When Trisha’s song drew to an end, Asa was there—jumping up, fiddle ready under her chin as she drew a sweeping note, picking up from where Trisha had left off. The music lived on. Drawing a deep breath, she rested her wrist and aching fingers. The song’s lasting heat and zeal burned on her cheeks, the magic thrum heating her skin.
Bran drifted closer, chuckling. “Never thought I’d witness the day Senneth Usmer dances.”
The white-haired seneschal Trisha would have never imagined even knowing the steps to Asa’s branle was moving on the floor, Byne as his partner. Fjorten’s wife was smiling, scarcely hiding her amusement as she glanced toward her husband. Fjorten stood across the room, arms crossed over his chest. A stunned frown wavered across his face.
Bran bowed, resignation filling his eyes. “The Warlord chose his bard well.”
“Come now, Minstrel Jovell,” Trisha said. “One should not dwell on such thoughts during Midsummer. It’s a celebration of life and music, is it not?” She nodded toward Asa. “And we have a set to play.”
Bran strummed his lute absentmindedly. “Music, yes.” His words were slow before he gave a rueful smile. “For once, I wouldn’t mind being the one to dance and not… not to play.” An embarrassed laugh escaped him, a startled expression softening the angles of his face. “Yes, you’re right, Bard an Tilia. We’re here to play.”
Whirling around, he lifted his lute and joined the other minstrels.
Trisha’s mouth curving slightly, she continued to play.
The notes echoed, but she kept her inner power leashed tightly. If it had succeeded in luring even Bran to feel its pull,perhaps it was better to keep her guard up. Her teeth clenched as she fought to contain the heat of her magic. It surged against her will, but Trisha’s control held. Only the tiniest trickle wove into their notes. No matter Bran’s sudden compliment, his ego clashed with the group, and furthermore, they had not played together until four days ago. A little lie to bind their notes, but in this case, a justified one.
The music swelled. Asa’s grin stretched wide as she bowed notes from her fiddle, her eyes shimmering with glee. Eldric returned the trill with his flute.
After Midsummer, they would collect their belongings and leave, free to follow the road. First, to Sturmhjort, then the north toward Halsdal. Trisha ached to join them and discover the place of her vision: the white stones beyond tall reeds, and the blurry outlines of the house she knew in her bones must have been her home.
But no. She blew a strand of hair before her eyes. Instead, she was to stay and play for the Warlord and his chiefs.
While running her fingers over the strings, Trisha entertained herself with how to confront Blainor. Would she toss this title at his feet? Tell him she’d had enough? Yes. She’d shatter that insufferable calm and make him show something real. She was here to play, not to think about Blainor and his damned secrets.
Buyoed by her defiance, she faced the chief’s table; her eyebrows shot up upon realizing the table was abandoned, the clan chiefs out on the floor. A pretty woman from Byne’s circle spun in Gend Blutmeer’s arms, the chief’s wild curls bouncing about his head. Even Orin, with his frost-faced wife, danced like there was no tomorrow. Really, not many sat anymore—Annath Wolfbach did, carrying his injury from the knife fight with a vicious frown over his face.
But it wasn’t Annath that captured Trisha’s entire attention.Blainor’s gaze met hers. His head tilted, smile begging a challenge. The man hadn’t moved, showing no indication that he’d even desired to join the dancers.
Trisha’s eyes narrowed, irritation flaring her nostrils. Her magic quivered. Again, he’d avoided the impact of her music. Did he think himself above her song? How she hungered to shatter his calm and make an impact with her melodies. He heard her music but refused to obey it. He didn’t move. Didn’t dance. He saw her, and still, he refused to react. Did he consider her as some trifling songbird? Her jaw tightened. She’d show him. Crack open that quiet control.
Trisha didn’t stop to think. She let go of her magic, and Asa’s fiddle crooned louder, Bran following with a deft lute thrum. Gareth’s hurdy-gurdy quickened the pace.
Her fingers danced over the lyre as Eldric’s flute whistled high-pitched notes, keeping her pace. The music waxed, resounding in the granite walls. More people ran to the floor, their laughter mingling with music. And still, Blainor sat motionless.
Trisha drenched their song with the cloying sweetness of her magic. A small voice inside her cautioned her against testing Blainor. Hadn’t he warned her at the battlement less than a week ago? But she ignored its muted urges, eyes locked with Blainor’s.
Feet drummed against the oak floor, women’s dresses swirling like flower petals. The song crescendoed, its pace quickening, and hands clapped. Over people’s heads, near the high table, a dark iron chandelier swung.
Blainor’s shoulders tensed, hand tightening on the goblet’s stem until the polished pewter bowed under the grip’s strength. A dent formed on its surface. His control held; the metal yielded before he would.
A victorious grin spread over her lips.At last. A fracture.She’d proven herself—Blainor was not immune to her songs. Intoxicated by her own power, Trisha breathed in its dense, saccharine scent.Let him feel it. Witness what she could do, what it meant to feel powerless.
She felt the tug of her magic, how it pulled everyone to the floor. Not even fire could resist, wax candles bending. The fastenings of the iron candelabrum creaked. Ropes groaned under the strain.
The sound shattered through her haze. Next to her, Asa was laughing, but the sound was strained, somehow wrong. Trisha’s concentration fractured. She blinked, realizing what she’d done.
The room was full, the dancefloor crowded. Among the richly woven wool and linen, glimpses of the servants’ brown. Her magic hummed, the air thick with honeysuckle and smoke. People’s eyes shone with glazed stares, and flames in the cressets were reaching to join them.
Breaking eye contact with Blainor, Trisha released a shuddering breath. The reality of it all struck hard. Midsummer. Clan Chiefs. Quickly, she reeled in all her magic, but it was too late to call back what she’d unleashed. She’d gone too far.
The chandelier creaked again. She jerked her face up, eyes widening in terror. So slowly, too slowly, Trisha watched the forked black iron fixture fall.
Crash.
First, silence. Then, screams, gowns and jackets swishing as everyone rushed to the sides. Hush fell over the Fir Hall.
Regret came first, followed by fear. What had her reckless act caused? She could have killed someone.
