Jack woke to the sound of rain pattering on rock. He opened his eyes and slowly gained his bearings: he was lying on the hard floor of a cave, and the air was cold and dusky with the tang of lightning. Beyond the shelter, a storm raged. He shivered until he felt warmth radiate at his side.
“Jack.”
He turned his face to behold Adaira lying next to him. His sight was blurred around the edges, and it took everything within him to find and raise his hand, to rub the throb in his temples.
“Where are we?” he asked. “Are we in the west?”
“The west? No, we’re still in the cave on the mountain ledge of Tilting Thom. You’ve been passed out for hours.”
He swallowed. It felt like a splinter was lodged in his throat.
“Hours?” He looked at her again. “Why didn’t you leave me?”
“Don’t you remember the last thing you said to me? You asked me to remain with you.”
The memories gathered in his mind with an ache as he remembered all that had passed earlier on the mountain. But in the darkness that had followed, there had been dreams. Vivid, stark dreams. He blinked and saw a lingering trace of them, as if Bane had pressed his thumbs against Jack’s eyes, making the colors swarm.
“Do you feel strong enough to sit forward?” Adaira asked him gently, and when Jack floundered, she laced her fingers with his and eased him up.
He saw the mouth of the cave, streaked with rain. The hour was gray, bewitching. And there sat his harp at his feet, warped in the fading light.
“I’m so sorry, Jack,” Adaira whispered, mournful.
He stared at the ruined instrument for a moment. It felt like a piece of him had died, broken and fallen away into oblivion, and he struggled to hide the wave of emotion that crested within him.
Adaira looked away. Her hair was unbraided and loose, beaded with mist. She hid half of her face behind its curtain. “What do you make of the wind’s answer?”
Jack hesitated, recalling those piercing words. Bane had made a wild claim about Mirin, one that Jack would have scoffed at had he not recently realized his mother had once been in love with a Breccan.
He didn’t think Mirin knew anything about where the lasses were being held, but she did know something. She had been hiding her knowledge for years, weaving those secrets into the plaids she dressed him and Frae in.
Jack glanced at Adaira. She was pale, her mouth pressed into a thin line. He worried the truth might change the tentative bond they had formed, and his heart dropped. To reveal his suspicions about Mirin would be to reveal his suspicions about his father.
“The wind could be tricking us,” he said. “But either way, I ask one thing of you, Adaira.”
She met his gaze. “Anything, Jack.”
“Let me speak to my mother first. Privately. If there’s something she knows, she’ll most likely be forthright if I’m the one asking.”
Adaira paused. Jack could read the flash of her thoughts—she wanted to go directly to Mirin. She wanted the answers this afternoon. But Adaira nodded and whispered, “Yes, I’ll agree to that.”
They sat for a moment more in silence, until a burst of cold shocked them both. The storm swelled, and the rain drove deeper into the cave, stinging their faces like needles. A voice haunted the gust, a sound of misery. There was a gasp, like a final draw of breath. Somewhere on the isle, life was being extinguished, snuffed by the deadly brunt of northern wind. The hair rose on Jack’s arms as he listened.
Adaira must have heard it as well. She stood and stared into the storm. “Do you feel strong enough to walk down the mountain? I worry that I’ve been away far too long.”
He nodded, and she hauled him up to his feet. The world spun for a moment, and he caught his balance on the cave wall. He watched as Adaira knelt and slipped his harp back into its sheath, strapping it to her back. When she returned to his side and offered her arm, he accepted her assistance.
He leaned upon her shoulder, and they approached the cave mouth together. But Adaira paused before the sheet of rain and said, “Why did you ask me if we were in the west when you woke?”
He suddenly hated that he didn’t know what she was thinking. If it raised suspicions about him now that Bane had tossed Mirin’s name before them like a snare.
But the truth was … his body had been with Adaira in the east, but his mind had been roaming the west.
“Because I saw it,” he said. “In my dreams.”
The descent was slow and precarious, the rain refusing to relent and only beating harder upon them. Adaira kept Jack on her left, between her and the mountain wall, because she worried if he stumbled, she would be unable to keep him from plunging over the edge of the path. They had angered the northern wind, and now Bane was making them pay for it.
When Jack struggled to stay upright, easing to his knees with a groan, Adaira was beside him. She refused to yield him to the storm, to leave him behind so she could hurry.
“I am with you,” she said, uncertain if Jack could hear her over the rattle of thunder and the howl of the wind. “I won’t let you go.” And he rose. She brought him back to his feet, and they continued onward until he slipped to his knees again, his strength ebbing.
There was a shot of silver in his brown hair now, gleaming at his left temple, as if he had aged years in a day. She didn’t know if it was from the magic or from Bane, but it worried her. She didn’t say that they would return to the ground in one piece, because she didn’t know. Every moment felt long and arduous, and Adaira couldn’t shake the chill that had overcome her in the cave. Her legs went weak when the path at last gave way to the grass and she stood on flat earth again.
She hurried with Jack to where they had left their horses, her heart like a hammer in her breast. She could scarcely draw breath, so heavy did the dread weigh upon her shoulders, and Bane didn’t make it simple for her. He continued to rage, impeding her at every turn. With a curse, Adaira realized the horses were gone, spooked by the storm.
“Leave me here, Adaira,” said Jack, sagging from exhaustion. “You will be much faster without me holding you back.”
“No,” she replied. “No, I’m not leaving you. Come, just a little farther.”
She hauled him toward the road. They had just crested a hill when she saw shapes moving through the haze of the rain. Knowing it was the guard, Adaira came to a gradual halt in the mud, waiting for one of them to see her and Jack.
It was Torin who reached them first. Adaira sensed his ire as he drew his horse to a sliding halt. He dismounted in a rush and took hold of her arm, his grip firm as he gave her a slight shake.
Though his wound was finally healing, he still couldn’t speak. But he didn’t need to. Rain sluiced down his face as he stared at her. His hair was lank on his broad shoulders, like tangled threads of gold. Mud splattered his raiment.
She saw the fear shining in his eyes. She had told him where Jack was going to play for the wind, but she hadn’t thought it would take hours, ending in a tremendous storm.
This day had gone completely awry. She felt like collapsing.
“Torin,” Adaira said, and she hardly recognized the sound of her own voice. “Torin, my da …” She couldn’t finish the words. She watched the shift of Torin’s expression, how his fear burned away into sadness. She knew it then. She had felt it in the cave; she had heard it in the storm. The passing of life into death—the vengeance of the north wind—and yet she waited for her cousin to confirm it.
Torin drew her into his embrace, holding her tight against him.
Adaira closed her eyes, feeling his plaid brush her cheek.
Her father was dead.
Laird Alastair was laid to rest beside his wife and three children in the castle graveyard, in unrelenting rain and thunder. The clan was devastated, and life seemed to come to a halt. But the storm hadn’t ceased, and the roads had become streams. A few low paddocks had begun to flood.
Torin watched it all in silence.
He watched as his uncle was buried in the soggy earth. He watched Adaira stand in the graveyard, soaked from the storm with eyes that seemed dead. The clan gathered around her. Torin couldn’t hear what was spoken, but he saw the Elliotts approach her, faces red from weeping. He saw Una and Ailsa embrace her. He saw Mirin hold her hand, and Frae wrap her arms around Adaira’s waist.
Ever since he had lost his voice, Torin had begun to notice things that he would have missed before. Weeds in the garden, the difficulty of making parritch, how empty rooms felt without Sidra and Maisie. And now he lifted his eyes and watched the northern wind rake across the east. This storm was a display of power and a warning. Torin felt the fear of Bane in his bones and knew Jack’s music must have challenged the northern king.
An hour later, Torin found his cousin sitting in the library, cradling a cup of tea, as if her hands couldn’t shake their chill. The laird’s signet ring shone on her forefinger. Her hair was still damp from the funeral, but she was dressed in dry clothes, and she sat in the chair Alastair had loved, facing the hearth as the fire crackled.
Torin shut the door and stared at Adaira. He knew she heard him enter, but she said nothing, her gaze captive to the flames.
He walked closer, sat in the chair next to hers, and listened as the storm seethed beyond the windows. Glancing down to his forearm, he saw that his silencing wound had almost healed, thanks to Sidra’s tenacity with the fire spurge. She applied the salve three times a day, and every time he felt the heat of the plant seeping into his wound, closing it bit by bit.
Soon he would be able to speak again, and yet what words would suffice in this moment? Torin knew the heavy burdens Adaira carried. And while he once would have endeavored to take them from her, those thoughts had died over the years as he found his place with the guard. She was laird now, and the best he could do was carry the burdens alongside her.
He sat with her in that tender silence.
If his life had not been interrupted by the sting of an enchanted blade, he would have spoken. He probably would have become frustrated, wondering what Adaira and Jack had done to bring the storm. He would have peppered her with questions he felt entitled to have answers to. He would have said anything to fill the roar of such silence, but now he understood it better. The weight of each word he uttered, and how his words unfolded in the air. He was far more mindful of them now, understanding that most of them were worthless.
He was a man built from many regrets, and he didn’t want to add to that number.
“Torin,” Adaira said at last. “If I call upon you to ride with me into war … will you support my decision?”
He was silent a beat too long. She had expected him to agree instantly, and Adaira shivered in alarm as she glanced at him.
He was thinking of the ghosts in his dreams. Now that Torin had beheld the Breccans’ faces and listened to their grief, he had begun to see the trade as a way to atone for his actions. He couldn’t bring the lives back, but he could ensure the widows, the children, and the lovers were still looked after.
But he nodded, in spite of his conflicted feelings.
“Bane confirmed our suspicions. The Breccans have been stealing the girls,” Adaira said. “They’re alive and well looked after, but we still need to learn of their location.”
Torin’s hands curled into fists. He wanted to go now, to cross the clan line and bring Maisie home, and he struggled to rein in his impulsivity.
Adaira must have sensed the impatience within him, because she said, “There are a few more things I need to do before we’ll be ready to steal into the west and find the girls. In the meantime, I’m going to ask your second in command to very quietly tell Una to begin forging as many swords and axes as she can, Ailsa to prepare her finest horses, Ansel to begin fletching arrows and stringing as many yew bows as he is able, Sidra to prepare tonics and healing salves, and the guard and watchmen to train, to sharpen their swords, to wear their enchanted plaids like armor. We need to be prepared for conflict when we bring the lasses home.”
Torin nodded again, agreeing with her. He would have to be patient; he would have to trust Adaira’s judgment.
He sat with her a while longer, his mind whirling with images of Maisie and the thought of bringing his daughter home to war.
“What happened to your hands?” Jack said.
Sidra didn’t pause as she prepared a tonic for him. For the past two days, the bard had looked the worst she had ever seen him, his skin pallid, his eyes bloodshot. His voice was hoarse, and his hands trembled when he raised them. He was sitting upright in his bed at the castle, watching her work.
She was worried about him and the strong magic he was casting. The cost was too heavy for him to bear so frequently, and she debated over how much she could fuss over him.
“I picked a spiteful weed,” she explained. The splotches of red and the blisters on her palms had been slow to heal, but Torin’s wound was nearly mended. She met Jack’s gaze as she brought the healing brew to his lips. “Here, drink all of this. You pushed yourself too hard this time, Jack. You need to be mindful of the things I mentioned to you before: how long you wield magic and how intricate it is. You also need to give your body time to rest in between, as your mum does with her plaids.”
Jack grimaced at her gentle scolding. “I know. I didn’t have much choice, though, Sidra.”
She wondered what he meant, but he didn’t offer an explanation as he took a sip, wincing at the taste.
“I’m sorry,” Sidra said, lowering the cup. “I know it’s bitter.”
“I’ve tasted far worse on the mainland,” he replied, and Sidra was glad to hear a touch of wry humor in his voice.
“Do you miss it?” she asked.
Jack was pensive for a moment. She worried she had offended him until he said, “No. I did when I first returned to Cadence, but this place is home to me.”
She smiled, wondering if he would stay wed to Adaira. She thought that he would. She was setting out a salve and tonic for him to take later when Jack took her by surprise.
“What do you know of Bane, Sidra?”
She paused, but her gaze flickered to the window, where the storm continued to howl for a third day beyond the glass. “The king of the northern wind? I’m afraid I don’t know much about him, other than to prepare for the worst when he decides to blow.”
Jack was silent. Sidra began to pack her basket but suddenly remembered a story her grandmother used to tell her often.
“One of my favorite legends is from the time preceding his reign, when the folk of fire reigned on the isle.”
“Tell me,” Jack said softly.
Sidra settled on her stool beside the bed. “Before the clan line was split between the east and the west and Bane rose to power in the north, Ash was a beloved leader amongst the fire spirits. He was generous and warm, full of light and goodness. All of the spirits answered to him, even those of the wind, the water, and the earth. All save one, that is. Ream of the Sea had always detested him, for she was made from tides and he was made of sparks, and every time they met threatened a catastrophe.
“But then one day Ash found out that a member of his court had set an ancient grove aflame and the fire was devouring the trees and the earthen spirits within them. Desperate, Ash had no choice but to go to the shore, where Ream dwelt in the foam of the sea, and call her forth to help him. Ream, however, wouldn’t do it without seeing Ash on his knees, willing to be doused first. He submitted without qualm, even though he knew what would come of it: he knelt before her and allowed her tide to wash over him. A great portion of his power turned to smoke and left him, but he continued to kneel despite the pain of the water.
“When Ream saw her enemy’s resilience, her respect for him grew and she called upon her river attendants to rise up and flood the burning grove. She put out the wildfire, and Ash retreated back to his dwelling place in the sky. Once, he had governed the sun during the day, but now he was so weak that he had to choose the night, when his muted fire could burn among the constellations. His twin sister, Cinder, took over the rule of the sun and daylight. Meanwhile, Ream, who had always hated fire, began to see its beauty, how it burned so passionate and constant, even as it fell to embers. That is why the sea is often gentle at night, for the fire of the stars and the moon reflect upon the waves, and Ream remembers how her old enemy became her friend.”
A smile had spread over Jack’s face as he listened. Sidra saw that some color had returned to his countenance.
“I suppose that since Ash lost his power, Bane rose to replace him?” Jack mused.
“Yes,” Sidra said. “Although I think it took a few more years before the northern wind became a threat. My nan said that for a while the spirits were all equal, and the balance of the isle reflected it.”
“I wonder what that would feel like,” he said.
Sidra had thought the same. How would Cadence feel if it was united and restored? Was it even possible?
She didn’t know anymore, and her sorrow deepened.
She gave Jack orders to stay in bed and to avoid wielding magic until he had fully recovered. But her worry followed her down the corridor as she went to visit her next patient.
When she finished her rounds, it was late and she was exceedingly tired. Sidra stepped into the courtyard, relieved to see the storm had finally abated. The air was chilled and peaceful; few stars shone through wisps of clouds. The flagstones were slick from the rain, and Sidra prepared to walk home in the dark.
She was nearing the gates when she recognized Torin, standing with his horse. The lantern light trickled over his face as he watched her approach.
She nearly asked him what he was doing; it was so rare to see him standing idle. But then he reached for her basket and offered his knee to help her mount his gigantic horse.
Shocked, she realized he had been waiting to take her home.
