Chapter 31 #2
Trisha didn’t flinch, fingers pressing into the armrests. Her skin hurt. “It’s mine, Warlord. Give it back.”
His head tipped back in refusal. “No. Call it collateral. A guarantee. I’d be an idiot if I didn’t.”
“You have no right, Blainor,” she seethed.
The absence of her lyre cut deep. To know he had touched it… that it lay somewhere near.
He scoffed, retreating. “I have all the right. I’m the Warlord of the Twelve. The ruler of Eichlandt. I will do what I must to see my land prevail.”
A silence landed between them. Trisha couldn’t speak, didn’t dare say a word. Didn’t know what would come out of her mouth if she tried to. She couldn’t believe that he could do this to her, after everything.
“So, what am I now—a prisoner?” she finally asked.
“If you don’t agree. Don’t make me your enemy, Trisha.” Underneath his words ran intensity close to a plea. A storm raged behind his eyes.
Her mouth opened and closed, words lodging in her throat. Just thinking about what he was doing to her felt like twisting the knife. How could he be asking this of her?
“Don’t do this, Blainor.” She looked up at him, face pale. Her voice sounded quiet and weak. She hated it. Hated how her heart ached.
“Then tell me you’ll help.”
“You’re not even giving me a choice,” she said quietly, reality settling over her. “You’re demanding something I can’t do.”
His eyes closed, shoulders falling. When he looked at her again, his face cleared of all emotions. Nothing even resembling warmth remained in his gaze. He straightened and said, “Fine. If that’s what you want.”
Hot anger flared, burning away the numbness and her hesitation. “Don’t you dare blame me,” she snarled, pushing to her feet. They wobbled, but to her relief, she didn’t stumble down this time. “Go ahead. Lock me in some dungeon, for all I care. I’ll never trust you again.”
“I don’t need trust, Trisha. I need collaboration.”
“You deserve nothing, Blainor! And that’s all you’ll get from me!”
He watched her for a long time, expression unreadable. “You’ll change your mind. Trust me, Trisha, when the first snow comes, you will find out just how wrong you are.”
“You’ll be the one waiting. Even after the last snow has melted.”
A smile lifted the corners of his mouth, but the stare of his eyes remained cold. “We’ll see.”
He moved to the balcony’s entrance. Beyond the swell of the mountains, the sky was darkening. The door. If she ran… But no. She’d gain nothing if she tried to bolt. Her legs barely carried her weight, shaking just from the strain of staying upright.
“The word about what happened today will get around.” His words snared her attention.
He stood framed against the light, a dark form of broad shoulders and strength.
Blainor let out a dry, unamused chuckle.
“I daresay Annath’s son won’t be too disappointed.
Hjorsen will challenge me. More for his clan than for himself, I’m sure.
I’ve sent for him to take a seat at the meeting. It will cause some delay.”
Hate and dismay, fire and ice, roiled inside her. “You plan to parade me in front of your chiefs?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. Half of them will want to kill you. The other half to use you.” He shook his head. “No. You won’t be leaving your room.”
“So, no dungeon? I’m crushed. Crushed.”
“Would you prefer it?”
“I can choose? Such generosity.”
“I’ve delayed their meeting already. Once Fjorten gets here, he’ll… help you out.” A pause, his fingers twitching. “Sorry to disappoint you, but you’ll be deprived of my presence for the coming days.”
“I’ll manage,” Trisha spat.
“Don’t fear.” He smiled. “It won’t be that long.”
A knock, someone rapping at the door. At Blainor’s summons, it swung open, and the auburn-haired soldier entered. Fjorten’s jaw was taut, his mouth drawn. Avoiding looking at Trisha, he stopped before Blainor.
“You’ve sorted it?” Blainor asked.
“Yes,” the other man said.
Trisha almost staggered under the weight of the betrayal. Fjorten had known. Perhaps all this time. And he’d never said a word.
“Good,” said Blainor. “Help Bard an Tilia back to her room.” His eyes narrowed, as though seeing through her. Damn him. She locked her knees but couldn’t prevent her legs from trembling. “It seems the ordeal at the moors taxed the bard more than she’s willing to admit.”
Fjorten’s gaze coasted between her and Blainor, a muscle trembling on his throat. Silence eclipsed the room.
“You have concerns?” Blainor asked, a brow raised. “Hm? Something you wish to say?”
Fjorten opened his mouth, then snapped it closed, and shook his head. “N-No, m’lord. I’ll do what’s needed.” With a stiff bow, he spun around.
He may have offered his hand. Trisha wasn’t sure. Like a ghost, she felt her body move, as if dragged by the wind and drift toward the door. A twinge of regret, Blainor’s mouth opening before he swallowed his words.
Trisha turned away. She didn’t want him to speak—couldn’t bear to listen to him. His gaze jabbed her neck, but she wouldn’t show him her turmoil. He could never know how much she was hurting.
Numb, she barely noticed the soldiers following her and Fjorten. Trisha’s breathing was labored, the fury spent. Her knees wobbled on the stairs as they descended. The soldier didn’t press her, didn’t offer to help, but he remained near.
If she flung herself down the stairs, would he even try to stop her?
By the door of her old room, he suddenly spoke. “I’m sorry.”
Her jaw hung in disbelief. “You’re sorry?” Trisha repeated, incredulous. Anger again. Weaker, but still there. “About which part? That you knew all this time and followed his deception? For lying to me?”
He dodged her gaze. “Maybe all. He… I hoped he’d decide otherwise. That he’d… It might not count much, but thank you. For Dietric.”
She looked down, exhaling. “I had to do something.”
“I can’t lie and say I wish you hadn’t.” His voice died before he cleared his throat. “I’ll make sure your horse is cared for.”
Something hot prickled behind her eyes. Dapple.
She’d forgotten about her horse. The bitter taste of her helpless anger flickered and died.
Her mouth tasted of ash. Of course Blainor wouldn’t allow her to ride Dapple.
The thought of being separated from the only creature who never demanded anything of her.
Who never wanted more than she was willing to give.
The realization swept through her like a tide, leaving behind barren desolation.
But she swallowed the grief, nodding. She dared not speak and let Fjorten hear the sobs that’d scratch her throat.
The door closing echoed too loudly. The room waiting for her was quiet. The absence of her lyre throbbed in her bones and soul. The gag Blainor forced upon her screamed in her ears.
Slowly, she crossed the floor to the chair by the table. The wood groaned, all strength abandoning her body.
Out the window, the fields and moors spread, draped in the ink of the settling night.
Trisha’s lips pressed together. He thought she’d break, that he’d sway her to his will.
A warm sensation stirred within her, as though awakening.
She shuddered, breath escaping her. Her magic. Weak, depleted, but there.
Very well, then. Blainor had called it a weapon. Trisha’s hands closed in resolve as the dusk swallowed the land, the shadows eating the light. She didn’t fear the dark.
If her magic was a weapon, it was hers. And she’d be the only mortal to control it.
Blainor thought to keep her confined. That these stonewalls would restrict her and prevent her from leaving. He imagined robbing her of freedom would force her to help him, but he’d find out how wrong he was. She’d never bow to him.
Blainor would soon realize. Trisha would not be silenced.