“Well, after Ljynfel’s passing…” Senneth’s tone carried a hint of faint assent, his gaze turning unfocused.
“I would appreciate it, to play with local musicians, sir.” The honesty in her words bled through. “They know what tunes people expect to hear, and it would be good for me to practice with them.”
Senneth didn’t respond immediately. “I suppose it wouldn’t be such a bad idea, Bard an Tilia,” he said while tapping his chin. “Although Master Dewingar would need to provide his blessing.”
“Naturally. Will you let me know his decision, then? After you’ve discussed it with the Warlord?”
Perhaps something in her tone alerted Senneth, for his expression sharpened. “You’re not planning to discuss this with him yourself?”
“Oh, well, if you must know…” Trisha fidgeted. “Asa, Eldric, and Gareth invited me to join them tonight in the town. It’s such an excellent opportunity to start preparing for Midsummer, don’t you agree?” Senneth’s mouth opened, but before he got a word in, Trisha continued, “As a matter of fact, I already said yes.”
The white-haired seneschal’s posture turned stiff like an iron rod, and his nostrils flared. “Bard an Tilia,” Senneth said in an icy tone. “Am I understanding this right? You’ve decided to play in Havbrun tonight?”
Trisha nodded. “But fear not; I have arranged a replacement player. Bran Jovell has kindly promised to provide entertainment in my stead. As Ljyfel’s previous student, I know he’s missed his chance to play in his old home. Chief Lichtal would be pleased to hear his bard play, I’m sure.”
Just to witness Senneth speechless for a moment was deeply rewarding. At last, the seneschal mastered his shock, but his icy glare was unforgiving. “The Warlord will be displeased.”
“The Warlord should be glad that I’m taking my task as his bard seriously, immersing myself with his people, learning from them,” Trisha said, proud of herself. “Asa has promised to teach me the most common songs played during Midsummer, and tomorrow, we’ll put together the program for the day. If we’re given time and place to practice, I should be able to demonstrate the full set in two to three days.”
Senneth simply stared her up and down, aghast. But Trisha implored him to yield, to penetrate that glacial silence.
“Master Usmer, trust me. I’m a trained bard.” She pushed aside a shimmer of uncertainty that gnawed at her insides. “With the rest of the chieftains arriving, I’m sure you’ll be busy ensuring everything is taken care of.”
Senneth shook his head, expression mirroring the gesture’s disbelief. “Bard an Tilia,” he finally said, unbothered to hide his disapproval. “If this is the kind of behavior you’re used to in those distant southern states, I must state my objection to the Warlord regarding his choice.”
“I’m so sorry for misunderstanding. I thought I was to take care of the entertainment and music for the Midsummer Feast? Since Moorhafen hasn’t had a permanent minstrel since Bard Lynjef’s death, I didn’t think it would matter that much.” She let out a performative sigh. “Minstrel Jovell will be so disappointed. I believe he already informed Chief Lichtal of the arrangement.”
Senneth’s jaw tightened, ice sparkling beneath his narrowed gaze. “I’ll let the Warlord know of the situation, Bard an Tilia.”
Trisha gave him her warmest smile, grateful she’d alreadycollected her lyre. She didn’t wish to be in Moorhafen when Senneth informed Blainor of her little ploy. He wouldn’t be pleased. Yet, a sliver of reckless thrill tilted her lips, curiosity begging her to stay and witness it. Blainor might think he had tamed her, confused her mind with his heated gaze, but Trisha knew better. She would never give herself to a man who gave her only lies.
16
Midsummer arrivedwith a whirlwind of color, music, and laughter. With it, the remaining clan chiefs arrived with their entourages. Moorhafen’s stone halls brimmed with people, noise, and excitement. Beyond the castle walls, a transient village of makeshift tents, poles, and visitors from the twelve clans grew almost overnight.
Trisha ventured there with the other minstrels, grinning at the surrounding chaos. It felt like home back in the Undying Lands—the strangers, the noise, the unruliness, and how music seemed to fill every void. But of course, it wasn’t home. Alas, she ignored the quiet aching and embraced the new world stretching just beyond Moorhafen.
Her questions had yielded no answers, but she hadn’t given up hope. Someone must know about white stones by a field of thistledrift reeds. It existed. She’d find her family.
For now, Trisha took full advantage of her temporary freedom from Blainor’s court, stealing every available moment to lose herself in Havbrun’s streets, in the cacophony of thesummer village by the castle. But she never had a chance to vanish completely.
Despite her carefree attitude, Asa had wholeheartedly embraced this chance to play for the clan chiefs and the Warlord. Whatever had happened between her and Bran, there was no resisting them when they had a set to practice. Which was why Trisha now stood in the Fir Hall. Smoke rose from the torches, and incense burned—earthy sage, fresh birch, and heather—stinging her eyes. The air was thick with expectation.
Trisha watched the twelve clan chiefs; some short, some tall, and all built with muscles to carry mountains. Among them, Blainor. Trying to keep her expression neutral, she listened to Asa and Gareth talking in low voices.
“Why do you think the Warlord went to the south? What did he want from our oppressors?” Asa asked.
Gareth shrugged. “The Warlord does as he wills. He must’ve had good reason.”
Asa snorted. “Heard he and Chief Falkvind argued about it.”
The hurdy-gurdy player frowned. “You heard them?”
“No.” Asa laughed, gesturing vaguely with her hand. “But you know how rumors go. Three people there, someone here. They all had a different ‘why,’ but if you want my opinion…” Her voice lowered as she leaned closer.
Bran’s sharp command broke through: “Minstrels, please,” he moaned. “We’re here for a reason.”
Asa chortled. “Don’t see you wearing Vis’ pendant.”
