thoughts of the man and leaving behind only her song.
She stitched her notes together like a seamstress, building them on the fragments of memories she’d gleaned: A jagged mountain range, the sharp peaks white. Haggard-faced soldiers, bloodied, dwindling as their enemy prowled closer. Silent and deadly like the mounting snow. More ancient than the bones of this world.
When the final note faded, she remained standing. The magic purred, sated, withdrawing beneath her skin. Only a low simmer as it pulsed in her veins.
A moment passed. Another.
Annath, cloaked in his wolf cloak, blinked into awareness. His adjutant and others shifted in their seats. A cupbearer resumed pouring more ale.
“Well played, my bard,” Blainor said, chin tilted low. His gaze cut like a blade.
Annath’s jaw locked. Red anger ghosted his cheekbones, though he didn’t say a word.
The dead wolf watched on, listless-eyed.
9
Moorhafen’slow and spacious kitchen welcomed Trisha. She halted by the entrance, already perspiring from the lit stove. The maids chopping vegetables gave her curious glances.
