The flute hidden in the folds of her cloak hummed softly.
Her stomach grumbled; the distance had been longer than she’d initially suspected. Curses. She should have brought a snack for herself, too. Alas, she was too far gone—she had to see them. Had to find out if a stone circle awaitedbeyond a field of thistledrift reed. A small, eager fire burned brighter with each traversed step, as did fear.
What would Trisha say if she really did find it here? Or do? That nightmare tortured her every night.
Come, Trisha. Not far now.
As if the memory made it happen, the road dipped low, the view opening. Her shoulders sank. No thistledrift reeds. Just a sandy shore, and further still, white stones in a careless circle, as if tossed by a negligent artist.
She berated herself. It was silly to think her past would wait a stone’s throw away from Moorhafen.
Still, this Opening, so unexpected, so near, offered a chance of familiarity. How she missed her past. The sea breeze bit through her clothes, making her shiver. That dream, before the ambush. She’d heard Rilka’s voice, then. Maybe she could call her and learn what had happened since her leaving?
Dapple’s hooves sank into the wet sand, the water rushing to meet his weary feet. The horse tossed his head, informing Trisha what he thought of this arrangement and smugly suggesting she’d reserved something better.
Trisha reined Dapple in. They halted before she slid off the saddle to a splat. Water licked the edges of her boots, heels sinking in the oozing sand. Trisha couldn’t look away from the boulders until she stood in the shadows of one. She lifted her hand, running it along the grooves smoothed by the wind, salt, and sun.
The touch of the stone roused her power.
Slowly, as though stretching after a long nap, warmth spread against her skin. The low hum grew to a drone. Underneath the weathered surface, the dormant stone thrummed back in response. A shudder went through the clearing, the charged air lifting errant strands of her wispy hair.
Why the circle remained here, she couldn’t tell. She’ddiscovered so many broken, only the echo of their song whispering in the ground.
Trisha dropped her hand and looked over her shoulder.
Did she dare open it so close to Moorhafen? She couldn’t decide which one she feared most—the frightful logic with which Blainor had nearly unraveled her past or the discerning intensity of his gaze alone. But as long as he didn’t know, it wouldn’t matter.
Right?
Play, magic whispered.
Startled, Trisha stared at the flute now in her hands, polished linden shining through her fingers. When had she taken the trusty instrument out? Perhaps it would be better not to go but stay and face whatever awaited back at Moorhafen.
The power she struggled to contain wouldn’t listen. It sensed the portal’s magic—and beyond it, the magic of her old home. The Undying Lands.
Another tug, more impatient. Trisha didn’t resist it this time. Shedidwish to see the twilight realm and breathe its homey aroma of magic. Hear the song of the distant constellations, the hum of the nameless gods.
A moment away with those she’d left behind. To talk with her oldest friend. Rilka.
Yet, even as she lifted the flute to her lips and played the first hesitant notes, her mind crept to last night. The sensation of Blainor’s warm breath, the touch of his fingers.
Stop it!
She blew a sharp whistle. The sound dropped and rose, and her magic shot out, folding into her visible notes. A short tune, but powerful. A doorway opened between the crashing sea under the sun and the eternal half-light.
The ripple of luminescence shimmered in the air. In frontof her, between the stones, a gateway leading to her past. But she didn’t step through with reckless abandon yet. Trisha put the flute to her chest. The waves sounded louder, a sprinkle of cold foam landing on her face. Did she dare?
Blainor be damned. Why he ever entered the conversation at all was nearly shameful. She was on this quest before him, and she’d be on it after.
A rich fragrance of too-fragrant flowers and honey enfolded Trisha when her feet touched the grounds of the Undying Lands. The twilight-drenched world welcomed her back with its temperate weather, gold-webbed songs in leaf and stream. The endless thrum of the land echoed in her bones like a magnet’s pull.
She exhaled the mild air, expecting the tension to depart. But the irritation and restlessness followed her, like the memory of Blainor’s cedar-infused man scent. Her nose wrinkled, mind racing. The Warlord would expect to see her in the Fir Hall this evening, so she had to be careful not to linger.
Oh, well. Too late to regret.She’d be quick. And it did lend her a certain confidence to know an Opening lay so close to Moorhafen. If ever she needed an escape, a way existed.
Abandoning the protective circle of golden sunlight, she strode into twilight. Remnants of her sunlit world remained: a few stranded forest flowers here and there, their petals swaying toward the lost sun.
As she settled down on the dew-point grass, she tapped her flute. “You’d better be happy. This is your domain, after all.” The flute remained silent at her taunt, but her magic spurled out, soaking itself in the shimmering air of the Undying Lands. “Obstinate, hungry beast,” she grumbled.
