An almost unintentional tilt of his head toward Trisha before Bran’s jaw tightened. He kept staring in the direction where the clan chiefs stood. “I don’t need one to know what to speak out loud about our lord.”
Smirking, Asa turned to Trisha. “Perhaps we should ask his bard?”
Trisha held her lyre tight. “The Warlord keeps his own council.” Annoyance simmered within her. The Warlord had fooled her. The title she had won in Graystein was meant for life.
With a deep breath, Trisha forced herself to relax. It changed nothing. It was merely a title.
Sunlight filtered through eddies of smoke, bouncing off the polished brass and copper. Blainor shifted, the rich embroidery in his collar glinting as he did, his stubborn curl casting a shadow on his forehead. Trisha’s fingers twitched against the impulse to brush it aside.
Stop thinking about him. But Trisha’s mind refused; her eyes disobeyed, body betraying her.
The ghost of a memory lingered, his finger grazing her cheek. Her nose twitched at the teasing trace of cedar and wild forests. It was only her imagination, but magic surged, a low simmer like an itch she couldn’t scratch away.
Drifting closer to her, Asa nudged with her head. “The mead ceremony’s about to start.”
The men were joined by a minuscule figure wreathed in a dark gray cape. A golden girdle wrapped around her austere outfit. The woman’s long white hair floated around her like a spider’s silk, and years had plowed deep, mature grooves into her face. She moved slowly, swaying as though not truly listening or looking where she was going, something hypnotic in the rhythm of her gait.
Trisha opened her mouth. “Is that…?”
“Karring Katla,” Asa said quietly, swallowing. “She’s ancient.” There was something else in her tone too—silent dread and fear. She stared at the old woman circling the center and the chiefs standing.
Katla’s gnarled, knobby hands held something. Sunlight caught on red flame, the gleaming bronze shining through the slits between those bony fingers and long nails.
“And that’s the mead?” Trisha asked, getting a nod in response. Her gaze flitted between the skull-shaped ewer and the large men.
Katla stopped in front of the first chief, offering the jug. He accepted it with a deep, reverent bow, tilting the bronze ewer to his lips. The man drank heartily, liquid trickling down his beard, throat working furiously as he gulped the mead down. Katla remained swaying like a reed, a low hum leaving her lips. The sound made the hair on Trisha’s neck stand up. It was like a wail of two voices—eerie and echoing, and impossible for one person alone. This Karring Katla knew magic and used it freely in front of everyone. Her own magic recognized it, streaming beneath her skin, coiling tighter like a pup hearing a wolf.
“And will it be enough?” asked Trisha.
“Part of the ritual,” said Bran in a self-assured tone. “Each will try to drink it empty in one swallow.”
Gareth rumbled in his low voice, “Supposed to bring blessings to the clan if they drain it in one go.”
“Let me guess,” Trisha said. “They draw out their knives if it runs dry?”
“Of course not.” Bran pointed toward the end of the room where a young girl dressed in white linen stood by a barrel. “They’ll refill it.”
The procession lasted, Katla’s eerie hum filling the silent hall, the ghostlike echo following with a delay. Slowly, she moved, offering the bronze ewer to each clan chief, and each accepted it with a bow. They all tried to empty the cup, and all failed. The last, after Gend Blutmeer, was Blainor. The Karring stopped in front of him and ended the spectral song. The witchand Warlord looked at each other in absence of words until Katla nodded slowly, presenting the ewer to him.
Blainor lifted the jug and took only a sip, as if he didn’t need the blessing it contained. The other clan chiefs stiffened. While returning it to the witch, his lips moved. A sharp and pointed cackle followed, Katla’s laugh like a slash of a dagger. The room shifted, unsettled, people exchanging glances, but no one spoke.
Cradling the bronze skull in her arms, Katla turned and stepped toward a cresset at the hall’s center. Its flame danced, blue and red tongues licking at the swaying oil. Bowing, she tipped the ewer and poured the contents into the fire. The flames hissed and surged, growing brighter before steadying.
“What—”
“For the ancestors,” Bran cut across Trisha. He crossed his arms and bent his head.
Katla started speaking, a low voice slithering through the hazy air, the double echo of her gravestone voice accompanying each word.
The room repeated them in quiet reverence, and Trisha adjusted her weight. A stranger in this procession, yet part of it. All these years in the mortal world, and still, the acts of devotion left her hollow. A bizarre custom, difficult to comprehend. The nameless gods of the fae—capricious and cruel—were not to be prayed to, lest they answer.
Yet something here resonated with her. If she were one of them, born in this land, shouldn’t she be asking for guidance from the ghosts of her forefathers, to find her parents? Would it be that simple? Comforting, at least. A bitter thought burned her chest. Perhaps they, too, were engaged in a similar ritual somewhere right now.
Trisha’s nails pressed into her palms. A fool to even entertainthe notion, yet she formed her silent question, barely daring to give it shape.
Ancestors, if you exist, help me.
Katla’s head snapped up. Her eyes, white and translucent, latched onto Trisha. A cold brush of something ancient and strange disturbed her mind. A breath escaped Trisha’s body. That clear gaze, rimmed by the woman’s snow-white lashes, fixed on her. All the while, Katla’s mouth moved, the words flowing out like a river, smoke carrying them into the air and into the Netherworld.
