It was a wonder she could play anything at all. The fire still blazed inside her as the magic cooed with smug satisfaction.
Go to him. Now. Let me burn in your heat.
Trisha pressed her lips together, ignoring its voice. She didn’t need this betrayal, as if her own power had become a traitor with her body. And despite it, the warmth lingered, the magic’s throb aching. But she kept her posture, threading the Fir Hall with the chords of her lyre. Despite her control, magic coated the song with its sweet desire. She sniffed.
A scent of fresh pine and earth, threaded with a hint of smoke: cedar. For half a note, her melody slowed under the temptation to indulge, her control fracturing. Thank the stars, reason called her name. Growling, she yanked the power back. The cedar notes faded. A quick look around ensured that no one had noticed. She exhaled in relief.
Her gaze strayed toward the long table. With his uncanny ability to sense her magic, Blainor had likely noticed, of course. Another unwanted shiver trembled through her. He’d be waiting. Again.
If she were smart, she’d avoid him altogether. Each conversation pulled her deeper into Blainor’s orbit. Entanglement with him carried too many risks. She’d once trusted someone with that much power, and had paid its price.
Her fingers danced over the strings, transitioning into another song, and a low-pitched, melancholic tune filled with quiet yearning. Her plucking softened, the lyre’s voice turning ethereal. Trisha’s voice weaved through the melody like a gentle wind.
A few heads turned at her ghostly song. Among them, the narrow face of Orin’s bard—Bran Jovell. He’d been watching her too closely. Trisha wanted to scoff. The attention of another man was exactly what she did not need.
Her voice barely rose above the notes, ebbing and flowinglike the tide, carried through the room’s din and hum by her magic. She kept it under tight control, allowing only a drop—just enough to deepen the timbre of her voice and lace the lyre with an echo-like tremor. An impossible feat with one instrument alone. How many voices could she thread? Trisha shook her head, realizing that her helpful beast was eagerly doing precisely that: adding an extra voice to the song.
Not so strong, she reprimanded it, and the second voice weakened, though it didn’t die completely.
While spinning a song of the sea, her mind traveled back to those few stolen moments in her old home and Shi’as’ words. Tomorrow, she’d go to the town, Havbrun, and seek answers to her past. She glanced at the broad-shouldered figure seated with aging Orin, bulky Gend, and one of the younger chieftains—a dark-haired man she’d learned was Naddod Falkvind.
Her mouth flattened. She was in Eichlandt to find answers, not to fall for a pair of gray eyes, no matter how seductive they were.Yes, Trisha nodded, straightening, and clung to the thought like a shield. She would not stumble again.
After her performance, she remained seated. The fire warmed her neck as she ran a finger over the imprints of flowers and leaves carved into her lyre’s frame. The music had soothed her nerves, offering a chance to reconcile with her magic. It stopped cooing those alluring promises, stopped fighting against her. Still, she lingered—just a moment. Finally, running short of excuses, she sighed and stood.
A movement from her right, a few steps, and a low-pitched voice. “Bard an Tilia, we meet again.”
Trisha blinked, staring at the drawn face of Bran Jovell. “Minstrel Jovell,” she managed to say at last, instantly wary. “What a surprise.”
Why had he sought her out now? Why at all, even? He’d avoided her in Graystein, scowling whenever their gazes metbefore Orin Lichtal’s feast had drawn to a close. Their exchange had been brief, but she hadn’t forgotten his blistering disdain.
Satisfaction warmed her insides. She’d proven herself to Blainor’s people. No matter the risk of her song’s bewitchment, it had been her first test, and she’d far surpassed it. Orin’s avoidance spoke loud enough.
Bran dipped into the slightest bow. “Not unpleasant, I hope?”
She resisted the impulse to raise her brow. “Is there something I can do for you, Minstrel Jovell?”
His shoulders stiffened, his eyes flicking briefly toward the long table and Blainor. He pursed his lips flat before exhaling. “Nothing more than a bard talking to another one.” Without waiting for Trisha’s response, he guided her away from the fireplace, gesturing to a servant to deliver a drink. Pressing a pewter cup into her hands, he continued lightly, “With the summer solstice approaching, I thought it wise to discuss what you’ve planned for the festivities.” He sipped the mead, looking at her over the rim of his cup.
Trisha took a swallow while her mind worked furiously. The summer solstice. She’d completely ignored it. Less than a week away, she was sure to be expected to perform then. Perhaps she should ask Senneth. Or Blainor, who was following them from his place by the table’s end. When their eyes met, the frown deepened, sending a shiver of unease through her before he abruptly turned away.
“I admit I’ve received very little instruction on what to expect,” she said.
“Oh? I’d be glad to help. I’ve spent quite a few years in Moorhaffen.”
“So I understand,” replied Trisha. “Because of your previous teacher?”
“Bard Lynjef Sostung, yes. But I’ve not missed the celebration since becoming a man. All clan heads will be present.”
Further away, Orin laughed at something Fjorten said. Trisha frowned, taking her time to consider his offer. “I’m assuming you’d expect something in return?”
“Just a chance to share the stage,” he said carelessly, his gaze straying toward the fireplace and the table where her lyre rested. Trisha didn’t fail to notice his straying attention. “Perhaps to learn more about your craft; it certainly seems to have enthralled the Warlord.”
Trisha’s fingers flexed on her cup. She’d rather die than let anyone else go near her lyre and soil its magic. Least of all, Bran, with his long fingers and greedy eyes.
“I’m not one to possess the stage, especially during the longest day of the year,” she said. “I’d be more than glad to share it.”
Bran smiled. “Excellent. Perhaps we can discuss more tomorrow?”
