Frae was dreaming of chocolate cake and snow when she heard the hooves in the garden. A horse was stomping through the vegetables, its noble neck arched, its nostrils flaring with breath like clouds. At first, Frae thought the horse was part of her dream—she had always longed for one, despite Mirin insisting the chickens and the three cows were more than enough animals for them—until she startled awake.
She opened her eyes to the darkness and listened. She could hear Mirin’s soft, deep breaths beside her, but there … just beyond the bolted shutters, to her left. A horse whickered.
She sat forward, the blanket tumbling away from her shoulders. Without a sound, she stood and walked all the way to the bedroom door. She unlatched it very quietly and slipped into the common chamber, where the hearth embers still glowed and Mirin’s loom sat in the corner like a dark, slumbering beast. She made to go to Jack’s door but then paused, thinking she had better check and make sure a horse was truly in the yard before she woke her brother.
Frae crept to the back door. There was a small iron grill with a sliding panel built in the upper wood—a peeping window—which was a little too high for Frae’s line of vision, but if she raised up on her toes, she would be able to see out of it. She held her breath, her hands suddenly clammy as she worked to unlock the narrow panel, sliding it back until she could taste fresh air and see the constellations glittering like crystals in the sky.
She raised up on the balls of her feet and peered through the narrow opening.
She saw the horse instantly. It stood only a stone’s throw away, grazing in the garden. It was huge and beautiful, tacked with saddle and bridle, the silver buckles winking in the starlight.
Then it must have a rider, she thought, her eyes sweeping the garden.
He could have been a statue standing in the herbs, etched in moonlight. He stood facing the house, staring in Frae’s direction.
She dropped down, heart beating wildly in her chest, but then realized he probably couldn’t see her, not through the dark shadows that draped the backside of the cottage.
She dared to peep again.
She couldn’t fully make out the features of his face, but she saw the woad tattoos that marked his forearms and the backs of his hands. She saw the plaid that was draped across his chest and knew it would be blue in color. A sword was sheathed at his belt.
Frae panicked and slid the panel. It shut with a click, a quiet sound but in that midnight moment it was horribly loud to her and she cowered, slowly backing away from the door.
What was the first rule? The first was to be silent. Don’t make a noise if they come.
She darted to Jack’s room, throwing his door open.
“Jack!” she cried, but her voice had withered. It came out nothing more than a rasp and Frae hurried to his bedside. “Jack, wake up!”
“Mm?” He rolled over. “Where should we sing?”
Frae blinked, realized he was sleep-talking. She shook his shoulder, adamant.
“Jack!”
He sat forward, reached out to trace her face in the dark. His voice was thick but lucid as he said her name. “Frae?”
“There’s a Breccan in our backyard,” she whispered.
Her brother nearly knocked her over as he lurched out of bed. He strode into the common room, Frae right behind him, twisting her hands together as Jack stood at the back door and opened the sliding panel.
She waited, holding her breath. The moonlight doused Jack’s face in silver as he studied the yard. It felt like an eternity had passed before he looked at Frae and whispered, “I don’t see anyone. Where was he?”
“He was right there standing in the herbs! He was looking at the house. His horse was eating our vegetables.” She hurried to his side and peered through the grate.
Jack spoke truth. The Breccan and his horse were gone.
Both relieved and disappointed, Frae slumped against the door, wondering if she had imagined it.
“Was there just one of them, Frae?”
She let out a quivering breath. “I … yes. I think so.”
“Where does Mum keep the sword?”
“In her bedroom, in the oaken chest.”
“Will you get it for me?”
Frae nodded and retreated back to the bedroom, feeling her way to the chest in the corner. Mirin still slumbered, and Frae sorted through the weapons gathered within the chest—a quiver of arrows, a bow made of yew wood, and the broadsword in its leather scabbard. Though it was dusty and dull from disuse, Frae secretly hoped Mirin would give the blade to her one day.
When Frae returned to the common room, sword in hand, she saw that Jack had opened the back door and was standing on the threshold, staring boldly into the yard.
“What are you doing?” she hissed at him. “The second rule is to stay inside, lock the doors, and wait for the East Guard to come!”
“Thank you, sister,” Jack said, taking the sword from her. “I’m going to look through the yard, just to make sure no one is here. Go wake Mum and stay with her, do you hear me, Frae?”
His voice was stern, and Frae nodded, wide eyed.
She listened as Jack unsheathed the sword; she could see the blade drink the moonlight, and the moment her brother stepped into the yard, she panicked again.
“Jack! Please stay inside,” she begged, even though she felt a strong urge to follow him.
Jack only spun on his heel in the dirt, lifting a forefinger to his lips.
The first rule. Don’t make a sound.
Frae swallowed the knot in her throat and watched as Jack silently stepped through the garden, searching. She strained her eyes in the dark as she watched him, anxious until she heard Mirin’s soothing voice speak behind her.
“It’ll be all right, Frae.”
She jumped and turned to see her mother directly behind her, her eyes wide as she, too, watched Jack move through the garden.
“I saw a horse and a man in the yard,” Frae whispered, and Mirin’s gaze flickered down to hers. “He was a Breccan.”
“Just now?”
“A few moments ago, Mum.”
Mirin stepped closer and laid her hands on Frae’s shoulders, and it made Frae feel safer. They both continued to watch Jack walk the perimeter of the yard and Frae finally noticed it—the gate was sitting open, groaning in the sudden gust of wind. That was one of her final chores of the day—to ensure all of the gates were closed.
“The gate!” she cried just as Jack approached it. “Mum, the gate’s open!”
“I see it too, Frae.”
“Jack will close it, won’t he?” Frae said, but then to her horror, her brother stepped through it, and she realized he was about to walk down the hill, out of sight. “Jack! Jack! Come back!”
She was screaming and didn’t even know that she was until Mirin knelt and framed Frae’s face in her cold hands.
“We must be quiet, Frae. Remember the rules? Jack will be fine. All of us will be fine. We are safe here, but you must be quiet.”
Frae nodded, but her breaths were rapid again, and she felt light-headed.
“Come, let’s make a cup of tea and rouse the fire while we wait for your brother.” Mirin shut the back door, but she didn’t lock it, and Frae felt torn as she followed her mother to the hearth.
Mirin threw a log on the coals and stirred a tired flame to life. Frae struggled to put the tea leaves in the strainer and carry the kettle to the hearth. The water was just beginning to boil when Jack returned, bounding in through the back door, his hair tangled, his face flushed. There was a wild, angry gleam in his eyes.
“Jack?” Mirin prompted.
“I counted ten of them,” he said, grabbing his boots. He stood on one foot and struggled to knot the tethers up to his knees. “They’re riding along the valley floor by the river, following the tree line to the north. To the Elliotts’ croft, I believe.”
“Are they going to come here, Jack?” Frae asked, tremulous.
“No, Frae. They’ve passed us by. We’re safe.”
But there had been that one Breccan and his horse, Frae thought with a perplexed frown. What had he been doing? She was certain she hadn’t imagined him.
“And where are you going, Jack?” Mirin asked in a measured tone. As if she felt nothing—no fear, no relief, no worry.
Jack finished knotting his boot tethers. He met Mirin’s gaze from the other side of the room. “I’m going to the Elliotts’.”
“That’s six kilometers from here, son.”
“Well, I’ll not sit here and do nothing. I’ll run there. Perhaps the land will aid me tonight.” He glanced down to the sword in his hand. “Do you have another sword, Mum?”
“No. A bow and a quiver.”
“May I use them?”
Mirin was silent, but then she looked at Frae. “Go and get the bow and quiver for your brother, Frae.”
Frae scampered into the bedroom for the second time that night, her fingers like ice as she found the weapons. When she returned, she saw her mother had knotted a plaid across Jack’s chest, to guard his heart and his lungs. It was enchanted. Mirin had woven it for him years ago, and he didn’t look thrilled to be wearing it until Mirin took a firm hold of his chin—Frae knew that meant she was very angry—and stared at Jack, saying, “You wear the plaid and go, or you don’t and stay here with us, Jack. Which will it be?”
He decided to wear the plaid, as Frae knew he would. She didn’t understand why he hated the enchantment so much, and she brought him the quiver and the bow, her heart hammering fiercely in her chest.
Jack smiled at her, as if it was a peaceful night. It calmed her as he buckled the quiver to his shoulder. He set the sword in her hands. “I’ll return soon.”
And then he was gone. Frae stood by the fire, numb at first until her fear returned, swelling like a wasp sting. The hilt of the sword was warm and heavy in her grip. She stared at it as if she had never seen a sword before.
“Remember the third rule, Frae?” Mirin said as she poured them a cup of tea.
Frae remembered. The rules brought her back to life, and she walked into her bedchamber yet again and found her own plaid, folded on the bench.
Frae returned to the fire and stood before her mother as Mirin wrapped the plaid around her thin body, knotting it firmly at Frae’s shoulder.
“There,” said Mirin. “That’s how the guards wear their plaids too.”
Frae tried to smile, but her eyes burned with tears. She wished Jack had stayed in the house.
She propped the weapon on the tea table and curled up beside her mother on the divan, determined to stay awake, listening to every sound—the howl of the wind, the occasional rattle of the shutters, the creaks of the cottage, the pop of the fire. Sounds that made her stiffen, until she set her head on Mirin’s lap and her mother caressed her hair, humming a happy song. A song Frae had not heard in a long time.
She drifted to sleep, but the stranger with his blue tattoos and his great horse followed her into her dreams.
Torin was standing on the hill between his croft and his father’s, desperate for an answer as to where his daughter had been taken. He always began in the place where Sidra had stabbed the culprit, following her descent down the hill until anger burned in his marrow. Sidra had lain here, unconscious for only the spirits knew how long. Whoever this man was, Torin was going to find and kill him. As he crouched in the crushed heather, he thought about how he would slowly end this person’s life. The sky above him teemed with stars and a waxing moon, and he let out a frustrated sigh when suddenly his left hand began to ache, as if he had plunged it into ice water. The throbbing quickly intensified, stealing his breath.
Torin waited for the pain to either subside or expand, counting the pulses. Five trespassers. He closed his eyes, seeing the place where the Breccans had crossed. The Elliotts’ croft.
He wanted to be surprised that the Breccans were raiding in summer, the day after the successful trade. But Torin could only chide himself.
He should have expected this.
He turned and ran back to the cottage, which was dark. Sidra was staying with Graeme at night, to Torin’s immense relief. He didn’t want her to be alone, and he couldn’t afford to sleep. Only a span of an hour here and there when his exhaustion was debilitating. But he had learned how to push his body, to find an unexpected thread of strength even when he felt like he had reached the end of himself.
He tapped into that source as he approached his stallion in the byre. Torin tacked and mounted him, then set off at a gallop along the western road, his teeth cutting the wind. When the road curved back to the east, Torin departed from it and rode across the hills, heading directly for the Elliotts’.
The raid might be over by the time he reached the farm, he thought with irritation. He hadn’t doubled the watchmen at the clan line yet; traditionally, he waited to do so until after the autumnal equinox, when the weather began to turn cold. This attack was very unexpected, and Torin felt scattered and unprepared. His eyes watered as the wind bit his face and clawed his hair.
A new season of peace, Adaira had said with such hope that Torin had wanted to believe her.
But now all he could envision was how foolish he had been to let her put herself in a vulnerable situation, meeting with the Breccan on the northern shore. To let her give up their food and drink. To expose their knowledge of the Orenna flower.
His cousin’s voice came again, a whisper in his mind. What are you afraid of, Torin? Give this fear a name, so I can put your mind at ease.
A sound slipped from him. His stomach had ached for days now, ever since he had opened his father’s door and beheld Sidra, battered and devastated. When he had realized Maisie had been taken.
I’m afraid of losing everything I love. The east, his purpose. The people woven into his life.
He had been too proud to say it to Adaira, but he confessed it now as he flew across the hills. He didn’t want to think about the ones he had lost, but they rose like specters. His mother, whom he vaguely remembered, whose voice had been gentle but sad. He had been so young when she abandoned him. Donella, once a vibrant soul, had faded in his mind over the years. He had been so defiant when she died. Maisie, his own flesh and blood that he had failed to protect and was currently failing to find. Sidra, who was bound to him by a blood vow. She had arrived home drenched from the cursed loch, her eyes searching and lost.
You have become more to me than mere words spoken on a midsummer night.
He had retraced that revelation of hers endless times in the past few hours. So much that he felt the groove of it in his thoughts. He had been startled by her confession—he thought her so far above him. He’d never expected to earn her love, and he didn’t know how to show her how deeply he felt for her.
But Torin didn’t have time to think about this.
He was almost to the Elliotts’ when a moving shadow caught his attention. It was on the path ahead of him, pressing west. He realized it was a man, running, and Torin unsheathed his sword, urging his stead to quicken his pace.
The runner heard his approach and whirled with an arrow nocked on his bow. Torin was preparing to strike when the man lowered his weapon, then tucked and rolled to avoid being trampled by the horse.
Torin turned the stallion about, nearly unseating himself in his haste, and his gaze swept the moonlit grass. The man with the bow was easy to find, a thin shadow rising from the ground, brushing dirt from his clothes.
“That’s the second time you’ve almost killed me, Torin.”
Jack’s unmistakable, peevish voice.
“Dammit, Jack!” Torin could have strangled him. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to assist the Elliotts.”
“How did you know they were being raided?”
“I saw ten Breccans ride by my mum’s croft. Heading this way.”
Torin frowned, his thoughts reeling. “Ten? I sensed only five crossing the clan line.”
Jack approached the horse. Torin could barely discern his face in the celestial light, but he was frowning as well. “I clearly counted ten of them.”
Something was off, Torin thought with a huff of air. Perhaps he had been too distracted when he was searching the trail on the hill, when the pain in his hand had flared.
“Are you going to give me a ride?” Jack drawled.
“You should go home, Jack.”
The bard released a scathing laugh. “Not tonight, captain. You need my help, and I’m eager to spill some blood.”
Torin couldn’t refute it, and they were wasting time. He gave Jack a hand and hauled him up behind the saddle. Torin didn’t wait to ensure the bard was holding on before he nudged his stallion onward again.
He and Jack saw the rosy hue on the horizon at the same moment. It speared Torin with dread, filling him with cold silence, but Jack muttered, “My gods, what is that?”
Torin didn’t answer, saving his voice. They crested the hill to see that the Elliott cottage, storehouse, and byre were burning. The flames had just been set, the smoke rising in great white billows. This was new, Torin thought, assessing the valley. The Breccan raids had always followed the same pattern in the past: they crossed the clan line, they raided, stole food and livestock and anything else of worth, and they retreated. Quick bursts of violence. They never killed, although they sometimes wounded, and they never set fire to buildings.
“Why?” Jack snarled. “Why is the west sabotaging itself when Adaira wants to trade?”
“Because they will never change,” Torin replied tersely.
The watchmen were already present. Torin could see them on their horses, chasing the last of the Breccans away while the Elliott family ran across the yard, salvaging what little they could from their burning home and yard.
There were more than five Breccans riding with their torches, hurling them onto the thatched roofs. Torin was astounded when he counted eleven blue plaids in the limited view that he had on the hill.
He directed his horse down to the valley, where the heat of the fire met him like a hot summer day. The flames were growing at an alarming rate, perilously fed by the hay and the wind. Torin dismounted, sword in hand, and ordered Jack to stay on the horse, where he had the best chance of remaining unharmed. The last thing he wanted was for Adaira’s new husband to get himself killed.
Torin didn’t glance behind to see what the bard did, although he did notice an arrow streak by, harmlessly hitting the cottage.
Satisfied that they had plundered what they wanted and set fire to everything, the Breccans retreated into the woods, melting into the darkness like cowards.
Torin coughed as he rounded the burning house. The air was thick, the smoke stinging his eyes. He gave half of his guard orders to begin hauling water from the nearby stream, to put the fire out. He motioned his remaining guard, the watchmen, to pursue the Breccans into the Aithwood, all the way to the clan line.
“Take prisoners if you can!” he shouted. He craved answers.
The trees of the forest grew thick, the air sweet and dark. Torin ran on foot, weaving around the trunks and kicking through patches of bracken. The clan line was close; he could feel it, humming in the earth.
Suddenly, he realized he was alone. None of his watchmen were with him.
He came to a stop, his eyes cutting through the night. It was quiet, but his breaths were ragged, his pulse thundering in his ears.
The Breccan seemed to come from the shadows, his boots making no sound on the loam. Torin saw him a moment too late, raising his sword to deflect a blow. The Breccan’s steel sliced his forearm. The pain was bright and merciless.
Torin fell to his knees, gasping. He felt the coldness seep into him—the sting of an enchanted blade. He parried another cut with his sword, driving the Breccan back. But then he was stung again in his shoulder, just beneath the protective drape of his plaid.
This pain was cool too, but sent a flare to Torin’s mind.
Run, escape, hide, run.
The orders permeated him. He staggered up to his feet, abandoned his sword, and ran, the fear rotten within him. Behind him someone spoke, an amused and cruel voice—“A fine captain you are”—and it only fueled Torin’s irrational desire to run, escape, hide.
He lost track of his direction, weaving deep into the woods. The forest eventually ended, spilling him out into a stark landscape. He could hear the roar of the coast nearby. The fog was rolling in from the ocean, cold and thick and hungry.
Torin ran into its embrace.
Jack sprinted through the Elliotts’ yard with a bucket of water. He had been useless with the bow and arrows, but this was something he could do. He dumped the water onto the house, which continued to roil with flames. Back and forth he ran, following a line of guards. From the stream to the yard, from the yard back to the stream, his skin grimy with sweat and flecked with ash.
The cottage continued to burn.
Jack panted, hurling another bucket of water onto the fire. He heard someone wailing and turned to see Grace Elliott on her knees, rocking. Her husband Hendry was beside her, trying to comfort her. Their two sons were quiet with shock, the flames reflected in their eyes.
For a moment, Jack was terrified someone else was in the house, and he approached the family.
“Did all of you make it out?” he asked.
“Yes,” Hendry said. “All of us but … Eliza. She’s missing, though. Hasn’t been home in almost three weeks now.”
Jack nodded. His mouth was dry and his eyes stung.
The Elliotts had salvaged an old cow, but they had lost everything else. Jack stumbled away, his eyes peeling the darkness. His vision was blighted from the fire, but he could faintly see the Aithwood. He wondered where Torin and the rest of the watchmen were and fought the uneasiness he felt, deciding he would keep running to the stream until ordered otherwise.
The command came minutes later, when the wind began to howl from the north. The fire billowed and the charred remains of the house began to crackle.
“Move back!” one of the guards shouted.
Jack scrambled to help the Elliotts escape the yard as the cottage collapsed in a burst of sparks and a wash of blistering heat. There was nothing more he could do; he remained beside the family in the grass and continued to look around, searching for Torin, particularly when a few of the watchmen rode in from the woods.
No Breccans had been caught or taken prisoner.
All of them had escaped.
Torin failed to appear, even as the stars began to vanish. The eastern sky was laced with gold when a few of the guards approached the family.
“We’re still waiting to hear from the captain, but we feel it’s best to escort you to the castle,” one of them said. “The laird and heiress will want you looked after until we can rebuild. Come, mount our horses and we will take you to Sloane.”
Grace Elliott nodded in defeat, clutching her shawl at her collar. She looked so weary, her eyes rimmed in red as she moved to the closest horse. She was about to slip her foot into the stirrup when she froze.
“Do you hear that?” she said, whirling to where her cottage smoldered in a heap.
“It’s just the wind, my love,” Hendry Elliott said. He sounded desperate to get her away from the fire and the clan line. “Let’s get you up on the horse now.”
“No, it’s Eliza,” Grace insisted, pushing away from her husband. “Eliza! Eliza!”
The hair rose on Jack’s arms as he watched Grace Elliott stride through the grass, screaming for her missing daughter.
Hendry trailed her, tearing his hands through his hair. “Grace, please. Stop this.”
“Don’t you hear her, Hendry? She’s calling for us!”
Jack listened. He took a step closer to the ruins. “Wait!” he said. “I hear it too.”
Their party fell painfully silent. The wind was gusting, and the fire was still crackling, but there was a small voice, calling in the distance.
Shouts rose. The watchmen had now heard it, or perhaps had seen something.
Grace and Hendry broke into a frantic run to their demolished home. Jack was behind them, the Elliott brothers and the guards in his wake. They darted through the ruins, emerging on the other side of the yard, facing the dark, looming southern sky.
Through the languid dance of smoke, Jack could discern a little girl hurrying down a hill. She was coming from the very trail he and Torin had taken to reach the Elliotts’ croft. The direction of Mirin’s lands. Her brown hair was braided with ribbons, her dress was clean and immaculate, and yet her face was crumpled with emotion as she saw her parents.
“Eliza!” Grace shouted, sweeping the girl into her arms.
Hendry and the two brothers gathered around her, until Jack could no longer see the lass. But he felt the weeping, the joy, the wonder as the family was reunited.
Slowly, he sank to his knees, overcome with the bewildering realization.
A missing girl had been found.
Eliza Elliott had come home on the heels of a raid.
