The knottedpinewood boards creaked under Trisha’s feet as she entered the castle’s solar. Woolen tapestries covered the walls, and dark support beams crisscrossed overhead. Wrought-iron candelabras hung low, the beeswax candles unlit. By the cold hearth, the servants were setting the logs ready for the night.
“Good day to you, Bard an Tilia.” Byne’s long woolen skirt swept against the floorboards as she approached, the flared sleeves of her gown swallowing her hands. “Please.” She gestured toward a wooden chair in the corner near a row of tiled windows, their stained glass turning the sunlight into a kaleidoscope of colors.
The one nearest to her depicted a vessel with unfurled sails pitched over churning waves, entwined in the embrace of the thick tentacles reaching from the deep. A phantom pain of sharp nails throbbed in her hands, a faint hum of magic and memory resonating in Trisha’s bones.
“What is the occasion, Mistress Tifbrunn?” she asked asshe moved to settle the lyre’s case on the chair. “Seneschal Usmer didn’t give me much information.”
“A group of court ladies. Wives and daughters of the Dewingar clan.” A spin of her heels, Byne directed the maids who were setting the oak table ready.
Trisha’s stomach dropped. She’d not prepared for local ballads. Even if she should be able to pluckLament at the Vinthorn PassorErgoth and His Five, both songs had too many stanzas to remember by heart. She cleared her throat. “I can fetch notes if you want me to play something local?”
Byne swiveled around. “No singing. Choose easy melodies that are pleasing to the ear. You know some, don’t you?”
A scrape of steps against the floor grew louder, and a lanky young man with russet hair appeared in the doorway: Byne’s son, Dietric. His sling-held arm rested against his gray-blue tunic, the other hand tugging at his high collar. He dropped it, dutifully kissing his mother’s cheek.
Stepping back, Byne straightened the seams on his attire. “Did you bring your book?”
Dietric nodded toward a leather-bound book in his armpit. “Yes, Mother.”
“Good. I’ll be quizzing you afterward.”
Dragging his feet, Dietric went to the table at the room’s center. He set the book down, grasping for the chair’s back. Its legs scraped against the floor, and a low hiss escaped Dietric as he banged his injured arm against it. His sigh was loud; he glanced over his shoulder with a forlorn expression. Then, with a resigned air, he bowed over the book. A quiet rustling of turning pages followed.
“Place it on the other side,” Byne commanded the maid who was lowering a basket filled with loaves of soft wheat bread near her son.
Trisha tightened the pegs, testing the lyre’s pitch. Themagic in her bones shook at the sound.No, not now, she told it firmly. From what Byne had said, the woman needed her guests talking. She wouldn’t appreciate enchantments that silenced them.
Unheeding of Trisha’s command, a rush of energy flooded her blood, a pinprick-like sensation crawling over her skin. She ground her teeth, wrestling with her magic. Why this sudden flare after days of calm? Trisha’s thoughts wandered to the evening, her throat going dry. If Blainor asked, could she trust him with the truth? She shook her head slowly. If she ever exposed the Undying Lands to a mortal, the High King would know. Teoryin would bar her entry.
Would it be such a bad thing?asked a voice within. She stilled, head tilted. Slowly, she picked at the strings, one after another, wreathing the room with the sounds of a southern hymn. The gentle harmonies soothed, their simple melody offering a piece of relief. The wool of the servants’ gowns whispered as they complied with Byne’s directions. They set samples of cheeses and honeyed cakes on the linen-covered table near painted ceramic cups.
Across from Trisha, Dietric kept reading. The chair creaked as he shifted, and another time as though on purpose.
Trisha didn’t stop playing, but Byne turned, her hands settling on her hips. “What’s bothering you?”
Dietric glowered at his mother, then, dodging her gaze, directed his eyes toward the open book. “I already know these laws.”
Byne’s mouth pursed. “Do you? Then quote me the Vis’ tractate on carry-off.”
Trisha’s brows creased. The term knelled at the back of her skull, a specter of a forgotten song. Where had she heard it? Her fingers tumbled when an image from Graystein emerged,of Orin’s strained face, the audience about to pounce. Bride abduction?
Dietric scowled. “It’s ancient, Mother. No one in their right mind follows such nonsense.”
“You said you know them, then let me hear it.”
Silence.
“You know the others will test you when you’re presented,” Byne explained in an irritated tone as though this same conversation had been discussed multiple times.
“The only one quizzing me about carry-off would be you,” Dietric muttered, bending over his book again.
The rustle of pages filled the space. Byne sent an exasperated look in Trisha’s way before schooling her features. From the open doorway, steps and quiet voices approached. Smoothing the fabric of her gown, she raised her chin. The brown-haired lady who entered first, Trisha knew—Marleen, Kaiden’s wife. Following closely came another woman dressed in a dark mourning gown. Trisha didn’t know her name, but she’d been married to Ilker Steiken, the man King Leopold’s soldiers had killed in the ambush in the spring.
Had it truly been so long? The fight, the dead… Pushing the memories away, Trisha refocused on the song. The women kissed, exchanging softly spoken greetings.
With a bright smile, Marleen nodded at Trisha. The colored light painted her slim figure draped in linen and wool. She went to the chair closest to Trisha, her friend occupying a seat beside Byne. Marleen placed a wicker basket near her feet, stocked with yarn and fabrics. The two seats between her and Mistress Steiken remained empty. The women’s murmured voices wove through Trisha’s mellow notes. Their sharp needles glinted in the sunlight like weapons.
Not long after, the door swung open. A tall, striking woman dressed in a wine-red gown with heavy gold chains adorningher neck stepped inside. Her jet-black hair was piled up into loops, and the veil of fine lace and silk set over her head. In her trail came a shorter woman. The pale yellow of her gown was finely embroidered, silver chains of her girdle gleaming over her rounded hips, her neckline dipping low.
