“Byne,” he said. “As you can see, I brought you your man. Unharmed. Mostly.”
“Thank you, Warlord,” Byne said, descending the steps, face softening.
While Blainor exchanged words with the others awaiting, Trisha observed the meeting between Fjorten and his wife. Unlike the careful way Byne carried herself, restraint didn’t apply to the soldier. He cut the distance with a few strides, grasping his wife in his wide arms and hoisting her with ease. “Feather, oh, how I missed you.”
The wind stole Byne’s words. Her husband laughed before kissing her. The faintest hint of a smile eased her expression. Grinning, Fjorten shook his head and raised his voice. “Come here, youmutts!”
The three boys waiting on the platform rushed down, throwing themselves at their father.
Trisha swallowed as he ruffled the beachy hair of the eldest—a boy teetering on the border of adulthood—and lifted the youngest into his arms. A sharp pain scratched at the insides of her neck, a never-healed scab of her past threatening to trickle blood. The aching disturbed her magic, making it surge. Despite the discomfort of leashing it, she forced it down, spinning around quickly, telling herself it was to give Fjorten and Byne their privacy.
A few feet away, Blainor, having finished his obligatory greetings, turned to watch his cousin, surrounded by his family—Fjorten’s boys talking animatedly over each other, their father laughing, and Byne radiating quiet contentment by his side. A shadow of grief wavered across his face, jaw tensing before he averted his gaze.
Surprise dulled the sharp edge of Trisha’s pain. Blainor’s expression had been fleeting, almost too quick to catch, but she knew what she’d seen.
Slow paced, she moved closer to him as Blainor gestured for her to approach.
“This is Bard Trisha an Tilia. She’s come as my bard.” Whatever he had felt, he’d buried inside aloof detachment.
Senneth’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, my lord.” His bow was shallow. “Welcome to Moorhafen, Bard an Tilia. It’s been too long since anyone held your position. I look forward to hearing you play.”
Trisha squeezed her lyre’s case. Senneth’s words evoked old uncertainties. If this role mattered more to his people than the Warlord had indicated, why had Blainor asked her? He knew she wasn’t planning to stay.
“Thank you, sir,” she said.
Blainor flicked his wrist. “Assign someone to fetch her a room. Inform the staff accordingly.”
The seneschal blinked, leaning back. “Of course.” Hepursed his thin mouth. “Am I correct to have the staff prepare something permanent for Bard an Tilia, my lord?”
“Bard an Tilia has a keen interest in snow and ice, so through winter at least.” He smirked at her. “If not longer.”
Senneth bowed. “Yes, my lord. I’ll talk with the housemistress and assign her a maid.”
The older man retreated, leaving Blainor and Trisha alone. She turned toward Blainor, barely able to keep her voice even. “Longer? You make a lot of assumptions.”
“Have I not persuaded you sufficiently, Starling?” he murmured, glancing up toward the keep’s highest spire. “If you plan on witnessing our winters, you might as well stay through one.”
She crossed her arms. “I expect to be asked, not ordered.”
“Have I given you the impression that I’m a man prone to asking?”
“You’re twisting our agreements to your liking. I thought I was free to leave at will.”
“Telling my staff to expect you to stay longer hardly qualifies as restraining you,” Blainor said. “I thought I told you already; you’ll know when I’ve abducted you.” His smile deepened until his mood became formal, quick as mercury. “Once everything is settled, there will be dinner. Someone will inform you.”
A breath of nothingness allowed her a moment to gather her composure. The warmth on her cheeks receding, she said, “I take it that’s my cue to practice a few of those ballads of forbidden love, my lord?”
He raised a brow. “Forbidden?Tsk, tsk. Such a loaded word.” He paused, voice dropping. “You know what such restrictions make a man think?”
She let out a snort. “I have no doubt you shall educate me, whether I wish it or not.”
“Trisha an Tilia.” Blainor rolled her name over his tongue in a way only he seemed to be able to. “I think you enjoy sparring with me far more than you allow yourself to show.”
Suddenly, Trisha felt as though he was standing too close. A crisp aroma of evergreen flooded her nose. His eyes seemed to see too much.
“But I’m still deciding whether you do it out of curiosity or because you cannot stop yourself.”
She retreated a step, needing more air. His musk fogged her mind. “While you decide on that, my lord, I will beg my leave.”
