Trisha inclined her head. “Hello, Mistress Tifbrunn. I hope all has been well with you.”
Byne’s mouth stiffened before she nodded. A quick sideways glance toward the Warlord preceded slowly spoken words. “Once you’re done with your music, would you grace our table with your presence?” Despite such a polite tone, the look in her pale eyes remained standoffish.
Trisha resisted the impulse to gauge Blainor’s reaction. Firmly, she pushed away the heaviness Byne’s aloofness brought. Senneth’s reaction, she’d expected, but Byne was Fjorten’s wife and stood in Blainor’s close circle. She nodded, a warmth soothing the sting; Byne might’ve given the invitation, but they came from him. “Yes. Thank you.”
With a restrained bow, Trisha retreated. Their attention prickled her nape, but only one of them sent her heart scampering. Her place by the fireplace, a high-backed wooden chair, and a table with a pitcher of water and a bowl of fresh fruit, awaited. Smoothing her dress, she took the seat and set the lyre on her lap. Running her fingers over the strings, she tested the instrument’s pitch. In her bones, the magic tingled, its warm glow eager to lace her song.
Her head tilted as she gauged its disposition. Tonight, it felt lighter, purring contentment like a cat. Almost curious, she strummed once while loosening her control. Like a gently swaying wave, it wove into the notes, its sweet scent entwining in the air. The flames in the fireplace and cressets lining the long hall bowed.
Despite Blainor’s permission, she didn’t want to play the fae’s songs here. And from the magic’s sense, it seemed to agree. Instead of the wild music of the twilight world, herfingers coaxed out songs from her travels: ballads from the south, folk songs from the east, with the lyre’s clear sound carrying them all. Safe tunes. The new string, fashioned from cobweb and the light of a constellation named after her kind, trembled with the purest chord. Perhaps some of its magic truly stemmed from the mortal world.
Silence fell over the room. People turned to listen. With a small smile, she wreathed the Fir Hall with the pealing sounds of her lyre and her clear voice, magic lending them strength and a soft glow. Tonight, it didn’t attempt to enchant, just to share beauty, warmth, and gratitude. Afterward, she rested, enjoying the moment. The instrument’s wooden arms were solid against her palms, the flames reflected on the windows once night had darkened. Settling her instrument down, she got up to take her spot by Blainor’s table. He watched her approach, but didn’t speak.
“Nice playing, Bard,” said Fjorten after she’d sat. His mouth twisted slightly as he nodded toward Kaiden on the other side of Blainor. “But you still owe us that sword march.”
Trisha huffed, eyeing the rich weave of their tunics and the craftsmanship of their leather belts. Neither carried weapons. “Then bring your blades; I won’t indulge for nothing.” She cast a demure look toward Blainor. “Although I’m unsure your lord would approve.”
“Swords?” Blainor said. “You should know my stance already.”
A servant hurried to pour Trisha’s cup. At his retreat, she rotated it slowly. Warmth blossomed in Trisha’s chest. Her face low, she sipped her drink. Sweet honey coated her tongue, almost too flowery, a lingering aftertaste of the Undying Lands. She swallowedit away.
Life soon folded into itself into routines, and the gossiping whispers faded. As the evenings grew darker and the servants lit Moorhafen’s lights to breathe life into the waning summer, she reclaimed her seat in the Fir Hall and played. True to her word, Trisha had stayed.
All the while she was aware of how Blainor watched her, the weight of his attention, the quiet tension that still lingered on his shoulders. Aware of how his people observed them, and the unvoiced questions in their eyes. But the Warlord’s word was the law, and Blainor had made it clear to his people that he’d welcomed her back.
If only his seneschal would accept it. Trisha stifled her growl. She’d sneaked out of her room before Aine’s arrival, hoping to grab a quick bite before heading out to the stables. Dapple needed exercise, and she needed fresh air. The mattress might be soft, her blankets warm, but the cold walls were silent. The bedrock hummed in her bones, aching to sing its songs.
“Are you even listening, Bard an Tilia?” Senneth’s nasal voice shattered Trisha’s thoughts. He’d caught her in the corridor, latching himself next to her.
“My apologies, Master Usmer. You were saying?”
Senneth dusted off his spotless sleeve, brass buttons on his woolen tunic glinting. “Do try, if not for me, then for the Warlord.” He stopped, facing her. “Mistress Tifbrunn is hosting a gathering and would wish entertainment for the occasion.”
“Byne could ask me just as well,” Trisha muttered.
Over Senneth’s bony shoulders, a row of windows opened to the east where waves of the eroded mountains swelled, crowned by misty clouds. The weight of her unanswered past clutched her chest, making her breath catch. But one day, it would stop hurting.
Senneth’s answer snared her attention. “Mistress Tifbrunn is unavailable for today.”
“Has something happened?”
Senneth waited for the passing servant’s steps to fade. “The Warlord has a need for his aides. I’m sure he’ll inform you when he deems it appropriate.”
“Very well, Seneschal Usmer. I’ll attend Byne’s gathering.”
“Excellent. She expects you in the Solar at noon tomorrow.”
Trisha inclined her head, and the aging seneschal turned to depart without saying goodbye. Trisha rolled her eyes and continued on. Senneth, with his deference for tradition and decorum, would not change. Yet it grated to know that she was expected to endure his snide comments and contempt. No matter, she’d chosen Moorhafen. Let Senneth think he intimidated her with his spite.
To the relief of her growling belly, the leftovers still remained on the trestle tables near the side wall. Her boots echoed in the quiet hall. Trisha nodded to the maids sweeping the floor and setting candles in the lowered chandeliers. Roast, bread, cheese—some plates were empty, but enough remained. She pocketed a slice of rye bread for Dapple. He’d prefer a carrot, but wouldn’t refuse a treat.
At the sound of approaching steps and a forceful argument, she turned.
“Pa—” The voice squeaked between baritone and tenor. “I told you already we’d take a cart. Jaun knows how to drive it.”
“No, Dietric.” It was Fjorten’s familiar gravel-like timbre. “I don’t want you to spend time with those two swamp rats. You’re not leaving before you’re well again.”
The pair came through the open doorway, Fjorten in his black-and-mauve uniform, accompanied by a tall youth, hisoldest son. The boy had the same light russet hair, same sharp cheekbones.
