He had taken the time to scout the hills the day before, to find the perfect patch of moon thistles. And when Torin had blown the horn at midnight, commencing the challenge, Jack had dashed to his secret patch, only to discover that Adaira had beaten him to it. She had harvested nearly all of the thistles and when she broke into a run, he had chased her, thinking they could split them. Instead, Adaira had turned around and shoved the thistles into his face.
The pain had been unbearable. Like fire, trapped beneath his skin. Jack had instantly floundered in the grass, wailing until Torin found him and dragged him home to Mirin. But the worst had yet to come. Moon thistles were enchanted plants. A prick from their needles promised a nightmare later, in sleep. Jack had suffered through thirteen terrible nights after Mirin had drawn all the spindles from his swollen face.
A hint of a smile played over Adaira’s countenance. Jack watched the corners of her lips curve.
“I still remember those nightmares you gave me, heiress,” he said.
“And you think you were the only one bewitched by moon thistles, my old menace?” she countered. “This is the other side of the story you have yet to learn: I ran home, because you gave me no other choice. You ruined my chances of joining the guard. And when I arrived at my bedchamber, I realized my palms gleamed with thistle needles.” Adaira held up her hands, studying them as if she still felt the sting. “So many I couldn’t count them all, nor could I extract them myself. I went to my mum, because she often remained awake, late into the night. When I showed her my palms, my mum asked me, ‘Who did this to you, Adi?’ And I told her, ‘The lad called Jack.’
“She began to remove them, needle by needle, and she said, ‘You mean the lad who becomes quiet when my music floods the hall.’ I didn’t understand what she meant by that. But on the next full moon feast, I watched you when my mum sat on the dais and began to play her harp. I watched you, but I didn’t see anything remarkable within you. Because you were not the only one who became quiet when she played. You were not the only one who hungered for her songs. All of us did. And yet she saw the flame within you. A light she had been waiting for. She knew what you would become before you did.
“Not many of us on the isle can wield music; it is its own mistress here, and it chooses who it will love. But my mother saw that mark on your hands, heard the songs you were destined to play before you had encountered your first note. And you can say that you were unclaimed here, but nothing could be further from the truth, John Tamerlaine. When you left for the university, my mother was content. As if she knew you would return a bard when the time was right.”
Jack listened to her every word, but he stiffened when Adaira spoke of marks and light, and most of all when she addressed him by his given name, John. He had always hated the name Mirin had blessed his birth with and had soon chosen Jack for himself, refusing to answer to anything else.
“What are you saying to me, Adaira?” he asked, hating the way his voice broke.
“I am saying that my mother chose you as her replacement. She saw you as the future Bard of the East,” Adaira said. “She died before she could see you return in your glory, but I know she would proud of you, Jack.”
Jack didn’t like this, the different angle on his history. He didn’t like how Adaira’s softly spoken words cut deep like a knife, cracking him open.
“So my future was never my own?” he asked. “There was no choice as to where I wanted to reside come the end of my education?”
Adaira flushed in the twilight. “No, of course you have a choice. But can I tempt you, Jack? Can I tempt you to stay with the clan for longer than the summer? Perhaps a full turning of the year? The hall has been quiet for so long now, and we have been trapped in weeks of mourning and sorrow. I think your music would bring us back to life, restore our hope.”
She was asking him to let his music trickle through the isle like a stream returning after a long drought. To play on the full moon feasts and at burials and on holy days and at handfastings. To play for the younger generations, such as Frae, who held no knowledge of the old ballads.
Jack didn’t know how to respond to her.
His shock must have been evident, because Adaira hastened to add, “You don’t have to give me your answer now. Or tomorrow even. But I hope you will consider it, Jack.”
“I’ll think about it,” he said gruffly, as if he never would. Yet his mind raced. He thought of Lorna’s music turret, with the bookshelves and the grand harp and the clan music, hidden in a dust-riddled tome. It reminded him of the letter he had seen on the table, addressed to Adaira. “I saw something yesterday, which I need to speak to you about.”
“And what did you see, Jack?”
“The Breccans wrote to you. Why?”
She hesitated.
It struck him then that he had no right to know the things in her mind, the plans she was making. To be within her circle. But he felt an ache in his stomach, and while he had no idea where it came from, he realized that he longed to be in the confidence of someone who had walked hours, searching for missing girls. Who had told him her secret plans and trusted him with her late mother’s music. Who had given him the chance to become something far greater than he had ever envisioned for himself.
“You sound displeased about this,” Adaira said.
“Of course I’m displeased!” Jack said, exasperated. “What does our enemy want?”
“Perhaps I wrote to them first.”
That brought Jack upright. “Why?”
“If I share the answer with you, I expect that you will keep it secret, for the good of the clan. Do you understand, Jack?”
He held her gaze, thinking of the other secrets they shared. “I may be your favorite old menace, but you know that I won’t speak a word of it.”
Adaira fell pensive, and he thought she would withhold her answer until she said, “I want to establish a trade between our two clans.”
Jack gaped at her for a moment. “A trade?”
“Yes. I have faith that a trade will stave off winter raids, if we can peacefully give the Breccans what they need come the lean months.”
Frae’s words returned to Jack, her innocent voice echoing through him. Mum says the Breccans are hungry when winter comes. Can’t we just share our food with them?
“And what will they give us in return?” Jack said. This trade would drain the Tamerlaines if they weren’t careful. “We don’t need anything of theirs.”
“The one thing they have in abundance: enchanted possessions,” Adaira replied. “They can weave and forge and create magical craft without consequence. I know it doesn’t make sense for us to ask for their charmed blades and plaids if we want peace, but I also know that our people here are suffering for making those things. And I want to see that burden lifted.”
She spoke of people like his mum. Like Una.
Jack was quiet, but he dreamt of the same things. He had always hated the way his mother sacrificed her health to make those uncanny plaids. One day she would push herself too far, too hard, and the cough she tried to hide would morph into a claw, ripping her up from within.
Furthermore, if a trade could be established between the two clans, then Jack would no longer have to worry about his mother’s croft being raided. This very storehouse that he was standing in, which beckoned a Breccan like low-hanging fruit come winter, could be secure.