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.”
