A seagull’s shriek sliced through the silence.
“Truth?Fine,” he sneered. “Then let’s start with yours, Trisha. That thing you do with your music—what is it, really? Magic, I know. Strong enough to compel minds, steal people of their senses, create illusions I can touch. I know it’s not human, Trisha.”
Her stomach lurched.
Blainor’s gaze locked on her, razor-sharp, hungry for any falter. And curse her for not having an answer. “As I thought,” he scoffed. “Or are you going to tell me it’s the road that taught you? Don’t insult me. I’ve ridden that road, and I know all its lessons.”
“Oh, yes, your road!” Trisha shouted. “I know all about the trail of blood and death you leave. Why would I give my past to the man whose name is so feared no one dares to speak it out loud?”
“Your past, Trisha… What an interesting concept,” Blainor said in a silky voice full of poison. “Seven years, you’ve walked the road. But what about before? Didn’t the road exist then?”
Terror froze her. She stood before him, dress undone, skin exposed, but what scared her most was how he stripped her bare with his words alone.
“Struck a nerve, did I, Trisha?”
A flare of anger burned away her fear of upsetting the Warlord. “You’re so wrong, Blainor. You think I’d fling myself to you? Everything you’ve said proves me right. You don’t want just my body; you want to own me. And for what?” A sharp inhale, and Blainor pulled back as though struck. She didn’t stop. “I belong to no one. Between you and the road, it’s not even a choice. I take the road. Every. Time.”
His jaw taut, Blainor leaned in. The flames were dead, the song muted. Behind him, the sea churned, dark and broken. “Go ahead, then. Ride your road. Just remember—it’s a cold bed.”
His words cut deep, but she’d be damned if she gave him yet another weapon to hurt her.
“At least I decide who to share it with.”
Not waiting for a response, Trisha spun around. She left Blainor, the beach, and the bonfire with its blackened skeletons. The shadows flickered, voices splintering through, as though she’d passed an invisible threshold.
Trisha didn’t stop to think or wonder. Didn’t pay attention to the celebration they’d abandoned. Fury drove her over the hills, past the crossing to Havbrun, up the road. The twilight was a pale comparison to her past, not really here, the sun not truly gone. Already, it dawned beyond the eastern hills, cresting over green grass and blooming flowers. She both feared and hoped to hear steps behind her. But Blainor—curse that man—didn’t run after her. Didn’t deem her worthy.
He didn’t care.
Stifling a sob, she wiped a tear from her cheek. Blainor didn’t deserve her upset. Didn’t deserve anything from her. Not after slicing his cruel words into her soul. How naive she’d been to think he could offer her something real. Help.
“Never again,” she swore, tugging her sleeves up to her shoulders. Strands of hair clung to her face, the rest flowing down to her waist—tangled, unraveled, twisting with the cords of her half-open vest. If someone saw her now, they’d know exactly what she’d done. Come to think of it, she had passed people but didn’t know if anyone had noticed her.
The walk up to Moorhafen didn’t calm her, nor did the lifeless granite surrounding her. It stood silent, hard and cold, just like Blainor’s face.
The air in her room felt heavy. From the window, the moors stretched to the horizon. Blush crept over the fields, mingling with the hush of the night. Everything reminded her of Blainor—his touch, his mouth. Her skin smelled of him; that teasing scent of cedar had seeped into her every pore. Even the faint hint of flowers carried a whiff of him. With a scream, she tore the dead flowers from her hair. One by one, they fell to the floor until a pile of white roses rested in heaps. She lifted her boot, crushing the petals beneath her heel. If only she could smother her memories, make them disappear.
No!
Trisha didn’t know if she’d said the word aloud or if it had been only in her head. She needed space. Independence. Freedom from the stone, from him, from the fear of facing him.
Without waiting, questioning, or asking herself what she was doing, Trisha’s sight landed on her lyre—sweeping it into her arms before leaving. She didn’t bother closing the door.
The air in the abandoned hallways was cold and musty. Silent, she moved through the rooms like a ghost,floorboards creaking under her feet. She ran down the stairs, through the vestibule, and under the purpure Dewingar banner. Out the door and across the yard into the stables.
The birds chirped. A rooster crowed. She hastened her steps, not wanting to encounter anyone who might witness her state.
They’d say,There goes the Warlord’s Bard. Did you see how she looked?
A sob escaped Trisha when her eyes met Dapple. Her horse and friend. She could always rely on him. Before Trisha knew it, she was up in the saddle, Dapple snorting with resignation. Though he didn’t resist as she guided him toward the portcullis and the road.
Her skirt bunched awkwardly. Cursing in a low voice, Trisha gathered it up to her knees. Dapple’s hooves struck against the sand, her lyre resting on her lap. She exhaled, telling herself it would be fine. She had what she needed.
The road. Dapple. Her lyre.
And yet—she turned in the saddle. The gray granite and moss-covered walls waited, the banners flapping. Had Blainor returned? Or was he still there by the beach, a ghost she’d left but who refused to leave her?
She squeezed her eyes shut, banishing the image of his face, the stricken expression, the pain in his eyes. Angrily, she wiped the stream of tears away, but the scent of cedar clung to her skin. Her sight grew blurry, but Dapple’s stride remained steady. He knew what she needed.
