“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 hisglass.
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.
“Where did you travel when you left Eichlandt?” Trisha asked after a while.
“South. All the way to the southernmost island of Crea.”
