“More rewarding an outcome,” he agreed and nibbled her ear before tightening the vest.
There was no use trying to tame her long hair, tangled beyond repair without a comb. She’d just brave the castle, the awakened corridors, aware of how every person she’d meet would think their own thoughts. And let them.
At the door, they lingered: she, in her gown, and Blainor, half-dressed and chest bare. Daylight drew on the pale scars of survival, a silent past of violence. Curiosity mingled with a whisper of desire; her fingers twitched against the need to touch him again. He smiled, and Trisha blinked, blush creeping up her neck like a crushing schoolgirl.
“I should go,” she muttered, self-conscious. “I agreed to meet Reike after her drills.”
“Then, you’d best hurry.” But he didn’t let go, not immediately. A transient thought shadowed his brows, and his posture changed as though he’d prepared himself to carry its expectations once it settled on him. “Today, the chiefs will arrive.”
She sighed, the loss of privacy sinking in. Behind his door, the world awaited. Its never-ending tasks and people with their demands. The wind picked up, howling through the cracks and crevices. Cold air sent a shiver through her. Once she’d stepped out, they both would step back into their roles. Swallowing, she searched for words but found none.
His thumb kneaded the inside of her palm before he lifted it to his mouth. “But after dinner. You’ll come?”
She rested her hand against his cheek. Wanting wasn’t the problem. The echo of the door closing stayed with her. So did the look in his eyes. She didn’t want to name it. No regrets, she reminded herself.
Dapple needed a ride, and she—nameless gods knew—needed to clear her mind. Against expectation, she reached the stables not long after the morning drills were concluded. Reike stood ready, waiting by her mare.
“Planning for an audience in the moors?”
The soldier quirked a brow, her gaze on the lyre Trisha had brought with her. Unnamed restlessness had driven her. Perhaps the moors, the wind’s whisper, and the sun on her skin would bring relief. Trisha’s thoughts remained tangled in the night, with the memory of Blainor’s naked skin and everything that had transpired. Her world had altered overnight. She needed it in balance. To find out if she was still the same woman as before last night.
“For inspiration,” she offered her shield with a small smile.
Reike gave her another look, longer this time. A quick emotion passed over her features, an understanding of sorts, perhaps. But she didn’t speak, just turned to tighten the buckles of her saddle.
They rode out of Moorhafen. Hooves sank into the ground with a squelch, and grass glimmered after last night’s rain. The air was rich with the scents of fresh hay and wet soil. Trisha resisted looking behind, but her neck prickled when she thought about the keep’s heart, Blainor’s quarters, and if he were watching.
“What kind of inspiration do you seek to find?” Reike asked.
Trisha shrugged, cradling the lyre case in her lap. “Whatever the road may bring. Sometimes it is the sky. The trees. I know only after I encounter it.” She sighed. “I need something to distract me.”
Reike’s lips twitched. “Heavy thoughts to require tethering, eh?”
Trisha blushed but didn’t respond, urging Dapple to move faster.
They followed the northbound road, skirting near the path that led to the stone circles. Trisha banished their lingering presence from her mind. The Opening would wait by the sea, silent and present. She didn’t need to witness it, didn’t need what it offered. Not now, not when Blainor’s touch warmed her skin, when the trace of evergreen and smoke and his memory clung to her. She pointed toward a trail leading toward the moors. Reike complied with a nod.
The few puddles reflected a rising sun. Above their heads, the wispy clouds trailed lazily. Wagon marks on the ground, the worn surface—they weren’t the only ones to ride this stretch.
“Where does the road lead?” Trisha asked.
“To the northbound road, all the way to Halsdal,” Reike answered.
“You go there often?”
“Occasionally. When I do, I carry messages on the Warlord’s behalf.”
Trisha slowed Dapple as a dark-clad figure suddenly appeared on the horizon. White hair fluttered around the person’s head, glowing in the rising light. Next to her, Reike stiffened, slowing her horse.
“By the ancestors,” she swore under her breath. “Witch in the morning, bad news in the evening.”
Trisha glanced at her. “Katla?”
“Aye.” Reike’s mouth pressed tightly, eyes fixed on the small figure ahead. “She’s out here for a reason. Best be done with it.”
Katla stood still as they approached. The strands of cobweb hair fluttered in the wind, dark robes flapping around her like a moth’s wings. Wrinkles formed over her sun-darkened face at the move of her mouth—not a smile exactly. Something crueler. Her yellow teeth missed one in the middle.
“Good morning, Karring Katla,” Reike greeted her with a nod.
