It was also marked by the western seal.
Moray Breccan had written to her again. She almost hesitated to open it.
On the day Adaira had forged a letter to Jack, she had also sent a letter to the heir of the Breccan clan, expressing her desire to discuss the possibility of a trade. Moray had quickly replied and, to Adaira’s surprise, had been well spoken and enthusiastic about her idea.
It seemed that peace might be attainable after centuries of strife, and Adaira was hopeful. She was tired of the raids, tired of the fear that laced the cold days in the east. She dreamt of a different isle, and if the Breccans wouldn’t initiate it, she would.
Her father had been furious.
She could still remember how Alastair had railed at her, claiming it was foolish to open their storehouses for the Breccans. To begin a relationship with the clan that wanted nothing more than to harm them.
“I know you have raised me to never trust the western clan,” she had replied. “For us to be self-sufficient. The history of raids alone is enough to make me despise the Breccans. But I confess that the hatred has worn me down—it has made me feel old and brittle, as if I have lived a thousand years—and I want to find another way. Have you never dreamt of peace, Da? Have you ever envisioned an isle that is united again?”
“Of course I have dreamt of it.”
“Then is this not the first step toward such an ideal?”
Alastair had fallen silent. He refused to meet her gaze when he replied, “They have nothing we need, Adi. A trade, as much as you want to believe it will stave off winter raids, will not end them. The Breccans are a bloodthirsty lot.”
She didn’t agree. But he had grown so feeble over the past two years that Adaira had let the argument fade, worried it would overtax him.
Torin had responded in a similar manner, but Adaira understood the ground he stood on. How would this trade work with the clan line? Where should it take place? One foul move from either clan would shatter the trust, and some innocent person would most likely wind up dead.
Adaira reached for the letter. Since the disappearing girls had become the focus of her days and energy, she had almost forgotten about the trade and Moray’s previous response: an invitation to her to visit the west. She held the letter close to her face, breathing in the wrinkled parchment. It carried the fragrance of rain and juniper and something else. Something that she couldn’t name, something that stirred her apprehension.
She broke the wax seal and opened the letter. She read it by dawn’s light.
Dear Adaira,
I hope all is well with you and your clan. It has been four days since I last heard from you, and my parents and I are eagerly awaiting your response to my invitation to visit the west. I wonder if my letter failed to reach your hands. If so, let me repeat what I said before:
As the next generation, you and I have been afforded the chance to change the fate of our clans. You write to us of peace, which I had not thought possible, given our history. But you have granted me hope with the offer of a trade, and I want to extend an invitation to you and you alone to visit the west. Come and see our lands, our ways. Come and meet our people. Afterward, I will follow you east, likewise alone and unarmed to show the measure of my trust.
Furthermore, I ask to meet you on the clan line in five days’ time. I will bring the best my clan has to offer to trade with you. You may likewise bring the best your clan has to give, and we can begin a new season for the isle.
Meet me at noontide on the northern coast, where the sea cave marks the boundary between east and west. I will remain on my side of the clan line, as you should remain on yours. It will take some imagination to pass the goods back and forth, but I do have a plan. Alert your guards that you must come alone with your gift, so they must remain distant enough to be out of sight. I assure you that mine will do the same, and that I come unarmed to meet you.
Let us be an example to our clans that peace is attainable, but that it must be built entirely on trust.
I will be awaiting your response,
Moray Breccan
HEIR OF THE WEST
She read it a second time. Then a third, just to be certain she understood the gravity of it. Adaira’s hands shook as she folded Moray’s letter and departed from her bedchamber.
Was it wise for her to go alone to the west? Was it hypocritical of her to feel a pit in her stomach every time Moray mentioned trust?
She needed council.
She wanted to speak with Sidra first.
Sidra paced Graeme’s common room, around piles of parchment and books. They were waiting for Torin to arrive. Every minute felt like an hour, and Sidra’s heart continued to beat in her throat.
Her thoughts were consumed by Maisie. Where was she? Had she been harmed? Who had taken her?
“Sidra?” Graeme said gently. “Do you want to change? I have some spare garments in that oaken chest in the corner.”
“No, I’m fine, Da,” she said, distracted by her inner turmoil.
“I just thought …” Graeme paused, reaching for a decanter of whiskey. His hands shook as he poured two glasses. “It’s going to upset my son to see blood on your clothes.”
Sidra halted and glanced down at her chemise. It looked like she had been stabbed.
“Of course,” she whispered, realizing that the last thing she wanted was for Torin to see her like this. She walked through the maze of Graeme’s possessions to the trunk in the corner and knelt. Her fingers were cold as they raced over the wooden carvings, hefting the lid open.
She knew what rested within.
Torin’s mother had been gone for almost twenty-one years. Emma Tamerlaine had departed unexpectedly in the night when Torin was only six years old, leaving her son and her husband behind. She had been a mainlander; the isle was unfamiliar, frightening, and far away from her family. In the end, life here had been too difficult for her, and Emma had returned to the mainland without a backward glance.
Yet Graeme still had her raiment, as if she might return one day.
Sorrowfully, Sidra searched through the dresses. She eventually settled on a chemise, hoping Torin wouldn’t realize who it once belonged to. But why should he? He rarely saw Sidra’s own undergarments.
She held it up. The chemise was long and narrow, betraying how tall and svelte Torin’s mother had been. Sidra knew it would never fit her curves, and she was considering her options when she heard the front door blow open. The entire cottage shook in response. A breeze whispered through the chamber, overturning papers.
Sidra knew it was Torin, and she froze on her knees, Emma’s chemise gripped in her hands. Her view of the threshold was blocked by a dressing panel, but she could hear him clearly as he spoke.
“Where’s Maisie?” Torin panted, as if he had run across the hills. “Is everything well? I stopped by the house on my way and neither she nor Sidra were there.”
“Torin …” Graeme said.
Sidra shut her eyes. The house fell silent, and she wished that she could awaken. That this was only some terrible nightmare, and she wasn’t about to shatter Torin’s life.
“Sid?” he called.
She dropped his mother’s garment and stiffly rose. She looked at the floor as she stepped around the panel, at last coming into Torin’s line of sight.
It was the silence that made her glance upward.
His face was unnaturally pale. His eyes were glazed, betraying his shock. His lips parted, but he didn’t speak. A gasp escaped him, and Sidra thought it sounded like he had just been stabbed, deep in the side.