Torin dreamt of blood again.
He saw the first Breccan scout he had dispatched years ago. The killing stroke was still there, gaping at the man’s neck, but he seemed to neither notice it nor feel his life dwindle away. Blood dripped down his blue plaid as he stared at Torin.
“Will you take care of them then?” said the Breccan, his voice perfectly intact despite his torn vocal chords.
“Who?” Torin asked, staring at the wound he had made.
“My wife, my daughters,” the Breccan whispered, and suddenly they were around him. A woman with gray-blond hair, a gaunt face, and shoulders that curved inward, as if she were starving, and three young daughters with hair the shade of flax, copper, and honey. The women began to weep when they saw the blood and the wound. His wife clung to him, trying to close the gash with her hands.
“They’ll be hungry this winter when the north wind blows and the ice comes,” the Breccan said, and his voice was hoarse, fading. “They’ll starve if you don’t feed them, Torin.”
He turned into ash and blew through his wife’s fingers. His daughters wept and cried for him.
“Da! Da!”
Their voices cut into Torin like three different blades. They needed a healer, and he searched for Sidra in the mist.
“Sidra?” he called, but there was no answer. He realized that these were wounds for him alone to heal, and he looked at his hands, overcome. He thought about what she had once said to him: What will you choose for your hands? His eyes crowded with tears.
“Sidra,” he said, his heart beating a lament. “Sidra,” he whispered, and as he woke the sound of her name broke the darkness and his silence.
He lay in the bed for a shocked moment, drenched through with sweat. It was just before dawn, the coldest and loneliest hour, one that Torin was far too familiar with.
He dared to say her name again, his voice rough-hewn from disuse.
“Sidra?”
She woke.
She sat up in the bed, and her breaths were heavy, as if she had also been captive to a terrible dream. “Torin?”
He slipped from the bed and stumbled into the common room, feeling her presence behind him. She rushed to spark a candle, and they stared at each other in the faint light.
Torin moved to sit at the table, trembling. He rubbed his hands over his face.
“I need to confess to you, Sid.”
Her apprehension was evident as she whispered, “Should I make some tea first?”
“No. Come here, please.”
She set down the candle, her eyes wide, wary of what he was going to tell her. She stood an arm’s length away from him, her chemise slipping from her shoulder.
He couldn’t bear the distance, and he reached for her. She took a step closer to stand between his knees. His hands settled on her waist.
“I’ve made many mistakes in my life,” he began. “But I refuse to let this one get the best of me. I’ve never said this to you, and I didn’t realize how much I desired to speak such truth to you, every sunrise and every sunset, until my voice was taken.” He paused. He was parched, and he longed to drink her in. “I love you, Sidra. My love for you knows no bounds.”
She was quiet. But she touched his hair, and he felt reassured by the gesture.
“I have told you of my struggles,” he said. “I continue to relive the last time I spoke to you. I was angry about the trade and the notion of peace Adaira was striving for. I was angry because it made me feel guilty for all the things I’ve done. When you told me that you would heal a Breccan in need … the indignation within me rose and I couldn’t see past it. All I could see was the terror of the raids I have fought off. All I could think of were the nights I have surrendered being with you in order to keep the east secure. All I could feel was the pain in my old wounds. Because of that, I couldn’t see that you were right. You have the ability to behold our enemy as a person in need. You see what I cannot, Sidra. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what I said to you that day, and I’m sorry that I didn’t listen when you spoke.”
Sidra exhaled. “Torin …”
He was waiting for her to respond, feeling like his heart was unmoored. Gently, he eased her down to his lap. Her eyes were aligned with his, her breaths mingling with his own.
“In the past,” she began, “I’d look at Maisie and think of who she would become in five years, ten years, thirty years, fifty years. I’d think of what her life on the isle would be like. I’d think about the legacy I wanted to leave for her. Would she be full of fear? Of hatred? Or would she be full of what we’ve taught her? Would she be compassionate? Would she be swift to listen, to learn and change?”
“I want a life for Maisie that is better than my own,” Torin agreed, as if their daughter were asleep in the next room. “I want to change. But my bones are old, my heart is selfish, my spirit is weary. I look at me and I look at you, and I see two different dreams. I am death. And you, Sidra …” He reached out to touch her face, softly, as if she might vanish beneath his fingers. “You are life.”
She closed her eyes beneath his caress. When his hand eased away, she looked at him and whispered, “Does that mean we cannot exist as one?”
He had been waiting for her to ask this. He had yearned to answer her in the orchard, when she had made it evident that they were vastly contrasting souls.
“No,” Torin said. “It means that without you, I am nothing.”
He felt her shiver. His hands were on her hips, and he was tempted to draw her closer. But there was still more he needed to say.
“You said to me that you felt like you had failed me and Maisie.” He paused, his throat suddenly narrow. “You have never failed me, or our daughter. I know life feels different now, but you are free to choose what you want. If you desire to go your own way, then I will see our vows broken and I will let you go. But if there is a place for me within your heart … will you stay?”
Sidra framed his face. Her eyes were like dew, and her voice as warm as a summer night, when she whispered, “Yes.”
Torin took her hands and kissed the blisters on her palms. To see the agony she had taken for him made him ache, deep in his soul.
They came together just as dawn began to illuminate the windows. Torin held Sidra in the lavender light, his hands spread across the curve of her back. His fingers traced the eaves of her shoulders.
He couldn’t describe what he felt for her, but it possessed the power to sunder his bones. To lay him open and vulnerable. There were still corners of himself that Torin was ashamed of. He was afraid to fully let her in, to let her see him at his worst, to let her touch the bloodstained palms in his dreams. But then he opened his eyes and beheld her, joined to him. To his present. To his pain and his past. Weaving her fate with his, willingly.
“Torin,” she breathed. Her black hair spilled across her shoulders as she moved.
“Sidra,” he whispered.
No sound had ever been sweeter to him.
Jack was worried that if he didn’t speak to Mirin that day, Adaira would. He woke up with a headache, but the worst of his pain had subsided. He washed the grime from his eyes and dressed. His plaid was wrinkled from the disaster on the summit. A hole had emerged in the wool, as if the secret tucked within the pattern was quickly rising to the surface, and the sight of it stirred Jack’s apprehension. He draped the plaid across himself, choosing to display its disrepair. His mother would see it and know why he needed to speak with her.
He packed up his warped harp and carried it on his back. He didn’t know what to do with the instrument, but he didn’t want it lying around his chambers as a visible reminder of Bane’s power. He found comfort in feeling the harp’s familiar weight; the instrument, though damaged, still felt like a shield, and he was now ready for whatever the day might bring.
Jack found Adaira in the library, sitting at her father’s desk. Books and papers were spread before her, as was a collection of broken quills. Her father’s signet ring flashed on her hand. Jack had noticed the first time she wore it, because Adaira rarely wore jewelry. Her hands were often bare, and only the half coin that connected her to him typically hung from her neck.
She looked as though she hadn’t slept, and he paused, uncertain what to say. He had stayed in his castle chambers the past two nights, not only because Sidra had ordered him to do so, but also so that he could remain close to Adaira. He had sent a guard to remain with Mirin and Frae in his stead, unwilling to take any chances.
“You look better today,” Adaira said, her eyes quickly looking him over. “Are you going to speak with Mirin?”
Jack nodded. He could see her desire to bring the girls home simmering in her mind. She had delayed the trade with Innes because of her father’s death, but the exchange was supposed to happen on the morrow. They might have the Orenna and know the location of the girls by the next evening.
Everything was coming together at last, and yet Jack had never felt such heavy misgivings.
“I’ll send for you when I’m finished,” he said.
“Good. Thank you,” Adaira said, before returning her attention to the papers.
Jack watched her for a beat longer. She had scarcely spoken to him since her father died. He had wanted to play a lament in the hall after the burial, to comfort her and the clan, but found he was too light-headed to do it. He had wanted to go to Adaira in her chambers at night, to be with her in her grief, but discovered he was too anxious to approach without her invitation.
And so he had done nothing but lie in his bed, forcing down Sidra’s tonics in hopes that they would restore him.
Realizing that Adaira was preoccupied with her task, Jack turned and departed. He went to the stables, requested the gentlest horse available, and then rode a slow, plodding gelding to his mother’s land.
Mirin greeted him at the door, as if she had known he was coming.
“We don’t need a guard here at night, Jack,” she said. “Although I appreciate the thought.”
Jack dismounted and walked into the kail yard. He didn’t want to have this conversation. This was his last true moment of ignorance. After this hour had shed its minutes, he would know the truth about his blood and what his mother had done, and it would change him.
“I need to have a serious conversation with you, Mum,” he said.
A frown crossed Mirin’s brow when she noticed the disrepair of his plaid, the garment she had fortified with a secret only she knew. Her gaze shifted to his face next, and she seemed to finally see him, how battle-weary he appeared. She saw the silver that now graced his hair, as if he had been touched by death’s finger.
“Jack!” Frae cried, slipping past their mother to embrace him in the yard. “I thought you’d never come home.”
“I had things to do in Sloane, but I should be back for a little while. Here, let me ask you something, Frae.” He crouched down to meet her gaze, noticing how much his knees hurt with the action. “I need to talk privately to Mum. Do you think you can stay in the yard for a little while?”
Frae’s eyes widened. She sensed the tension, glancing from him to Mirin.
Their mother gave her a nod of permission, and Frae offered Jack a small smile.
“All right,” she said, holding up her slingshot. “But afterward, can you practice with me?”
“Yes,” he said. “I’ll come find you when I’m done. Please don’t leave the yard.”
Frae skipped off toward the byre, where the cows were eating their hay. Jack straightened, waiting for Mirin to invite him in.
She did, but her face was pale.
It felt like he hadn’t been home in ages. The first thing he did was begin to close all of the shutters.
“Leave one open so I can see Frae,” Mirin said sharply.
Jack glanced at his mother. “This is not a conversation you want to ride the wind. Or for Frae to overhear.”
Mirin gripped the front of her dress. “What is this about, Jack?”
He latched the final shutter, motioning for Mirin to sit on the divan. She did so, albeit reluctantly, and he took the chair across from her, setting the harp on the floor. He listened to the rasp of her inhalations. How they caught on the web of secrets she held.
He was staring at her when he asked, “Is there a chance my father has taken the Tamerlaine lasses?”
Mirin froze. But her eyes widened as they met Jack’s. He saw the shock in her; she had never entertained this thought. “Your father? No, Jack.” But her voice softened, as if she was beginning to see what he did. “No, that cannot … he would not …”
Jack’s blood was coursing, fast and warm beneath his skin, but he kept his tone calm as he spoke. “You have held this secret for decades, Mum. I never understood why, and for years I resented you for your silence. But now I see. I understand why you wove and held it close to your heart. But the time has come to let it unravel. I need to find the missing lasses, and the answer lies within your past.”
“But that would mean …” Mirin couldn’t finish her phrase.
“That Annabel, Catriona, and Maisie have been kidnapped by a Breccan and taken into the west.”
Mirin closed her eyes, as if his words had struck her. She remained silent, so Jack began to speak, as if he had uncovered an old ballad.
“Long ago, you came to love your greatest enemy. A man of the west. I don’t know how he crossed the clan line unnoticed by the east, but he did, and you held the secret of him until I made that impossible. And so you led us all to believe I was the bastard of an unfaithful man in the east, and you wove the truth into a plaid because the threads would never betray or condemn you. Once I was sent away to the mainland, you must have seen him again, for Frae came into the world, and our two lives defied everything—east, west, and the hatred that thrives in between. You had no choice but to raise her as you raised me, as a Tamerlaine without a father.”
Mirin looked at him. Her face was pallid, but her eyes were lucid and dark as new moons, and she held Jack’s gaze. She laced her fingers together to hide their shaking.
“Do I speak truth, Mum?”
“Yes, Jack. Your father is a Breccan. But he wouldn’t steal children from the east.”
“And how do you know that?” Jack’s temper flared. “Lasses are going missing, vanishing into the mist, taken by the west. Could my father be the force behind it all? Because he was robbed of his own children?”
“He would never steal a child,” Mirin said again in a voice like iron. “Your father is a good man—the best I have ever known—and he has loved you and Frae from a distance, staying in his place so that you could have a whole life with me rather than a divided one.”
“But he has crossed into Tamerlaine territory without notice,” Jack countered. “He has broken the laws of the isle and has stood in this cottage with you, time and time again. He has trespassed and roamed the east, which means there is a break in the clan line, and the Breccans know of it and are using it as a weapon against us, taking lasses one by one. Stealing the daughters of innocent people.”
Mirin shook her head, but her eyes gleamed with tears. “Your father wouldn’t do this, Jack.”
“When was the last time you saw him then, Mum? Last month? Last year? How long has it been since you spoke with him, and is he the same man you knew in the beginning? Is there a chance he has changed over time?” And Jack inwardly added, Could years of denying himself, his lover, and his children drive him to madness and fury? Could years of being so close and yet so far from his family make him snap at last?
A tear streaked down Mirin’s cheek. She hastily wiped it away and said, “It’s been nearly nine years since I saw him last. He came to visit a few days after Frae was born, to hold her for the first and last time. As he once held you when you were but a babe.”
She paused to swallow more of her tears. Jack felt his heart go quiet, every fiber of him focused on Mirin’s words.
“Neither of us wanted to fall for the other, to embrace the impossible. We were brought together by a strange necessity, and the love bloomed quiet but deep between us. When I realized I was carrying you … I was terrified. I didn’t know how I could raise a child that was both east and west, and your father decided the two of us would steal away in the night. We would leave everything behind and start a new life on the mainland. But it’s nearly impossible to depart the isle without someone, whether spirit or mortal, knowing.
“Our first attempt was thwarted by the wind. It stormed and made it impossible for us to leave the coast. We had a little boat in which your father planned to row us to the mainland, but the waves broke it on the rocks. A few weeks passed while your father worked to find another vessel, which he kept hidden in a cave. During that time we both had to learn the rhythm of the watchmen of the east and the west, because the patrol was always there, a hovering threat to us.
“And yet it wasn’t the guard that nearly ruined our second attempt, but one of the neighbor’s dogs, who must have picked up the scent of the west left by your father on the hills. I was too afraid to attempt a third departure—your father and I were bound to be discovered fleeing together—and so I determined that I would raise you alone in the east as a Tamerlaine and your father would keep his distance. So that is what we did, but once you left for the mainland school … my loneliness was keen.”
Jack knew Frae came next, but in his mother’s silence he realized that she had been the one who crossed the clan line. “You reunited with my father in the west,” he said. He thought her foolish, impulsive, brave, and fierce. It had been a long time since a Tamerlaine had willingly walked in the west, but she had done it and hadn’t been caught.
And it was Mirin, he realized, who knew the secret of crossing the clan line. She had used it herself.
“I did,” she whispered. “Your father was not difficult to find. He is the Keeper of the Aithwood and lives in the heart of the forest on the western side, beside the river that flows into the east. The river connects the two of us like a silver thread, and I followed it to his cottage and found him there, quietly living out his life, as I did mine. Drinking hope and sorrow, both of us full of wonderings about the other and the life we might have shared had things been different between our two clans.”
“How did you make the crossing into the west?” he asked. “How did my father make the crossing into the east? Is it one and the same way? Did you use the Orenna flowers?”
Mirin held Jack’s gaze, and he saw the resistance within her, burning brighter than a flame. She didn’t want to tell him; it went against every grain of her being to let this final secret loose.
“Mum,” he pleaded. “Mum, please. If you want to help these lasses return home … I need to know how to make the crossing.”
Mirin stood and walked away from him, but there was nowhere for her to retreat to.
Jack slowly rose to his feet.
“It’s not the flower,” Mirin finally said, turning to regard him once more. “It’s the river. Your father discovered its secret by happenstance. One autumn night he was wounded and had an urgent need for assistance. He had lost quite a bit of blood and become disoriented. He was following the river and its current downstream, thinking it would lead him home. He was shocked when he realized that he stood in the east, and that no alarm had been raised. He believed it must be the river, shielding his presence. He followed it to my lands and dared to knock upon my door, asking for my help. We soon realized it was not just the river but blood within the water that made it possible for him to cross unnoticed to meet with me.”
Jack remembered the night of the raid, how he had seen the Breccans ride along the river valley, undetected. The words of Ream of the Sea rang in his ears.
Beware of blood in the water.
Frae brushed the cows in the byre until she could hear her mum and brother. She couldn’t make out the words, but their voices were rising, as if they were arguing.
It made her anxious, and eventually she wandered to the backyard, her slingshot in hand.
The sun was at last shining, breaking through the clouds. The light gilded the valley and the river, and Frae watched how the water sparkled as it flowed into the east. She knew she wasn’t supposed to leave the yard, but she wanted to practice before Jack joined her.
She slipped out the back gate and skipped down the hill to the riverbank. The currents were swollen from the rain, and she carefully drew stones from the water. Her target was still sitting in the grass, and Frae began to shoot. She missed the first two attempts but made a hit on her third.
“Yes!” she cried, bouncing on her toes.
She decided she would shoot three more times before returning to the yard and hurried to fetch her stones. Frae didn’t notice the man standing on the riverbank behind her, not until it was too late.
She gasped and froze. The first thing she noticed was his blue plaid. He was a Breccan. The second thing she noticed was his drenched boots, as if he had been walking in the river, and his hand was bleeding.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she said, taking a step back, heart pounding.
“I know,” he replied in a deep voice. “What’s your name, lass?”
Her throat narrowed. She felt her knees quaking, and she glanced up the hill, where she could just see the roof of her home.
“What’s your name?” the Breccan asked again.
Alarmed, Frae realized he was closer to her, although it seemed like he had only taken one step. She looked at his long, blond hair and wondered if this was the Breccan who had stood in the backyard before the raid. But then she realized this man was bigger, stronger than the one she had seen that night.
“F-Fraedah,” she said, taking a step back.
“That’s a lovely name,” he said. “Would you like to visit the west, Fraedah?”
Frae was truly afraid now. Her hands felt cold, and her heart was hammering so hard she could scarcely breathe. She didn’t know why this Breccan was here, but she wished he would leave, or Jack would arrive …
“I don’t think so,” Frae said, and made to bolt up the hill.
The Breccan’s speed was shocking. He caught her by the arm within seconds, then gently drew her to him.
“Now listen to me, Fraedah,” he said. “If you come peacefully, you won’t be hurt. But I can’t guarantee that if you fight me. So be a smart lass and come along.”
Frae gaped up at the stranger in horror, and then it hit her: nothing she could say would change his mind. He was going to take her to the west, whether she wanted to go or not, and her panic surged.
“Jack!” she screamed, fighting to slip away. “Jack!” She remembered her slingshot in her hand. The stone she held in the other.
Frae whirled and hurled the rock at the Breccan’s face. It smashed into his nose, and he grunted, releasing her. She took that slender moment to run again, thinking she was fast, she could outrun him—
“Jack!” she cried as the Breccan caught her again.
He was no longer gentle. With one hand, he covered her mouth. With the other, he picked her up and began to carry her to the river.
The world felt upside down. Frae flailed, kicking and biting his palm, but the Breccan wouldn’t release her. Her terror was sharper than a knife, cutting her up from within.
She could hear the water splashing as the Breccan carried her upstream. He slid a plaid over her eyes and a gag into her mouth.
She dropped Jack’s slingshot in the river.
“Jack?” Mirin’s voice broke his reveries. She touched his arm. “Jack, what are you going to do with what I’ve told you?”
She was afraid of what the clan would do to her. If the news came to light of her love for the enemy, it would destroy her life.
It would destroy him and Frae.
Jack swallowed, but it felt like his heart was in his throat when he whispered, “I’m not sure yet, Mum.” He looked at Mirin, remembering Bane’s words. “I can’t tell you how I know this, but I was informed that you might know where the lasses are being held in the west.”
Mirin startled. “What? I … I have no idea, Jack.”
Jack decided some tea would help them both get through this conversation. He needed to do something with his hands, and he thought about how to frame his next questions as the kettle boiled. He was pouring two cups of tea when he heard a faint shout.
“Did you hear that?” he asked, setting the kettle down.
Mirin fell quiet. “No, what was it, Jack?”
He thought it might have been Frae, and a chill swept through him as he strode to the window, opening a shutter. He could see the cows in the byre, but his sister wasn’t there.
Maybe she was in the backyard.
Jack began to head to the door when he heard it, clearer this time. Frae was screaming for him, and his blood went cold. He and Mirin both rushed to the garden, but there was no sign of Frae.
“Frae?” he shouted, stomping through the vegetables. “Frae!”
He was almost at the gate when movement in the valley caught his eye. Jack stopped, staring down at the river. Moray Breccan was carrying Frae upstream.
Mirin emitted a shrill cry. Jack’s heart melted, first in shock, then in terrible fury. He felt like he was a breath away from combusting into flames as he darted through the gate, his eyes fixed on Frae as she fought, kicking and flailing.
Jack made it all of three steps before Moray saw him. The Breccan vanished upstream with impossible speed, into the shadows of the Aithwood, and Jack slid to a halt in the grass, stricken.
He was weak and frail. He had no chance of catching Moray before he crossed the clan line with Frae. Not if Moray had consumed one of the Orenna flowers.
I can’t defeat him in my own strength, Jack thought, grief and terror tangling in him, and then it occurred to him like a blinding light.
He turned and rushed back into the garden, grasping Mirin’s arm as she tried to dash past him.
“Find a strip of plaid,” he ordered, dragging her into the house with him.
“What are you doing?” she cried, nearly clawing his face. “He has Frae! Let me go, Jack.”
“Listen to me!” he shouted, and Mirin startled. She fell quiet, staring at him. “Take my plaid and tear it into strips, and then meet me on the hill. I’ll catch him, but you have to trust me, Mum.”
She nodded, taking his plaid when he shoved it into her hands. Its enchantment was completely gone now, and Jack strode across the room to pick up his harp.
Half of the strings had broken, but half were still intact, albeit darkened with soot. Jack tucked the instrument beneath his arm and returned to the backyard, running as fast as his feet and lungs would allow him. He went halfway down the hill and sat in the grass, his hands trembling as he tried to find a way to comfortably hold his twisted harp.
He didn’t know if this would work. He didn’t know what the music would sound like coming from a harp that was warped. He hadn’t even thought about trying to play it again.
But he set his gaze on the river, where it slithered from the Aithwood. Where Frae had vanished into the shadows.
Jack couldn’t afford to let his emotions escape. He had to quell his fear, his anger, his distress, burning deep within him, like salt in a wound.
He needed to steady himself.
He closed his eyes and became aware of the earth beneath him. The grass at his knees. The scent of the loam. He stretched that awareness out further, to the voice of the river, the deep roots of the forest.
His fingers found a place on the strings. He began to play, and the notes emerged strange and wild, as if they had come from embers. They were tinny and sharp, cutting through the air with a haunting sound, and Jack opened his eyes again to watch the river flow.
This music was spontaneous, passing through him like breath. He began to sing to the spirits of the forest, to the spirits of the river. To the grass and the loam and the wildflowers. To Orenna.
Bring them back to me.
Jack could hear a beat in his mind. He played to it, his notes coming faster, faster with his urgency, knowing Moray Breccan might already be in the west. Jack offered his faith to the spirits around him, weaving a command into the notes.
Bring them back to me.
He waited, his vision bent upon the distant sun-speckled rapids and arching branches. He gave his words to the essence of a red flower with gold-laced petals that grew on dry, heartsick land. He sang to the power that had once invigorated him, when his eyes had been opened to see beyond his world.
Bring them back to me.
Jack could feel his strength ebbing. His hands were aching, his head throbbing. A trickle of blood emerged from his nose, coating his lips. He pushed himself to keep strumming, to keep singing, even though he feared he had nearly reached the end of himself and his abilities.
His nails were splitting, the quicks bright with blood. But he pressed on through the pain and was rewarded with a glimmer of movement.
Moray Breccan was returning, his face furrowed in confusion until he saw Jack singing on the hill. His bewilderment gave way to anger, but the power that had granted Moray the ability to move with speed and prowess was now dragging him to Jack.
Jack didn’t care to look at Moray’s face. He looked at Frae, who was still fighting to get free. She was blindfolded, but Jack could see the gleam of her teeth as she kicked and clawed.
He was moved by both pride and grief.
He continued to play, his voice a raspy offering. The notes were slowing, like the final aspirations before death, but Moray was still tethered to the music. Even as it faded, he was beholden to its creator.
The Breccan heir walked Frae up the hill. He was moving more and more slowly the closer he came to Jack, as if he were wading through honey. When he at last came to a stop at Jack’s feet, the magic held him completely still. Only then did Jack rise. Mirin was beside him—he realized she had been beside him the entire time—and he met Moray’s defiant gaze with a cold, deadly stare of his own.
“Release my sister,” he said.
Moray loosened his hold on Frae. She was weeping now, hearing Jack’s voice.
“Come to me, Frae,” he said, holding out his hand to her. Frae ripped off the blindfold and gag, leaping toward her brother. He could feel how she trembled, and he held her close to his side before Mirin embraced her.
Moray snickered, glancing over Jack. “You never said you were a bard.”
“You never asked,” Jack replied.
There were many things Jack needed to know. The questions were like a flood within him, and he wanted Moray Breccan to answer every single one.
That is, if Jack didn’t murder him. The temptation was keen, pounding in his skull as Moray continued to stare at him, unrepentant.
The Breccan was opening his mouth, beginning to say Adaira’s name.
Jack snapped. Reality began to overtake him, and he bared his teeth and swung the corner of his harp. It caught Moray in the side of his head.
Down he went into the grass, limp and pale. Blood began to pool in Moray’s golden hair.
Jack stared at the Breccan for a moment, wondering if he had just killed the Heir of the West.
“Jack …” Mirin sounded hesitant.
“Bind his wrists, Mum,” Jack said. His strength was waning. He could no longer stand and slowly sank to his knees. “We need to take him inside, tie him to a chair.” His hands were tingling, going numb. Jack’s harp tumbled to the ground. “Call for Adaira.”
It was his last request before he was captured by exhaustion. Jack sprawled facedown in the grass next to Moray Breccan.
His enemy.
His laird by half.
