Chapter 27 #2
“Where did you travel when you left Eichlandt?” Trisha asked after a while.
“South. All the way to the southernmost island of Crea.”
Jaw hanging, Trisha suddenly lowered her knife, food forgotten.
Blainor’s grin was unrepentant. “Come now, Trisha. How else would I recognize the dead language you’ve woven into your songs?”
And still, she couldn’t quite believe what he was telling her. The island where the sea sang, where the echo of the long-ago past hummed in the stone. If not for the blazing sun, the silent stars, she’d have thought she were in the Undying Lands.
“You studied… among Crea’s scholars?”
He swirled the wine as though weighing his answer. “Yes, but I knew magic even before my time with the southern witches.”
The memory of Midsummer and the white-haired witch serving mead to the clan chiefs emerged. “With Katla?”
“Holden hated it, but not even the Warlord commands the Karring.” Bitterness thinned Blainor’s voice. “She came to Moorhafen the summer before I turned eight and demanded to teach me.”
She frowned. “Why hadn’t you told me before?”
“Why hadn’t you asked?” he said with a sliver of amusement.
Trisha studied him, unsure how to feel about the revelation. To feel betrayed, impressed, or something else entirely? “Your past is more complicated than I’d imagined.”
“Mine?” Blainor shook his head. “Am I the only one with a mysterious history? I’m not asking you to share what you’re not ready to—although I won’t lie and say I’m not curious.”
Tracing the grooves of the wooden surface, she kept her face low. “I didn’t lie, Blainor. Not all my secrets are mine to share.”
He reached out, stilling the restless movement. His touch was warm, the calluses and scars of his skin marking the years he’d endured. Slowly, he rubbed his thumb across her knuckles. “Not all secrets are meant to be shared.”
She looked up. “Then, what do you suggest we do with the rest?”
He smiled. “We hold them, Trisha. If you’ll let me.”
Her skin tingled at the light touch, but she didn’t pull back, just nodded in return.
The heavy curtains swayed against the floor, and the candles’ glow dwindled.
Blainor leaned back, his hand sliding off, but his phantom touch lingered.
She picked at the ends of her dinner, watching him from under her lashes.
Every once in a while, their gazes met, his expression reflecting the small smile she felt playing over her own lips.
“Did you want to talk about your chieftains’ visit?” Trisha asked.
His mouth firmed before he shook his head. “No. Not particularly.”
“So, you’ll let me pick the music? You know Senneth will disapprove,” Trisha teased, forking the last of the meat in her mouth.
“Let him. I don’t particularly care about my seneschal’s feelings in this.”
“So callous.”
He arched a brow. “Would you rather I side with him?”
“Nameless gods, no.” Trisha swirled her wine. “But he doesn’t approve of my presence.”
“Senneth’s a creature of tradition. He’s held his position since my father’s time,” Blainor admitted while setting the napkin down. He rang a glass bell and servants appeared again to collect their plates.
“And here I thought I was getting good at your customs,” she chuckled after they’d cleared the table and departed.
“Hardly.” Blainor raked his fingers through his hair with a quick smile, as though at a private joke. He pushed himself upright, the chair legs scraping against the floor. A few steps brought him to her. He offered her his hand.
“Impressing me with your courtly manners again?” She accepted.
Blainor watched her, gray eyes darkening. “Only if they work,” he murmured, then lifted the back of her hand to his mouth. The kiss was fleeting, a touch of warm breath that still managed to steal hers.
A sly smile curved his lips. “Which I believe they do.”
“Perhaps,” Trisha said, a little unsteadily, but didn’t pull back. “I’d need more than just one demonstration, though.”
“I’ll deliver, have no fear,” he promised in a voice that was both rich and low while stroking the side of her hand, sending a shiver down her spine. A step back, and he dipped into a bow. “Allow me.”
Smiling, she slid her hand onto his offered forearm and let him lead her toward a doorway.
The quarters behind it were slightly smaller than the dining room, with dark wooden upholstered seats, a few side tables, and another soft, thick rug.
Tapestries with motifs of Eichlandt’s past covered one of the walls, artwork another—portraits of men and women in Dewingar colors, a six-spoked crest on their chests.
In the middle of the wall hung a larger one of a warrior hurling a battle axe against a horde of creatures like snow and ice.
Wax candles offered weak light, the hearth remaining unlit. Open doors led to the darkened balcony from where the night air entered the space. Even with the sun down, the air brushed too warm against her skin. A harp stood in the corner, and she tilted her head. Her magic stirred, almost curious.
“Is that…”
“Lynjef’s,” Blainor finished for her. An old pain shadowed his face. “A memory of other times.”
She shot a glance at him. It wasn’t because of the old bard that he’d kept the harp. The presence of a departed young boy whispered through the air. She looked up at Blainor with deep sympathy, giving a gentle squeeze to his arm.
Blainor sighed, a slight tremor in his exhale. “You can test it, if you’d like. No one’s touched it since…”
“No, I shouldn’t. Well, I mean, not unless you want me to play? And besides, if it’s stood unused for years, it’ll be out of tune,” she said, hoping the subtext of respect came through her words.
He glanced at her. “So, other instruments, too? Not just the lyre?”
“I can play almost anything. My teachers were quite… demanding.” Her fingers twitched at the memory, the heat of her magic rising to the surface of her skin like it was listening in on their conversation. “But I prefer my lyre.”
He observed her before saying, “Perhaps one day you’ll tell me more about that place… where you were taught.”
“Perhaps,” Trisha dodged.
A quick smile followed. He let go of her, crossing the space to the table.
Meanwhile, Trisha meandered around the room.
She inspected the portraits of bearded men and stern women holding weapons and staring into the distance from an unknown past. No children among them.
No innocence or softness caught in the brushstrokes, only waiting warriors.
Blainor’s steps approached, and she turned to accept a small glass filled with a clear liquid. Lifting it to her nose, she sniffed and chuckled. “Livatz?”
“Good for health, they say.”
She looked at the paintings again. “Are these all family?”
“Most.” Almost hesitantly, he gestured at a pair. “Those… my parents.”
Curious, Trisha leaned closer. Holden seemed brawnier, his hair lighter, and his face beneath the thick beard more rugged.
But the shape of his eyes, their light color, did echo the man beside her.
When observing the portrait of a woman in a dark purple gown, she no longer doubted his words.
The woman’s hair was just as dark as Blainor’s, her face finely shaped.
But the expression in her eyes, the lines around her mouth, hinted at sorrow.
Of the two, Blainor resembled his mother more.
That same look had haunted him when he thought no one was watching.
“What was her name?”
“Margund.” The way he said it, almost reluctant. She glanced at him, but Blainor didn’t elaborate, instead placing a hand on her back, steering her toward the balcony doors. “But that’s enough of a history lesson for one night. I’m sure your brain is swelling.”
“I’m fine. I think you just don’t want to talk about them.”
“Guilty.” He flashed his teeth, leaning closer as his hand slid over her back. “I much prefer learning about you.”
Outside, the starless night surrounded them—the rising wind, the distant murmur of waves.
Trisha faced him, the shaded outlines of his face, the glimmer of his eyes.
His hand rose to her cheek. Sighing, she leaned into his heat, into the scent of earth and pine.
As he moved closer, the soft candlelight picked out the planes of his face, catching in his eyes.
“Will you stay, Trisha?” he breathed, as though asking out loud would shatter everything.
She smiled, lips caressing his palm. “Yes, Blainor. I’ll stay.”
His other arm looped around her waist, pressing her close enough to feel the hard length of him. A shiver went through Trisha. Inside her bones, magic twitched, awakening, warm, alert. A breathless moment passed, and he quickly claimed her mouth.
She opened up to him, letting the kiss deepen. His lips were soft and warm, and the herbal drink lingered on his tongue. She slid her hands up his chest, sensing the strength of his bulging muscles.
Blainor’s fingertips followed the arch of her hips and traced how each soft curve fitted into his palms. In return, she pressed closer to him, testing his skin, the hardness of his body.
His cedar musk swallowed her, and his touch drowned all other thoughts: the drumming of her heart, the wind, the rising tide within.
When Blainor pulled back, she blinked, dazed. Lightning split the sky, and a cold drop grazed her cheek.
He didn’t speak, only guided her back inside by hand and shut the door and the storm behind.
His mouth found hers again. No hesitation or questions this time.
Trisha welcomed what he offered—his control, heat, and the way he claimed her body.
They kept their silence as they crossed the room, touches and glances guiding the rest. In his bedroom, she stripped off his clothes first, each peeled layer exposing more pieces of the man.
Tracking the scars crisscrossing down his chest, she tasted the tension in his muscles, the fullness of him, until a low rumble of pleasure escaped his throat.
“Woman, you’ll be the death of me.”
She smirked. “I said I’d stay, not that I’d behave.”
He pushed her toward his bed, undoing the laces of her vest, and liberated Trisha from her clothes faster than she’d gotten into them.
“I warned you already, Starling. I have deft hands,” Blainor reminded her with a wicked smile. “Let me show you.”
His fingers slid down her belly. When they found her center, he grinned. “So ready for me.”
“Then don’t stop.” She met his gaze, daring him. “You promised.”
Her hips jerked as he circled her, soft first, then firmer, each stroke building the fire further.
He spread her legs wider with his knees.
As his mouth found her breast and clamped around the hard bead, those nimble fingers kept building the heat in her core.
The sound that left Trisha was incoherent, a mix between longing, plea, and demand.
She could have begged for an end to this torture. Or ordered that he never stop.
“Don’t hold back,” Blainor murmured. “Let me hear how I make you feel.”
Yes, yes, Trisha’s magic hummed at his touch, writhing, warm and open, like an unfurling chord. Let us come undone.
Whether he heard it or not, Blainor made them both sing with his hands and mouth. Her every nerve trembled, alight and ready. When he entered her, she opened to him without hesitation. As her body shattered around him, his voice untethered and joined hers.
The storm passed as they lay together, limbs entangled, sweat melding. Trisha’s magic had retreated back into her bones, satisfied and shimmering, Blainor’s hand tracing the shape of her rib. No regrets. No running this time. She had stayed. She had chosen this.