Trisha grinned, disarmed by the woman’s openness. “Pleasure. I’ll take your teaching to heart, Asa.” She glanced over Asa’s shoulder at the other players, who had drifted closer. “Will you introduce me to your companions, too?”
“This young charmer is Eldric Thorne,” Asa said, pointing toward the flutist, a young man with light brown hair. Smiling shyly, he brushed a strand of hair off his forehead. “And this lumbering beast”—she gestured toward the broad-shouldered hurdy-gurdy player—“is Gareth Witrider of the Sturmhjort.”
“An honor to meet you all.” Trisha bowed.
“Honor, eh?” Asa muttered with a quick look toward Bran. “Is there something you need from us, Bard an Tilia? Bran here knows Havbrun. After all, he spent many years as Ljynfel’s student.” She faced Minstrel Jovell. “How does it feel to be back, Bran?”
“Are you concerned, Asa? I’m touched.”
“Don’t you go unbelting yourself too soon,” she chortled. “I meant her.” Asa’s attention locked onto Trisha. “I heard you’re from the south. Best prepare yourself for Midsummer, you know. The Warlord’s Bard is an old title. You’re the first outsider ever to be named as one.”
Trisha’s eyes narrowed. Honorary title, Blainor had told her then. It seemed he hadn’t been completely upfront in Graystein.
She forced a smile. “The Warlord knows I’m not planning to stay for long.”
The incredulity of the others was palpable, but she ignoredit. She’d come to find the truth about her parents, and nothing could prevent her. Not a meaningless title, not Blainor’s gray eyes, dark with heat, nor his touch sending her heart thundering. She could weather the storm. “The Warlord extended his invitation for now,” Trisha said firmly.
The tension in Bran’s shoulders eased, but Asa shook her head. “I don’t know… No one in history has ever given away their title until either their lord or themselves are dead.”
Trisha froze before finding her voice. “Oh, I told the Warlord very clearly I’m not planning to stay. He knows.”
“How very sad to hear,” said Bran.
Trisha glanced at Asa and her fellow musicians, biting down her scoff. “Bran mentioned there’s a tradition for other musicians to play during the Midsummer Feast. If you’re not otherwise engaged, perhaps you’d be willing to join the celebration in Moorhafen?”
Minstrel Jovell scowled.
Asa smiled. Dangling the fiddle against her knee, she cocked her head and glanced at her partners.
“Thank you for the invitation. You won’t hear us refusing. Who wouldn’t want to play within Moorhafen’s halls?” She paused, fixing her with a suspicious look. “Is there something we can offer in return?”
Trisha pretended to consider. “I’m here to learn about stories and songs. I’m sure you’ll have plenty to share.” She thought for a moment, then added, “How about a trade?”
“Stories, eh?” Asa asked before settling against a nearby barrel. “What are you interested in?”
Her fingers flexed against the desire, tension scratching at her throat, but she met the fiddler’s eyes with a mild smile. “I’m working on a composition. For now, I’m collecting information and old stories about captured and abandoned children. Do you know of any?”
Asa wrinkled her nose. “Not immediately. Sounds like a lament or tragic tale.”
“I’m still structuring it,” Trisha replied. “The ending’s not quite decided.”
“Our people don’t abandon children,” said Bran with a sharp tone of reprimand. “Maybe they do in the south, but here, children ensure the future. They’re valued.”
Bitterness flooded Trisha. Valued? A wave of disappointment and anger washed over her. Her parents had not valued her enough? Feared her too much? She lowered her face. “I see. But if you remember anything, let me know. I’d appreciate it.”
“Of course,” Asa said. “Now, all this talk about the Midsummer Feast has made me thirsty. Let’s get something to drink, and we can discuss the plans better, yes?”
Senneth’s pale eyes narrowed when Trisha informed him of the addition of musicians.
“Minstrel Jovell I understand—he’s played here often enough. But three new ones, people we don’t know, haven’t vetted…”
“Oh, Bran knows Asa,” Trisha said with an insincere smile.
The older man leaned back on his heels, frowning in thought. “Minstrel Jovell’s word carries a certain gravitas,” he mused and tapped his sharp chin.
Trisha gritted her teeth. Asa and her friends would counterbalance Bran Jovell’s slick disingenuousness. She looked forward to practice sessions with them—a chance to have true comrades, someone to joke about music, laugh, learn about their homes. And whether they knew about stone circles near a field of thistledrift reeds. And what the title she’d claimed in Graystain truly meant.
“I understand that the celebration lasts for a whole day,” she said with a demure glance at her feet. “Bran told me about the tradition of inviting other players to share their songs.”
