An unwanted shiver went through her. It infuriated the woman, but she couldn’t pull back, couldn’t look away. The moment sharpened, narrowing to him—the way he agitated her magic so easily. For one breathless, careless moment, she almost gave in. Drawn by the heat, her magic, the promise in his voice.
The wind faded as though even the world had waited. Held its breath.
Unexpectedly, a sound broke through the silence. A mournful, haunting warble that crescendoed first high, tugging at Trisha’s heart, then plunging to depths of despair with its fall. It pierced her, that same song heard for the first time in Graystein. The moorscry. Its pain and sorrow shattered the moment, cutting through like a hot blade. Trisha hastily scrambled away, legs caught in the hems of her dress.
So stupid. She knew better than to indulge in this unwanted heat. Somehow, he made her forget her resolve and abandon all sense.
Filling her lungs with the chilled night, the distant flowers, heather, and sea, she summoned her strength and faced him as though she hadn’t almost thrown herself at him a moment ago.
“Have I entertained you enough now, my lord? Or do you want me to bleed out some more?”
“Entertained?” A quiet smile wove through his voice. The pause wrung her nerves, as though he were the sole man holding a key to unlocking her past. When he spoke, the answer to his own question carried just as much promise as it did resolve. “Not nearly enough.”
13
Dapple’s hoovesthumped against the ground as Trisha drove him down the path. The guards at the gates had given her a long look, but she’d pretended not to notice. She didn’t need a nursemaid. She could take care of herself even without her lyre’s promise.
The reins rubbed the skin of her palms. Memory of Blainor’s darkened eyes, the warmth of his fingers, flooded her. The magic pulsed through her veins, an itch she couldn’t deny.
You want him.
Trisha shoved it back down, refusing to listen to its dangerous words. “I do not.”
Dapple’s ears waggled toward Trisha, his thoughts colliding with hers.
“Don’t mind me, my sweet boy.” She shook her head, urging him onward.
Bent and blurred shapes moved in the fields, sparrows diving to catch their meal. Magic stirred again, petulant, just like her instrument. What an impossible situation, either please Blainor or magic—answers or music.
Trisha patted the small wooden flute she’d tucked in her cloak’s pocket, its angled shape knocking against her chest. Her first instrument. It had now been over a month since she’d last played it. She almost forgot it was on the journey with her at all. Maybe this humble flute would help her regain her senses today, the sound of her older self settling her nerves. She needed them by the evening to drive away the damned memory of Blainor’s touch.
Another reason she didn’t wish Reike to follow. She wanted to visit the town and ask around for stone circles.
Trisha’s shoulders sank. Oh, what she’d pay to talk with a friend. She shook her head. Perhaps not. Those who knew her wouldn’t have compassion. Her past burdened her more than she’d guessed.
Moorhafen’s ancient stone watched her go, immovable and permanent. The castle’s high towers scraped against the sky, purple and black banners bearing the Dewingar crest flapping in the wind. Was Blainor in that meeting with Gend, discussing the frosted pastures and the impact of Everfrost?
With a groan, Trisha turned back to the road. No. She wasn’t interested. Not in his conversation with Gend, not in his secrets, and most definitely not in whether he, too, was thinking about her at this very moment.
A swarm of bees and flies buzzed over blooming fields, pebbles scuttling beneath Dapple’s hooves. Her mind ran through ideas on how to approach the townspeople. She should try an inn or tavern first. There must be someone here to point her in the right direction, a song to lead her path.
At the fork in the road, she pulled Dapple’s to a halt. Havbrun’s outlines carved against the sky, strings of smoke coiling. She’d need to be subtle. Whatever she’d say, she was sure Blainor would somehow learn of her questions among the people. The thought sent her mad.
To calm the nerves, Trisha took a big gulp of air. A breeze from the sea replaced hay and wildflowers with salt and swell. Trisha sat straighter.It couldn’t be…
Beneath the wet scent sat a tingle of something familiar and inexorable. Her fingers tightened on the reins. Havbrun waited, as did her queries. But this feeling. She knew it. Hope—so faint she didn’t even dare acknowledge it—lit inside her. Before the doubt ate her courage, before the fear snuffed out her resolve, she guided Dapple to the right, toward the western slopes, the sea breeze, and the water beyond.
“Come on, Dapple. We’ll go further north.” She clicked her tongue. “There’s something waiting for us.”
A snack?He questioned with hesitant eagerness.
Trisha chuckled. “If I’m right, sweet flowers and dark grass.”And answers, perhaps.
He twitched his ears in excitement, telling her that flowers would be acceptable. For now.
The leaves hushed in the wind, the sharp edge of the road dropping down to where white-crested waves hit, the moors spreading on her right. Lush greenery around Trisha reminded her of the linden tree she’d called forth last night. Realizing the gravity of the situation, Trisha’s heart raced.
Could this be it? The answer she’d been looking for, so near. She dared not hope, and yet, Trisha couldn’t banish the trembling of her hands. So, she rode north, knowing what awaited there—a stone circle, unassuming and arbitrary, meaningless to anyone but her.
