“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.” Blainortraced 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.”
