“Trisha.” The name, said like an endearment, silenced her.
Blainor lifted his hand, tilting up her face, a soft touch of his thumb grazing her jaw. “Lie to yourself, if you must.” A sliver of darkness eclipsed the fog of his eyes. “Just don’t expect me to believe.”
Quickly, she pulled back, but his touch burned like a brand. “So, my music invoked an image of a tree. Hardly something of interest.” Trisha shrugged, but her heart pounded too fast. Surely he could even see the ripples on her clothes.
“Oh, I find it very interesting.” Blainor raised a finger. “This many bards can do the same as you.”
“Is that why I’m here? Some southern keepsake flaunted off to your people?” She brushed away the wayward strands of hair the wind kept pushing into her face. “You don’t own me, Warlord. No one does. I follow the road.”
“And the road brought you to me. Let me lay out a reminder—I didn’t force you to follow me.”
“I never had a true chance to decline,” she accused. “You knew what would happen when you asked me to join on the road north.”
“And have I mistreated you along the way somehow, Trisha?”
“That’s beside the point. You’ve maneuvered my every step since our meeting. When have I done something of my own volition? Why should I trust you now?”
A soft trill as a sparrow swept overhead.
“Maybe you shouldn’t,” he said. “But I haven’t misled you in that I want you alone to play within the walls of my home.”
“But will that be enough?” The words escaped before she caught them. The wind rose. Beneath it, the faint rumble of the nearby waves echoed.
“Such a peculiar question,” Blainor mused, edging closer.
His gaze traced her face, sharp and intent, as though reading her thoughts before they even took form. It left her shivering—from enthrallment or fear, she couldn’t tell. She needed more distance, and still, somehow, he stood too far.
“My music,” she clarified, but her voice sounded breathless. “Will it suffice?”
A small smile lifted the corner of his mouth. “Your music? Yes, it enchants. Moves the heart. Reaches the deepest trenches of a person’s soul. But for it to be enough…”
She couldn’t move, rooted in her place. The sunlight caught in his eyes, and the notes of cedar and evergreens grew stronger. Achingly slow, his hand lifted to tug a strand of hair off her face behind her ear. Sliding down her cheek, it left a trail of tingling heat.
Blainor smiled. “How could it ever be enough?”
Words abandoned her. His touch lingered, the ghost of his finger skimming across her skin. A sudden ache as magic flared. With her heart hammering like it wanted out, Trisha stumbled back. Her heels scraped against the low, rough stone barrier. The drop below was too deep; he stood too near. Quickly, she banished the memory of his comfort, the way darkness pooled in his eyes. She couldn’t afford to lose herself in them.
“What will satisfy you, then, Warlord? You told me you needed a bard. That’s why I agreed to come, and that’s all I’m offering.” She refused to acknowledge how her neck perspired, icy cool when the wind blew.
“Can you fault me for wanting to understand what you’re capable of?” Blainor’s tone gained a harder edge. “I’m the master of these lands, responsible for my people’s safety. We both know your music’s notjustmusic, and your grip is slipping.” He leaned closer. “Or what would you say of today’s performance, Trisha? Seems you were lost in your own vision.”
“I didn’t realize becoming your bard meant interrogation,” she hissed. “I’m starting to wonder why I agreed to follow you at all.”
“Why did you?” He was quick to ask. “You’ve made it clear that permanence isn’t for you. Every time I suggest you stay, you resist. And yet you came to my court. You said yes.”
“You invited me, yourself, my lord,” she reminded him through her gnashing teeth. “Offered your protection.”
“Do you take me for a fool? Since I don’t like to be played as one.”
“You understood exactly what my music does already at that roadside inn—from the start. You set me to claim my title as your bard. That doesn’t make you my confidant.”
Blainor raised a brow. “Should I be glad you’ve not enthralled my soldiers to abduct you?”
“I don’t know, my lord. Should I worry for your people wanting to abduct your bard?”
“If you want advice, Trisha, never play your song from Graystein.” The way he said that, flat and void of anger, chilled her to the bone.
Retreating to the other side, Blainor placed his hand on the crenellations. Curls at his nape dangled at his collar as the man’s face shifted toward the slowly darkening sky, where a few speckled lights winked.
