Sidra listened to the rain as she stood at the kitchen table, grinding an endless pile of herbs. She had been crushing them for what felt like hours now, until her hands were numb, until every mixture she could create had been made and spread over Torin’s wounds. The one on his shoulder was healing swiftly—the shallow wound stung by fear. But the cut on his forearm, the one that had stolen his voice … Sidra couldn’t staunch its slow but steady ooze. And enchanted wounds, while miserable to suffer through, were known to heal twice as fast as mortal wounds with the proper care.
What was she missing? Other than my faith, she thought with exasperation, setting down her pestle. She stared at the array of dried herbs she had spread over her table, the fresh bundles that hung from the timber beams. The honey pot and the bowl of butter and the small jar of oil. She was missing something that would heal his wound and return his voice, and she didn’t know what it was.
Weary, she created a new salve to try and carried the bowl into the bedroom. Torin was asleep, his mouth slightly ajar, his long legs nearly dangling off the foot of the bed. He was shirtless, his chest rising and falling with deep measured breaths, but she knew he would awaken soon. She had drawn eight moon thistle needles from his hands and face; he would be prey to nightmares, despite the stout sleeping tonic she had given him hours ago.
He looked so vulnerable, so young, she thought, gazing at him. Sidra wondered if they would have been friends years ago if their paths had ever crossed, but then she thought no, probably not.
Quietly, she sat beside him on the bed and peeled back the damp linen that covered his wounds, then coated them with her new salve. Feeling the cold trace of magic in his skin, she took out her frustration on the fresh bolt of linen, which she tore into strips. She finished redressing the wounds and watched as the lower cut quickly bled through its bandage. It wasn’t healing but growing worse. And she felt her first tremor of fear.
What am I missing?
It was then that Sidra fully acknowledged the truth. She didn’t know if she would be able to heal Torin. Her faith was still some strange, broken mirror in her chest, the pieces sharp and jagged, reflecting years of her life out of order.
She covered her face with her hands, her breath hitching. She could smell the countless herbs on her palms, secrets that she had always known how to wield, and she let the truth wash over her until it felt like she was drowning in her own skin.
I don’t know how to heal him.
The rain continued to fall, and Sidra remained at Torin’s side. Eventually she lowered her hands and reached for the wooden figurine of Lady Whin of the Wildflowers. Maisie had left it at the bedside days ago, and Sidra had yet to touch it. But she claimed it now, tracing the spirit’s long hair, the flowers that bloomed from her fingers, the extraordinary details of her lovely face.
How easy it would be if faith was something tangible like a figurine, something she could hold in her hands, seeing all of the details and how they made the whole. And yet, didn’t the earth prove its faithfulness to her, year after year? Even in winter, when it fell dormant? Sidra always knew the flowers and the grass and the fruit would return come spring.
Even with those memories, she had no prayers to whisper. There seemed to be nothing but emptiness and exhaustion in her, and Sidra set the figurine back down, closing her eyes just for a moment.
She was dozing, sitting upright on the bed, when the dog let out a shrill bark.
Sidra stood, her mixing bowl clattering to the floor. Torin continued to sleep, oblivious to the alert. The dog Yirr had remained in the front yard since Torin had brought him to Sidra.
She listened as he barked again. Warning sounds.
She suddenly wished she hadn’t sent Torin’s guards away. A group of them had hovered in the common room and the yard, anxious as Sidra had cared for their captain. She had seen the fear and humiliation in Torin’s face. He wanted all of his guard gone. He didn’t want them to behold him like this.
So Sidra had ordered them back to Sloane, and now she wished she had let at least one of them remain.
Yirr continued to bark, and Sidra stepped into the common room. It was late afternoon, and the light was failing. But she saw the gleam of her paring knife on the table, and she took it in her hand before approaching the door.
She stood for a rigid moment, breathing against the wood, listening as Yirr endlessly barked. The door wasn’t locked, and she dared to open it by a sliver, gazing out into the rain-smeared yard. There was Yirr, his black-and-white coat a clear marker in the storm. He was planted on the stone path that led to the threshold, barking at two slim figures who stood just within the gate.
Sidra’s fear abated the moment she recognized Mirin and Frae.
“Hush, Yirr,” she said, opening the door wider. “Mirin? Come inside, out of the rain.”
The dog consented to sit, letting the visitors approach, although Mirin still appeared wary. She removed the hood of her drenched cloak, Frae close at her side, as they stepped into the common room.
“It’s good to see you both,” Sidra said, setting her knife aside. She smiled tenderly at Frae. “How can I help you?”
“I wanted to first ask how Torin is,” Mirin said, her eyes darting to the bedroom. “I heard the news he was wounded.”
“He’s healing and resting,” Sidra replied. “He was struck by two different blades.”
“Enchanted?”
Sidra nodded, hoping her fear wasn’t evident.
“Then it’s a good thing he has you, Sidra,” Mirin said kindly. “I know you can heal him swiftly.”
Sidra could have melted to the floor in that moment, feeling the suffocating weight of her defeat. But she was thankfully afforded a distraction. Mirin held out a folded plaid, a beautiful green shawl the shades of moss, bracken, and juniper. The colors of the earth, like all the growing plants in her neglected garden.
“For you,” Mirin said, sensing Sidra’s admiration and confusion.
“It’s beautiful, but I didn’t commission this,” said Sidra. She reached out and let her fingertips trace the softness of the wool. The moment she touched it, she knew the plaid was enchanted.
“Torin did,” the weaver said. “He came to me days ago, asking if I could make a shawl for you. And as you well know, it can take me a while to create an enchanted plaid, but I wanted to get this one ready for you as soon as I could.”
“Oh.” Sidra didn’t know why that surprised her, but the revelation warmed her spirit like a flame. “I … thank you, Mirin. It’s lovely.” She accepted the plaid, holding it close to her chest. The realization that Mirin had expedited this order humbled Sidra, and she said, “Let me provide you with a tonic, to help you recover.”
The weaver nodded, and Sidra rushed to fetch a bottle of Mirin’s favored brew.
“Frae has something for you as well,” Mirin said after accepting Sidra’s tonic. She gently nudged her daughter forward.
Sidra crouched so she could be level with Frae’s gaze. The lass was regarding her shyly until she extended a covered dish.
“I made a pie for you and the captain,” Frae said. “I hope you both like it.”
“I love pie!” Sidra said. “And so does Torin. I bet he will eat the whole thing when he wakes from his nap.”
Frae beamed, and Sidra stood to set the pie and the plaid down on the table. She wanted to give something to Frae in return, and she chose a stem of dried primrose.
“For you,” Sidra said, tucking the flower into Frae’s hair.
Protect her. The prayer rose naturally, surprising Sidra. She wondered if the spirits would hear her plea, and she inwardly added, Watch over this little one.
Frae grinned and blushed. It made Sidra remember a time when she was Frae’s age. How many days she had spent in the pastures as she watched over the flock, weaving wildflowers into crowns.
“Before we go,” Mirin said, breaking Sidra’s reveries, “is there anything more we can do for you?”
“The plaid and the pie are plenty,” Sidra said, honestly. “But thank you for asking.”
She watched the weaver and her daughter depart, the sun breaking through the clouds. Sidra decided to leave the front door open to welcome the rain-washed air into the cottage.
She wrapped the shawl around her shoulders. It was an odd size, a bit too large for a typical shawl, but it made her feel safe. She reached for a spoon and sat at the table, eating Frae’s pie. The tart berries melted on her tongue, summoning memories of long summers with her grandmother, foraging amongst the hills and woods.
Sidra closed her eyes, the remembrances bittersweet. Knowing she could get lost in those old days, she brought herself back to the present. To the table strewn with materials that had turned powerless in her hands.
And she thought, How do I find my faith?
Torin knew he was dreaming, because he was looking at the men he had killed.
He saw the mortal wounds he had given them. They bled and bled, their throats sliced open and chests gaping, exposing splintered bones and sputtering hearts, and the men beseeched him with requests. Feed their wives, their children, their lovers, because the northern wind would soon come with ice and darkness and hunger in his breath.
“They are not mine to feed!” Torin replied, angry. He was tired of the guilt he felt. “You should have stayed in the west. You should have known better than to raid the innocents of the east. We have wives and bairns and lovers to feed and protect here, as you do on your lands.”
“Why did you kill us?” one of them asked.
“You take a life,” another said, “then you must take care of the ones your violence marks.”
Torin was exasperated. It was frustrating, speaking to dead men, and it was grim, having to look their ghosts in the eye, even if it was in the boundary of a dream. He shouldn’t care about what they were saying to him, for he had done his job, he had completed his task. They had raided, they had stolen, they had trespassed with ill intent. He had defended his clan, as he had been raised to do. Why should he feel guilt over this?
Then the dream shifted, but the six ghosts remained with him, as if they were fastened to his life. He was standing in a meadow, and the world was blurry until he saw Sidra walking toward him in her vermilion wedding gown, wildflowers in her sable hair. His breath caught; he was about to marry her, and he realized the ghosts could see her. They crowded around Torin.
“Brave of you, to tell her of your guilt,” one remarked. “To tell her of us.”
“And yet how foolish you are,” another hissed, “to believe her when she says she loves you, even with such blood on your hands.”
“Don’t you know that her eyes will soon be open to see us?” a last one stated. “When she weaves her life with yours, we will haunt her as we haunt you.”
Torin shut his eyes, but when he opened them, Sidra was still approaching him, and he saw that he had blood on his hands. Blood that was not his and blood that he couldn’t wipe off. Sidra was reaching for him, a tentative smile on her face.
Torin jolted awake.
He didn’t know where he was at first. He was gazing up at a shadowed ceiling, and the bed beneath him was too soft to be the cot he slept on at the barracks. But then he smelled the fragrance of herbs, which meant he was home.
He didn’t even try to speak. A talon was hooked in his throat, holding his voice captive. The sting in his shoulder was still vibrant, feeding his irrational fears.
Torin raised his head from the pillow and caught a glimpse of Sidra, working at the table. He could hear her grinding herbs, and he relaxed until he remembered his dream.
Slowly, he rose from the bed. His body felt weak and the world spun for a moment; he waited until his eyes had focused before he walked barefoot into the kitchen.
Sidra felt his presence. She turned, wide eyed, and he thought she was about to scold him for being out of bed. He just wanted to be near her. Then he realized she was wearing the plaid he’d commissioned. She had it wrapped around her shoulders like a shawl, but Torin had requested a longer length, and its edges were getting in Sidra’s way.
“You should be in bed,” she said, her eyes racing over him.
Torin reached out and took hold of the plaid, gently tugging it from her shoulders. Sidra let it fall away, although her brow was furrowed in confusion.
“Mirin brought it. I’m sorry, I thought it was for me.”
Torin hated every time she said sorry. Sidra took responsibility for too many things, and he worried it would break her one day. He opened his mouth to speak before remembering his voice was gone, and he realized he would have to express this another way. A way without words.
He needed something to hold the plaid together.
He shuffled into the spare room, where his oaken chest sat against the wall. He searched through his raiment before finding a spare brooch, a golden ring of bracken with a long pin. When he returned to the kitchen, clammy and light-headed, he noticed Sidra had stopped working. Her face was flushed, her eyes staring vacantly at the table.
She looked lost, and then surprised when Torin took her arm, turning her body to face him.
“You should be in bed!” she scolded again, but she sounded like she was about to cry.
Torin began to fold the plaid, in the same way he liked to fold his own. He brought it behind her, then across her chest before cinching it in place at her right shoulder.
Yes, he thought. It was perfect on her.
He stepped back to regard Mirin’s handiwork. Sidra glanced down at it, and she still appeared confused until Torin laid his palm over her chest, where the plaid now granted her protection. He could feel the enchantment within the pattern, holding firm, like steel. He touched the place she had been kicked, where her bruises were slow to heal, as if her heart had shattered beneath her skin and bones.
She understood now.
She gasped and glanced up at him. Again, he wished that he could speak to her. Their last conversation still rattled in his mind, and he didn’t like the distance that had come between them.
Let my secret guard your heart, he thought.
“Thank you,” Sidra whispered, as if she had heard him.
It renewed his hope, and he sat at the table before his knees gave out. His gaze snagged on a pie whose center had been eaten away in a perfect circle, the spoon still in the dish. He pointed to the gaping hole, brow arched.
Sidra smiled. “The middle is the best part.”
No, the crust is. He shook his head, reaching for the spoon to eat the crisp places she had left behind.
He was halfway done when there came a bark, followed by a knock on the open door. Torin turned to see Adaira, and his heart lifted.
“Sit, Yirr,” Sidra said to the dog, and he obeyed, hushing.
Adaira carefully passed the collie and approached Torin, a slight smile on her haggard face.
“Look at you, sitting at the table and eating pie,” she teased. “One would never think you’d been wounded last night.”
She sounded lighthearted, but Torin knew how worried she truly was. He didn’t want to give her any reason to doubt his capability as captain. He drew out the chair next to him, and Adaira sat, her eyes going instantly to the demolished pie.
“You could have saved me a piece,” she said.
Torin pushed the dish toward her, and Adaira took a few bites, closing her eyes as if she had been hungry for days. When she was done, she set down the spoon and studied Torin closely.
“How are you, Torin?”
He lifted his hand to Sidra, asking her to speak for him.
“The wound on his shoulder is healing swiftly,” she replied. “But the one on his forearm is proving to be far more stubborn than I’d like. I’m hoping if he continues to rest today, he will feel much better by tomorrow.”
Adaira’s gaze dropped to his bound forearm, where blood had stained the linen. “Good. The first thing I want to say to you is that I’m giving you time off to rest and heal. In the meantime, I’ve taken command of the guard and have sent the auxiliary force to the clan line, to assist the watchmen. If the Breccans try to cross again, we’ll catch them, so don’t worry about responding if your scar flares. Do you hear me, cousin?”
Torin reluctantly nodded.
“The second thing I need to discuss with you is more complex,” Adaira said. “Is it possible for you to communicate by writing?”
Torin glanced at Sidra. She swiftly went to the cupboard to find a sheet of parchment, an inkwell, and a quill.
“I wrote to Moray Breccan this morning,” Adaira began. “I gave him an ultimatum, to return what his clan stole from the Elliotts, or else face an end to the trade agreement. And I received a response, but it wasn’t from who I was expecting.”
She withdrew a letter from the inner pocket of her cloak and set it in Torin’s hands.
He unfolded the paper and read, the words swimming on the page. His eyesight was watery, and it took him a second to focus and make sense of the elegant scrawl:
Dear Adaira,
My sincerest apologies about the raid that unfolded on your lands last night. I was utterly unaware of it, but that is no excuse on my part. I will see to it that the goods and livestock that were stolen are returned, and I will promptly execute justice on those who were involved.
We are hopeful to continue the trade you have offered us, although it is apparent members of my clan have yet to fully understand the gravity of your invitation. I will strive to amend such mindsets.
If you can meet me tomorrow at midday, I will bring the stolen goods to the clan line, at the northern signpost. Please advise the captain of your guard that I will need to briefly step over the boundary into your territory in order to return the resources. If you approve, please reply to me, and I will make preparations.
Respectfully yours,
Innes Breccan
LAIRD OF THE WEST
Torin reached for the parchment Sidra had set down before him. His mind was reeling, and he began to write. This is strange, Adi. The Laird of the West never cared to atone for the raids in the past. I don’t trust her. But as soon as the nib lifted, his handwriting became twisted and illegible.
He stared at the inky mess, despairing until Adaira touched his arm.
“It’s all right, cousin. I can imagine you don’t approve of this meeting.”
Torin shook his head. But only because the Breccans are acting strangely. They agree to peace, give us the best they have to offer, raid us, and then scramble to appease us again. If the west was playing a game, it was one that Torin didn’t understand, but it filled him with a sense of foreboding.
“I think, despite how strange this offer is, that it’s crucial that I meet with Innes tomorrow,” said Adaira. “I not only want to recover what was stolen from the Elliotts, but there are a few things that I need to put to rest. Jack is going with me, and I will—”
Torin began to wildly gesture to himself.
“Yes, I’m taking a few guards,” Adaira added.
“No,” Sidra said, watching Torin’s movements. “He wants to go with you.”
“But you’re wounded, Torin.”
He didn’t care. He laid his fist over his heart. All I ask is to stand beside you. To be present.
Adaira stared at him. She looked exhausted, as if she hadn’t been sleeping at night. There was a hint of sorrow in her eyes, and it worried Torin. He hadn’t seen her like this since her mother had died.
“Very well,” she said at last. “You may come with me, so long as you’re continuing to improve tomorrow.”
He nodded. He thought that was the end of Adaira’s visit, but she turned her eyes to Sidra, hesitant.
“Have you told him, Sid?”
Torin glanced between the two women. Sidra grimaced. “No, I wanted to wait until he felt better.”
Torin scowled. Adaira sighed and met his gaze again. “It’s about Eliza Elliott. We found her.”
He listened in cold shock as Adaira told him everything.
Jack sat at his childhood desk, composing a ballad for the wind by candlelight. With each passing night, he slept more and more uneasily, and he wished he could persuade his mother to take Frae and lodge in the castle until the days felt safer.
It always came back to the loom. Mirin couldn’t afford to leave it, even for a matter of days. Her weaving was her livelihood, and if she let fear of the Breccans rule her, then she’d never get anything done.
He paused, closing his eyes to rest them. His hand was cramping from writing for hours, and his head throbbed with a dull ache. He needed sleep, but he wanted the music more.
When Mirin rapped on his door, he frowned, turning in the chair. “Come in.”
His mother appeared, a dirk balanced on her palm.
“I’m sorry to interrupt you, Jack, but there’s something I’ve been meaning to give to you.”
He rose to meet her in the center of the chamber, surprised when she extended the blade to him. He recognized it as the enchanted weapon she wore at her belt.
“Your dirk?”
“It was never mine, Jack. This blade has always been yours, a gift to you from your father. He made me vow to give it to you when you came of age, but you were away on the mainland at the time, and so I give it to you now, as a wedding gift.”
He stared at her, then at the dirk. He thought about all of the moments he had seen it fastened to her side, how she had been carrying it for years. It was a simple weapon with the faint radiance of an enchantment.
Jack hesitated before taking the hilt, unsheathing the slender blade. He caught his reflection in the steel, and curiosity built within him.
“This blade is enchanted,” he stated. “What with?”
Mirin tilted her head. “I don’t know. Your father never told me, and I have never properly used it.”
His father. This was the first time Mirin had spoken that word in so many breaths, and Jack didn’t know what to make of it. Was it her way of inviting him to ask the questions he had been burying for years?
Jack slid the blade back into its scabbard. “Mum …” He lost his courage. He struggled to speak the words, and he glanced at Mirin. “Did my father … did he hurt you? Is that why you sent me away to the mainland? So you wouldn’t have to be reminded of him when you looked at me?”
Mirin reached across the distance and took his hand. Her affection was a shock to him at first. “No, Jack. You and Frae were both made in love.” She paused, and Jack could hear her breaths, rasping as her cough flared. “I loved your father, as he did me.”
Loved. She cast the word in the past, and Jack wouldn’t press her for more answers. Not as he once would have done before, bitter and impatient and angry. He gently squeezed her fingers, and Mirin smiled at him, a sad but honest smile, before her hand slipped away from his.
“You’re busy working, I see,” she said in a lighter tone, indicating the ink stains on his fingers.
“Yes. A new ballad.”
“I can’t wait to hear it then,” Mirin said, stepping away. “Don’t let me keep you any longer from your music.”
Jack wanted to say that she wasn’t keeping him from anything. That he would like for her to stay and talk with him a while longer. To make up for all the years lost to them.
But he also sensed the worry in his mother. She was anxious, although she was too proud to admit it.
She slipped from the room, latching the door behind her. Jack stood frozen, studying the dirk.
He knew that he would never ask his mother again about the name of his father, but there was now another way for him to learn the truth.
It was resting in his hands, a blade created from steel and enchantment.
