“Keeper of the lore and speaker for the ancestor,” Bran said. “An ancient hag. You’ll see her at Midsummer, too. She serves summer mead to the chieftains.”
Another option she hadn’t known about; this Karring might be able to help her find her parents. After a brief lull, Trisha asked, “She serves the Warlord?”
“She serves no one.” Bran chortled out a dry laugh. “The Karring has blessed the Warlord’s rule.” Something reverentcrept into his voice, and what sounded unmistakably close to fear, too. “Not even his father received the ancestor’s blessing.” Bran’s narrow face turned, his voice becoming hoarse. “She speaks to the dead.”
Trisha bit down on further questions. If the witch attended the Midsummer Feast, would she recognize the sweet scent of her magic? Realize its origins? “You must have played many times here in Midsummer?” she asked.
“A few times. My offer stands, Bard an Tilia. I’d be delighted to teach you the Midsummer songs.” A flash of a smile, too pointed for genuine.
“You’re most generous, Minstrel Jovell. Thank you. I wouldn’t want to offend the people with my ignorance. If the Warlord named me as his bard, I should ask his permission, surely?” Eyes wide, she hid her smile as a frown darkened Bran’s brows.
“People expect the Warlord’s Bard to invite other players.” He paused, adding, “Midsummer brings the clans together. They come to hear the stories to take back their homes.”
Her lips pressed tightly as she pondered the conundrum Bran had presented. How conveniently Blainor’s seneschal had forgotten to share this little information with her when she’d asked about the Midsummer Feast. “Players across Eichlandt?”
Bran nodded in response, a smug smile curving his mouth.
What an obnoxious man. For a moment, she toyed with the idea of veering Dapple closer, just enough to give him a push and see his long-nosed face land in the mud. The image cheered her a bit, but not enough to banish the looming clouds of Midsummer from her mind. Biting her lower lip, Trisha made up her mind. “In this case, I should learn local tunes,” she said, at last. “The town must have a place for that.”
Creases formed on Bran’s forehead before smoothing away. “The market square. That’s where the minstrels gather. I’ll show the way.”
Even before they reached the place Bran led her, Trisha heard the brisk sound of a fiddle, the low buzz of a hurdy-gurdy, and the trill of a flute flowing through the air. A thrill jolted through her.
Low-built houses of stone and wood lined the town square, peppered with wooden stalls with produce and wares. People—workmen and farmers in rough wool and linen, women carrying wicker baskets—traversed across the worn stones. Near an open well, a trio of players invited the onlookers to participate. Despite the early hour, a small group had gathered around them.
Trisha slid off the saddle. She left Dapple untethered, tapping his flank before heading toward the players. As she wove through bodies to reach the front, her magic’s heat prickled at her fingertips. Why had she left her lyre at the castle? She ached to bridge the chords with her starlit-spun strings and join their song.
The violist, a woman of her age with fox-colored hair, leaped while bowing her instrument. The hurdy-gurdy player, a burly, bearded man, exchanged a wide grin with the flutist, the pace of their song picking up. Trisha’s foot tapped the ground, magic surging in her blood. Her eyes met the fiddler’s. A wink. The woman spun around, joining her companions, and started to sing.
O my forefathers’ blood upon the icy fields.
O my foremothers’ wails by the hearth grown cold.
Where did you go when the ghosts from the north came?
Where did you hide when their frost killed your crop…
Another pulse of magic made her skin itch, an almost painful sensation. She fidgeted, trying to remain inconspicuous. Bran stood next to her in his green tunic, arms crossedover his chest. If he realized, even suspected… Her fists tightened against the rising tide of her magic. Slowly, she forced down its hungry glow and swallowed, the wool of her collar scraping against her neck. She’d need to play soon to ease the discomfort that suppressing her power brought.
By the nameless gods, she could never let anyone cut her off from her songs. She’d lose her mind. As Trisha refocused, the violist drew the last notes, her song coming to an end. A few chords still lingered in Trisha’s ears, a memory of the lyrics fading. Something about ghosts of winter and death. Without pausing, the group moved on to another piece. By the time they finished, a crowd had gathered around them, nodding along to their tune. A row of applause thundered through the air. The fiddler then dropped her instrument with a bow.
“Thank you, beautiful people. My friends and I are grateful. And if you’re inclined to make us even more grateful, you can spare us a coin or two,” she said, gesturing to the two men behind her with a growing smirk. “Or better yet, a full crown!”
The trio gathered their wares before moving on, walking through the crowd. The violist approached Trisha and Bran. As the woman neared, her eyes fell on Bran Jovell. Her expression darkening, she suddenly stopped before them.
“Bran,” the woman said with a curt nod.
His response was just as restrained. “Asa. Still crooning the same songs, I hear.”
“You know each other?” Trisha asked, gaze bouncing between the two.
“Some,” Bran said stiffly before relaxing. “Asa, this is Trisha an Tilia, the Warlord’s new bard.”
Surprise widened the violist’s eyes. She glanced at Trisha’s chest for a second too long to be noticeable, then at her bare hands. “Oh? Where’s your instrument?”
“My lyre’s back in my room,” Trisha said with a smile, butshe couldn’t forget how Asa too had glanced at her chest as though expecting to find something there. “I didn’t plan on impromptu songs this morning.”
Asa tossed her head back with a cackle. “You have a long way to go, Trisha an Tilia, if you think music allows breaks.” She nodded. “I’m Asa Steindotr. Pleasure.”
