Grentuff hobbled into view. Short and bent, covered in bungled-up brown fur, he peered at Trisha with his black, lightless eyes.
“Ah, Tilia’s human daughter.” His tufted ears rested low against his head. “I thought I sensed my lyre’s hum.” A breeze rustled the flora surrounding them, those round, coal-black eyes fixing on the instrument in Trisha’s arms. A shiver went through him.
“Careless mortal,” the gnarly creature snarled. Before Trisha could react, Grentuff ripped the lyre from her arms, cradling it as if it were a baby. He tapped the limp string that hung from the lyre like a wilted flower. He raised the lyre closer to his face. A deep growl rumbled in his throat. “A scar! How dare you?”
Beyond his back, Rilka’s tiny shape was skittering across the surface of Grentuff’s pond, her shadow weaving between the lights. Trisha bit down her scowl. Rilka had wanted to come. The least she could do was to offer support.
“Not by my own vocation. The humans have forgotten all about your craft.”
Unimpressed, the fae snorted. “And you still want to go back?”
Of course the gossip had reached him. “Only you can restore its sound. I brought you something.” She offered the vest, the leather cords dangling in the air.
“Hmm. Sheep’s hide. Have not touched one in centuries,” Grentuff muttered as he ran a clawed hand over the leather. “Not your hair this time?” His smile was sharp. “The High King, particularly, is fond of their sound. Mortal hair, quick to grow. You would not miss it for long.”
Despite the hungry look in his eyes, Trisha kept her hands by her sides, her back straight. “The vest is my payment. No hair. No teeth. No nails. Surely, this would be far more valuable to you.”
Grentuff wrinkled his nose, long whiskers trembling. Something wicked gleamed behind his gaze. “You do? For your nails, I would let you keep your lyre even in your afterlife.” He chuckled, hind leg scratching his side. “You could play your songs to your ghosts and gods.”
The thought sent a frisson down her neck. For a heartbeat, she was tempted. To keep her lyre even after her death. But how could she play without her nails? She’d be stuck in the Undying Lands for weeks, if not months.
“Fine,” Trisha said with a careless shrug.” If you don’t want it, I’ll take it back. I can always ask Shi’as.”
Grentuff’s ears flattened into a frown. “You will not let the serpent touch my craft. The vile creature.”
“Who else would I turn to? I’m her ‘favorite mortal,’ after all.” She couldn’t prevent bitterness seeping into her voice.
“Ha!” Grentuff’s laugh was cold. “Not something to be proud of.” He shook his head, nudging at her. “If it were morethan a string, I wouldn’t do it. But, well. One string.” Then, he said more solemnly, “Remember, I will collect it at your death.”
Trisha lifted her chin. “I haven’t forgotten.”
He looked at the broken lyre, then back at its owner. “I suppose it is The Player’s Song you want?”
“It’s my favorite,” Trisha admitted, gaze drifting skyward to where the nine-starred constellation twinkled.
“Figures. All musicians pick The Player.” He dug through a pile of stones, claws clicking against their surfaces. Lifting one, smooth and rounded, he weighed it in his hand. “For once, I would like to bind the light of The King’s Sword. Or Serpent’s Fang. What magnificent destruction your lyre would bring to the mortal world.”
“No, thank you.” Trisha’s retort was as fast as it was sharp. “I’d rather my music remain untainted by the king’s blade. And I certainly don’t play the serpent’s songs.”
“Not so foolish after all,” he grumbled with almost genuine disappointment. Gently, he brushed the lyre’s polished surface. “Dark Fae wood,” he muttered, pressing a pointed ear against it. “But its echoes carry mortal pains. It whispers memories of death.”
Trisha’s mouth dried. “Seven years under the human sun. Not even fae wood can resist its path.”
“The king told you that?” Grentuff scoffed. “He does not understand my craft. I was the one to fashion your lyre. Trust me when I tell you this. Your lyre”—Grentuff’s black stare was piercing—“knows your heart better than you do.” He fell silent for a moment, furry hand stroking the instrument, his sharp claws tracing the shape with tenderness. “It isn’t your lyre, no. It is the stars you chose.” Grentuff pointed a knobby finger toward two faint stars. “If you want something of real significance, consider that.”
“What is it?” she asked, lifting her head tothe skies.
“Mortal Heart’s Whisper, left behind by one of the Nameless Ones.”
Trisha stared at the faint lights. She couldn’t remember hearing its name before. “It doesn’t carry songs like the others you mentioned, does it?”
“No fae, with or without sense, would dare meddle with such magic. But you… Well, you are no fae.”
Her attention remained on the two faint lights overhead. “Mortal Heart’s Whisper,” she muttered. Her lyre rested in the crook of Grentuff’s dark-pelted arm, the polished wood reflecting the luster of distant stars. It pained her to witness its cut string, the instrument voiceless. She needed the lyre back, but did she dare embrace another light? One she didn’t know and hadn’t heard.
Trisha’s fingers twitched, the half-healed scars of the night dance still stinging on her skin. Tilia had rubbed sap from her tree on them while humming softly, its gentle magic sealing the wounds. Only pale scars remained, and in time, they, too, would fade.
Trisha sighed. “Very well, Grentuff. You are the master artisan. I trust in your craft.”
