“Jack? Jack!”
Adaira was shaking him. Her voice seemed far away, as if kilometers stretched between them.
“Tonic,” he struggled to say, blinking against the light. “Harp case.”
He listened as she searched for it. An excruciating minute passed before her fingers wove into his hair, tilting his head up as she placed the bottle to his lips.
The tonic went down like honey, sweet and thick.
Jack swallowed once, twice. He was shaking, but the pain began to fade. He blinked, and Adaira’s face came into focus, hovering over him.
“Do you need more?” she asked.
“Just … wait,” he said.
The pain dulled behind his eyes, but his headache lingered. His hands were still in misery. He wouldn’t have been surprised if he glanced down and found that claws had grown, breaking the skin beneath his nails.
He told Adaira about the salve, also in his case. She found it and rubbed the tingling ointment over his hands, into his palms and knuckles. It put him into a trance, to feel her touch him like that. A groan slipped from his lips.
He didn’t know how much time passed until he felt restored, but when he could at last behold Adaira clearly, he saw she was furious.
“You foolish, irresponsible, infuriating bard,” she said. “You should have told me!”
Jack sighed, leaning against her. He could feel the warmth of her, seeping into him, and he eased his head to her lap.
“Adaira … let’s not fight about it.”
“I’m trying to make sense of your reasoning. To withhold something this vital from me.”
Jack didn’t know how to answer her. Was it his pride? His fear that she might forbid him from playing? The realization that he was a hypocrite? The desire to find the lasses, no matter the cost he had to pay?
Adaira’s silence prompted him to glance up at her. Her face was furrowed in pain, and he knew she was thinking back to her mother. He watched as she made the connection in her mind.
“All those years my mum played for the spirits in secret,” she began softly. “I never realized how much it cost her, but I should have.”
“She and your father kept those dealings private, Adaira. There was no way you could have known.”
“But there were strange moments when she would fall ill,” Adaira continued. “I remember she was always sick in spring and autumn, burning with fevers, her hands full of aches. She would be in bed for days and would always tell me it was just ‘the change of weather’ and she ‘would be better soon.’”
Jack listened, and it felt like a bone had cracked in his chest. He hated to see her sadness, the way the truth was hurting her. But before he could draw breath and speak, Adaira turned her eyes to his, softly touching his hair.
“I never should have asked this of you,” she whispered. “This music … it’s not worth your health, Jack.”
He nearly lost his train of thought beneath her caress.
“If not me, then who?” he managed to counter. “You know as well as your father does that the east needs a bard. The spirits only require a song twice a year. I can easily do that, Adaira.”
She fell silent, her hand still in his hair. Jack watched her, but she was far away from him in that moment, lost to her thoughts.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have told you, but I didn’t want it to interfere with finding the lasses.”
Adaira sighed. “Your health is important to me. Surely, you can understand that.”
“I thought I could handle this,” he said. “On my own.”
A flicker of emotion passed over Adaira’s face. She understood the need to hide pain and perceived weakness from others.
“Is it just when you play for the spirits?” she asked.
“Yes. I’m fine when I play for the clan.”
Adaira made no response, but she was watching the breeze pass through the trees again. Jack sensed her thoughts: they needed to call the spirits of the wind. They had no choice in the matter, as the earth hadn’t been as forthright as they had hoped, and Jack knew Adaira would put the clan above his health. This was no surprise to him; he understood this reasoning and had expected no less when he had agreed to become Bard of the East.
Yet Lorna had never played for the wind. They were the highest of the folk, the most powerful. Jack had a terrible inkling they not only knew where the girls were being held but had also sealed the mouths of the other spirits. Jack would have to compose his own ballad for them, and he shivered, wondering what it would do to him. If the earth had nearly swallowed him whole, how would the wind react to his music?
“If this trade with the Breccans is successful,” Adaira said, “if we can forge peace for the isle … then perhaps we will finally see a day when there is no cost to spin magic. When you can sing for the spirits without pain, and Mirin can weave without suffering, and Una can make blades without anguish.”
Days ago, Jack would have scoffed at such a notion. But he was changing, and he felt it like a tide rising within him.
What have you done to me? he wondered as his gaze traced Adaira.
“Where should we get married?” she asked, tugging on his hair. “I suppose we should settle this now, since it’s happening tomorrow.”
The abrupt change of topic nearly made Jack laugh.
“The hall?” he suggested.
“Hmm. I think it should be outdoors,” Adaira replied. “And besides, I want it to be small. Intimate. I want only our closest family there. I don’t want an audience, and if we bind ourselves in the hall, the entire clan will want to watch.”
Jack shuddered. Yes, that would be horrifying.
They both fell silent, thinking. But then Adaira smiled, and his heart quickened.
“Actually,” she said. “I know exactly where we should take our vows, old menace.”
CHAPTER 15
Jack waited for Adaira at the thistle patch. The sky was overcast and dour, and a brisk wind was blowing from the east. It was fitting weather for the two of them to bind themselves as one, he thought as he raked his fingers through his hair. There was only a faint trace of pain in his hands thanks to Sidra’s medicine, but his head was aching and he hadn’t slept the night before. He wasn’t sure if his restlessness was penance for playing for the spirits or due to the fact that he was getting married.
In the distance, thunder rumbled as a storm billowed closer, and Jack resisted the urge to pace. Torin was waiting beside him, as were Mirin and Laird Alastair, who was so weak that a chair had been brought for him to sit in while the vows took place.
As the minutes continued to drag by Jack wondered if Adaira was planning to stand him up. He gave in to the temptation and walked around the thistles, the blooms white as fallen snow. This place hadn’t changed; it was the same as it had been that night eleven years ago when he had clashed with her.
“Jack,” Mirin said, reaching out to straighten his plaid. He had yanked it crooked, the golden brooch threatening to slip off his shoulder.
He let her fuss over him, knowing she was also nervous and had spent hours on his wedding garments. She had dressed him in the finest of wool—a cream-colored tunic that was soft as a cloud against his skin, and a red plaid that had never been worn before. Torin had additionally gifted him with a leather jerkin, studded with silver and etched with vines, and Alastair had bestowed the golden brooch, set with rubies. A Tamerlaine heirloom, and one that was most likely worth a fortune.