As they trudged back to the castle, Trisha saw how much the world had bloomed. The leaves were greener, lusher than she remembered—grass taller, too. The air was rich with the sweet heather, and the bright-colored flowers sprouted among the stunted shrubbery. Dapple wagged his tail, driving away the horse flies as the pair crested the hillside. Behind them, the cliffs dropped to the sea, and before, the swell of the hills rose and fell, leading further inland. She was back with salt on her lips, her dress wrinkled and frayed, carrying a reborn lyre.
A flock of birds burst into the air, their dark forms converging in a maddening formation. They swarmed and changed shape in restless waves as the wind billowed around her. A sense of premonition made Trisha pull Dapple to a halt. The rolling landscape spread before her: the grass and heather rippling in the breeze. The boughs of the straight, ancient trees swayed. The moors unfurled, unchanged, peaceful, but something made her throat tighten. And then?—
Shapes. Riders. From the direction where the birds had taken to the sky. Their horses devoured the ground, the riders bent low. She had only a moment to wonder what to do before the decision was made for her. A sharp shout echoed; they’d noticed her already—there, silhouette framed against the sea, a lone woman and her horse in the middle of the meadows.
The riders veered toward her at a gallop. The hoofbeats grew louder with each moment. Startled, she gasped as their leader took a familiar form. Blainor.
On his bay stallion, riding Skarr as though spurred by devils, his dark cloak billowed behind him, his face fixed on his target. Her. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t slow, urginghis mount to go faster. Dark hair, face drawn. And all the time, his gaze remained locked on her.
Trisha’s heart pounded faster, her hand tightening on the reins, the other pressing the lyre against her chest. It wouldn’t shield her from his wrath.
He tore away from his men, his stallion lathered, white froth stringing from the bit. Hooves thundered rhythmically against the ground. They bore a new air about them—one of bandits. Of danger. For a split second, Trisha considered turning Dapple away and attempting to vanish into the moors. But no. She was done with running now.
Her fingers curled around the leather reins, the sunlit-warmed saddle rubbing against her bare calves. As Blainor approached, she told herself that she wasn’t nervous. It wasn’t her heart that beat in her chest like a frightened bird trying to escape its cage.
24
Skarr rearedbefore his hooves sank into the dry earth with a thud. The stallion snapped its teeth at Dapple, who merely sighed.
Blainor remained motionless. His face, still, knuckles jutting under the leather gloves. The wind blew harshly in the space between them, pulling at the dark strands of her hair and his cloak. Trisha resisted the impulse to fidget, her palm brushing the soft wool of her gown. Her mouth went dry as a memory flickered to life: the bonfire, the brief twilight, and his fingers pushing away this same fabric.
The other riders reached him, but he raised his right hand, elbow bent. They stopped, a group of silent men. Among them rode Kaiden and Fjorten, both open-mouthed and wide-eyed. She would have smiled, greeted them, but their faces blurred beneath Blainor’s presence.
At last, he broke the silence. “You’re back.” His narrowed gaze grazed her bare legs, the lyre clutched tightly against her chest. “Why now? And here? Don’t tell me the road didn’t love you enough?”
She opened her mouth—to explain or possibly argue—when Blainor’s eyes fixed on her head. “Or perhaps you were just running away again? You seem to collect adornments in your hair whenever you do that.”
A sense of understanding drained all color from her face. She touched the morrowflowers Rilka had woven into it and wanted to groan. “Blainor, I?—”
Again, he didn’t allow her to explain. “In Moorhafen,” he curtly said. “You’ll explain everything back there.” Without looking, he barked a command to the waiting shieldsmen. “She rides with me. We turn back now.”
For a moment, Trisha debated whether to refuse him. But she’d intended to find him. Arguing wouldn’t help her. She simply nodded.
Blainor waited for Dapple to move before guiding Skarr to fall into step with him. His men followed, their regard burning her back.
Keeping his stallion tightly reined, Blainor remained by her side. Even without speaking, he radiated fury. And those flowers. She wanted to curse. She should have remembered, but it was too late now. If he pressed her, it would be nearly impossible to deny where they’d come from or where she’d been.
The horses’ hoofbeats drummed against the earth. His dark cloak billowed, the details of his padded gambeson and its polished buckles glinting in the light. His sword hung at his belt, a quiver attached to his saddle. Turning, Trisha tossed a timid smile at Fjorten. The warrior’s expression didn’t change, but a glimmer of hurt shone in his eyes. He and Kaiden, too, were armed. Had they been hunting? Each step into the soil ground chipped away her certainty, the silence so heavy it made the air crack under its weight. Even the wordless bewilderment of Blainor’s men felt more welcoming than his.
Anxiety and frustration wound her stomach in a tight knotthat refused to loosen despite her fingers tracing the shape of her lyre, the touch of its eighth string. Did he think she’d taken a leisurely stroll under the sun? That she’d enjoyed her time in the Undying Lands? When he asked—and she knew he would—her carelessness would cost her. There was nothing she could say without compromising that other world. So, she stared at her hands, thoughts churning.
It was almost a relief when Moorhafen’s walls rose in the distance. Up the road, past the outer wall, through the portcullis, they rode, Blainor keeping pace with her, his men guarding at the flanks.
Maids and footmen hurried across the courtyard, chickens clucked, as the sentries stood on guard. She was glad to hear the everyday sounds of this mortal realm’s life again—but that joy was quickly robbed. Everyone seemed to pause at the first sight of Trisha, shooting her long, curious looks.
“Coming?” Blainor had dismounted and now stood beside Dapple.
She nodded, but before she could slide off the saddle, his hands gripped her waist, guiding her gently down. Blainor’s fingers pressed into her stomach, and the world dizzied for just a moment. Trisha’s feet landed on the ground. His hold tightened—just a fraction—before he let go and stepped back.
“No need to delay the inevitable,” Blainor said, voice stern. “Come with me, Trisha.”
With her chin lifted, she stepped toward the looming main doors of Moorhafen. Gravel crunched behind her, and Trisha’s nape prickled, the tension making her pulse race.
Inside, the entrance hall looked the same: the purpure banner, the dark lanterns and torches affixed to the walls, the tapestries covering the granite. Trisha shivered in its shadows, a faint whisper of mildew and smoke wafting into her nose.She stopped, unsure where to go: the Assembly Hall on the ground level? Fir Hall?
Blainor took her by the elbow—not painfully, but firm enough. “This way,” he muttered, steering her up the main stairs, to the right, toward the winding staircase. His personal shields followed silently, their steps echoing in the circular space as they ascended.
The crossbar of her lyre poking into her chest, she glanced at the broad-shouldered man beside her, trying to parse his mood and read his thoughts. Her magic coiled outward, almost hesitant. All it met was that thick barrier. Soon, they reached an arched landing, the walls covered with tapestries, two men guarding a heavy door. Blainor strode forward, pulling her with him, as though she might vanish if he were to let go.
