Chapter 27
After Byne’s guests departed, she gave Trisha a measured nod. “Thank you for your music, Mistress an Tilia. You did well.” Trisha’s mouth opened, but Byne had already turned to Dietric. “Did you listen closely?”
Beneath his freckled tan, the boy’s face was pale, his narrow chin tense. “Yes, Mother.”
“Good. We’ll be going through the practice, and then we’ll talk about what you understood.”
Biting her cheek, Trisha held in her questions.
She glanced toward the landscape, draped in the hues of the setting sun.
Her dinner with Blainor was approaching.
She rubbed her arms, but it didn’t soothe the restless roiling of her stomach.
As she slipped the lyre back in its case, Dietric’s wavering voice filled the quiet.
“…flood or drought that year, the chief gives him an allowance of…”
By the door, she stopped and met Byne’s steady gaze. Next to his mother, Dietric’s fingers pressed against his forehead, a pained expression twisting his features. A slight nod from Byne. Trisha walked away.
She descended, the cold granite around her.
Her mind spun in a maddening circle; her feet followed the uneven steps.
What had happened to Blainor’s son? Who was his mother?
Blainor didn’t carry a marriage tattoo. A memory wormed into her brain of how he had looked at Fjorten, surrounded by his family, upon their arrival in Moorhafen.
The pressure around Trisha’s chest pinched tighter. Why had no one told her?
As soon as she entered her room, Aina stepped forward. “Come along now, mistress, before the water cools more.” She pointed toward a bowl and pitcher on her table. “You won’t have time for a full bath.”
“Surely it’s not that late,” Trisha said, settling her lyre on the chair.
Beyond the window, the shadows had stretched tall, the sky beyond the distant hills turning dark. Trisha waited for Aine to unloosen the cords of her vest. On her bed, lying over the bright-colored quilts, rested a pale linen dress.
“Aine,” she started, “do you know about the Warlord’s son?”
Aine’s fingers, unbraiding the lacing, paused. “He died years ago.” Her voice was solemn.
“How?”
The maid didn’t answer, not right away, stepping back. Trisha’s gown slid down to the floor. “Beasts of the north. He was very young.”
Red light bathed Trisha’s room, the wind rattling against the windowpanes. “I didn’t even know the Warlord was married.”
Aine’s expression wavered as she looked away, “You shouldn’t worry about such things, mistress.” She nodded toward the enameled bowl and the sponge beside it.
The lukewarm water washed away the dust and sweat, but the questions remained.
Who was this boy no one dared to speak about?
A bastard? A grief too painful to be remembered?
The questions clung to her like a stench she could scrub off, or abrading crinkles of her long shift.
As the maid braided her long hair, she fidgeted with the silver-embroidered flowers on the sleeves. A fragile sensation wove through her.
Blainor had lost his son. She knew what it felt like.
As Aine was aligning her dress, someone knocked on her door. A young page boy waited, holding a lantern. Trisha sent a longing look at her lyre but left it. She followed in the servant’s steps, Aine’s stare heating her neck; the hinges of the door shutting behind her sounded too loud.
Trisha’s steps echoed in the stairwell, the servant in his livery showing her the way. The dark stone gleamed in his lantern’s glow.
Just a dinner. Just a dinner. Yet her racing heart refused to believe the words.
The guards in their mauve tabards opened the door, the boy leading her through the corridor, past Blainor’s study, hollow armor, and ancient weapons lining their path.
He stopped before another oak door inside and rapped on it.
An expected hum trembled in Trisha’s bones.
She wiped her clammy hands against her dress.
A spacious room with a set table over a thick woolen rug, the soft candlelight reflecting off silver and glass. And before the table stood Blainor, his gray eyes finding hers. Trisha’s heart leaped to her throat.
He lifted a thick brow. “No lyre?”
“Should I have brought it?”
“Would rather go against my intent.” The soft rug whispered beneath his boots. “Did you enjoy your time with Byne and the other ladies?”
“‘Enjoy’ isn’t exactly the term I’d use,” Trisha snorted. “Their tongues are sharper than a knife.”
“In that case, you should fit right in.” He moved, offering her his hand. “Enough of my court. I’ve had my share of their venom for today.”
As they went to the table, her fingers traced the shape of defined lines of his arms, visible even beneath the soft wool of his sleeve. Cedar and evergreen notes wrapped around her like a cloak. A drop of Trisha’s magic coaxed her nervous stomach.
The servants appeared as though from thin air to fill their plates and glasses.
Through their shadowy movement, Blainor remained quiet, each moment under those shifting gray eyes winding something tighter.
The helpers retreated just as quietly as they’d come, and the warm air drifting from outside brought a scent of an approaching storm.
Trisha slid her fingers over the southern porcelain and fine silverware laid next to the delicate plates and glass goblets. An ornate wooden chest stood in a corner, colorful tapestries with haloed kings and queens watching from the walls. “Are these something you’ve inherited?”
“Contrary to whatever you may believe, not everything you see is a result of pillaging.”
She pointed at the tapestry where a procession of people lined up to enter a walled city, a river cutting through it. She knew the town of Nortwurd, the seat of Baron von Dornhelm. “How about that?”
“That one,” Blainor said before clearing his throat, “was made by my mother.”
Trisha couldn’t control the shocked expression on her face, but she tried her best to subdue it. “I see. You’ve never mentioned her.”
“She wasn’t one of Eichlandt, and she died young.” Blainor traced the crystal rim of his glass. A jaded expression washed over his features. “It’s the only thing Holden kept of her.”
Trisha abandoned her interest in dinner and dropped her fork. “I understand he wasn’t… a gentle man.”
Blainor leaned back in his chair. “Holden? No. But he was the first to join the clans after hundreds of years. He had to be hard.”
“And as a father?”
“The same. Holden decided that I was to inherit his title.”
“It’s not hereditary, is it?”
“No, it’s not.” Reaching for his glass, he continued, “I saw enough of his life as a child. I didn’t want the same. So… I left.”
“You left Eichlandt? Just like that?”
“Yes, once I followed the road as well. For three whole years.”
“Oh. I’d imagine he didn’t take it well.” Tracing the edge of her plate, Trisha tried to imagine what kind of man Blainor’s father had been. Or what kind of father had Blainor been to his nameless son?
“He was furious enough to disown me. But I didn’t care.” Blainor tapped the table with his knuckles. “Still don’t.”
“Is that… why you had to fight the other clans?”
“Starling,” he said with a whisper of a smile, “are you that curious about my past?”
“Some,” Trisha admitted. “The ladies today talked about your succession.”
“I’ve agreed with Byne and Fjorten that Dietric shall be named as the next clan chief,” said Blainor. “After Fjorten, he’s the next in line.”
“Because of what happened to your son?”
A weak smile of affirmation appeared as quickly as it faded. His fingers flexed on the stem of his glass.
Trisha wanted to ask more, but the pain in his eyes held back her tongue from the more prickly topics. “If you didn’t want it, why did you choose to become the Warlord of the Twelve?”
The lanterns flickered, light and darkness dancing around them.
Grief momentarily shadowed his face. “On my return to Eichlandt, I found my father on his deathbed, the other clans circling like vultures, ready to tear each other apart. I could have turned back and let them burn it all down. I didn’t.
” His hands squeezed into fists. “I challenged them. I fought and won. And even if I didn’t want it, I gave my father what he had wanted.
As his reward, he cursed me at his last breath.
” A moment of silence followed before Blainor shook his head and looked at her.
“Your turn. Hardly fair for me to be the only one to share.”
She attempted a smile even when her throat tightened. The weight of what they’d bridged since her return seemed more fragile than ever, but she swallowed the fear. “Well. What do you want to know?”
A fleeting smile cast across Blainor’s face. “When we met, you were already headed to Eichlandt, weren’t you?”
A fraction of Trisha’s tension eased. He could’ve asked about the Undying Lands, where she’d gone after Midsummer, and he’d chosen not to.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “I… I think I was born here.”
His elbows on the table, Blainor leaned into his hands. “You think?”
Trisha’s throat worked to form the words. “My parents… They gave me away when I was a child.” She paused, drawing strength to continue. “I don’t remember much. Nothing really. Just an image that’s haunted me: a field full of thistledrift reeds.”
“You know, I did wonder about it ever since I saw you holding that reed. You’re searching for them, aren’t you?”
Trisha shrugged, not meeting his gaze. The pain of her old wound, the abandonment, echoed inside her. “I was at first. But since then… I don’t think they’d welcome me, even if I found them.”
Blainor leaned in, a nearby candle flickering on his face. “But you still want to stay?”
She met his eyes. “Yes. Still.”
He relaxed back in his chair.
An air grew between them. She focused on her plate, pretending to care about the dish, the roasted vegetables, the carved meat, and how the food was spiced. The clink of cutlery against the porcelain filled the room.