And that dark hollow in the tree’s trunk, waiting. A pang of sorrow went through her. She’d slept in it as a child.
The song continued, pulling Trisha deeper into its folds.
The realization was mild, distant, like watching the world from beneath water. She was drowning, sinking deeper with every strike of her lyre. The audience ceased to exist. Their surprised murmurs, their shapes circling the linden tree. Only her music remained, the images it evoked: fragments of sky, streaking twilight, distant constellations spun into melody.
The candles fizzed, and the unfelt breeze rustled the leaves of an ancient tree. Beyond the smoke, glimpses of a dark forest, the glow of pulsing fae lights, and indistinct shapes from her childhood. A movement of shadowy wings, charcoal skin dusted with starlight, and a shrill of innocent laughter like glass bells ringing, ringing. Grief and yearning both stabbed at her, a reminder of the things she’d left behind. What she had been.
Through the visions of an ancient tree and forest, Blainor’s eyes pierced the haze of her song. His expression was of a man who couldn’t believe what he saw, yet hungered for more.
The song reached its crescendo at a piercing, nostalgic chord. Trisha’s breath quivered. The thought brought animage: a field of reeds, stone circles in the distance, and Trisha’s mother’s skirt flapping as she dragged her onward.
It struck through the magic’s pull, shattering the spell she’d unwittingly cast on herself. The smoky air, laced with smells of scorched fish and meat, itched at her nostrils as the world rushed in to remind her she’d never left. Trisha’s finger faltered, music fading. The fragrance of linden flowers waned. She almost dropped her lyre, strength fleeing her.
So much. How brightly her magic had burned. How close she’d come to tearing apart the veil separating her two homes.
Muffled protests, people spinning around in haste. The stone floor was unbroken, the fae forest and linden tree gone. On the raised table, the Warlord and his close circle remained unmoved. Fjorten, face in a puzzled crunch, gave Trisha a suspicious but worried glance. Next to him, Kaiden stared into his cup as though blaming its content, while Gend, half-standing, looked around with his mouth ajar.
Then the people froze as they all confirmed their suspicions with one another. A hush descended, a shuffle of soles, as the people gazed at their Warlord for guidance on how they should react. Blainor sat like a too-tightly wounded spring. Slowly, his shoulders slackened, tension melting away. He leaned back and arched a brow.
A heartbeat of hesitation before Trisha’s jaw tightened. Like a pool of sunlight, warmth gathered in her chest. She had to think quickly. Trisha ran her fingers over the strings, the lyre pliant under her touch. At her command, it sang out a pealing sound, and a wave of honeysuckle washed across the hall.
Movement returned, expressions brightened, and lighter conversations resumed. That young man in bright colors lifted his hand, still holding the twig. Frowning, he dropped it. He turned, crushing it under his feet.
She’d fixed it, but nothing was resolved.
Trisha’s heart was still drumming against her rib cage. No matter that she’d countered her stumble, she’d been caught. A heavy weight settled in her stomach as she met a pair of gray eyes across the hall. Dipping his chin, Blainor raised a goblet.
Trisha yanked her gaze away. She dared not look up again. The mellow chime of her lyre reflected off the stone walls as she continued, but she couldn’t ignore it. Blainor had seen everything. The realization burned her throat.
This warlord had witnessed her tearing open that old wound. Trisha had left, but still, the scent of the linden tree ached in her bones. Seven years. Her regret should have dulled by now.
No.She bit her teeth and banished the thought. Blainor be damned. He didn’t own her. She wouldn’t give him the right to twist the guilt inside her like a knife.
Defiance hardening her expression, she continued as though nothing had happened. Filling the Fir Hall with music, she welcomed the simmer of her righteous anger, pouring her frustration into her songs. Righteous,deservedanger. No soothing ballads, no marches. With her jaw set, she plucked brisk jigs, southern dances, and even a few eastern troikas. Their cheerfulness stoked her resistance, and she drew the last note, ready to face whatever awaited.
A gesture from Blainor beckoned her to join him and others by the high table, and she soon approached.
“Good playing, southerner.” Kaiden shot her a grin, making her space. “Although I’m disappointed you didn’t play that promised march.”
Trisha cleared her throat. “Decided we’d had enough blood and sharp weapons for one day.” She accepted a drink from a servant, painfully aware of the presence of the knowingWarlord’s broad shoulders only a man’s width away. “Might be I’m just not northerner enough.”
“Not yet, you mean,” Blainor corrected, tapping the table.
Lifting the drink to her lips, Trisha pretended not to hear.
Kaiden’s wife, Marleen, smiled. “You’ll meet the rest of the Dewingar clan in the coming days. You’ve already seen Master Arlund and his daughter.” She nodded toward a lower table where the elder man and that dark-haired beauty were seated tonight.
Kaiden snorted. “Sarie? She’s a snake. Ambitious one.”
Marleen chuckled, exchanging knowing glances with Byne. “She and her father both. They won’t appreciate the news once it’s confirmed.”
Trisha’s head tilted. She opened her mouth to ask when the air shifted, and Blainor interrupted her before she got a word out. “Come with me, Trisha. We have matters to discuss.”
Her heart stuttered.
“Or should I… persuade you?”
“I’m doubtful we have anything to talk about, my lord,” she said firmly, turning back to Kaiden and Marleen. “Marleen, do you?—”
