She wore a green dress and her enchanted plaid shawl. Her hair was braided with silver chains and tiny hearts of gemstones. The half coin shone at her neck, its glimmer matching his own, hidden beneath his plaid.
Jack almost said to her that he was glad she had asked him—chosen him—to stand with her in this moment as her partner. A moment that could unfold in a hundred different ways. A beginning or an end, and yet she had wanted it to be him.
She felt his gaze and glanced at him. She frowned. “Is something wrong, bard?”
He shook his head, but his hand found hers, weaving their fingers together. He returned his attention to the other side of the cave.
A few minutes passed. Soon Jack could hear pebbles shifting and the scrape of boots on the rocks. There was a strange echo, and Jack braced himself as Moray Breccan stepped into the western side of the cave.
He was tall and lean with dark blond hair and striking, angular features. A blue plaid was draped from his shoulder. On his forearms, woad tattoos danced in interlocked patterns. An old scar shone on his cheek, cutting through his braided beard. He carried a burlap sack and a narrow boat made from a hollowed tree trunk.
In some ways, Moray Breccan was exactly as Jack had envisioned him. A warrior, with stories on his pale skin. But in other ways, his appearance was surprising. He was dressed similarly to Jack—tunic and plaid and belt, with soft boots tethered up to his knees. If not for the proud display of blue and the tattoos, he might have passed as one of their own. And then came his smile. A grin spread across his face the moment he beheld Adaira, even as the tide whirled between them.
Jack didn’t know if the smile was friendly or predatory. He tightened his grip on her hand.
“Heiress,” Moray said. His voice was rough at the edges, resonating in the cave. It reminded Jack of splintered wood. “At last we meet face-to-face.”
“Heir of the West,” Adaira greeted him. “Thank you for coming. This is my husband, Jack.”
The Breccan’s eyes shifted, meeting Jack’s stare. “A pleasure,” Moray said, but his gaze returned swiftly to Adaira. She was the one he was interested in, and Jack felt his stomach knot.
“Is it not odd to you, heiress,” Moray said, “that you and I have breathed the same wind and walked the same isle, swum in the same tides and slept beneath the same stars, and yet we have been raised as enemies?”
Adaira was quiet, but Jack could feel her draw a deep breath. “Our isle was divided long ago by the decision of one of my ancestors, as well as one of yours. I have hope that Cadence can be restored, and I believe this trade is the first step to seeing the balance return. We have brought the best of the east as a sign of our goodwill. This is only a prelude to what we can offer your clan should peace be upheld.”
“And we are grateful for your benevolence, Adaira,” said Moray, and he sounded genuine. “Likewise, we have something to give to you, in hopes that it will be a worthy enough exchange.”
“Then let us make the trade,” Adaira said, but she hesitated. She couldn’t cross the line lurking beneath the water, and neither could Moray. Or, Jack supposed, they physically could, but doing so would sound alarms to both sets of guards. To Torin, pacing on the hill, eager for a reason to arrive, and to Moray’s guards, who Jack surmised were also not far from the coast.
“I’ve thought long about how we could safely partake in this first exchange without stepping foot off our lands,” Moray said. “Hence, this cave and this boat. I will put my goods in the boat and pass it over to you. After you take my offering, grant me yours, and I will pull the boat back to my side.”
Jack remained quiet as he stood beside Adaira, and they watched as Moray prepared his boat. He tied a rope to the stern and set his burlap bag in the hull. He let the rope go slack in his blue printed hands, and the boat began to float toward them. It sailed over the clan line, from western waters into eastern ones. Jack grasped the boat to hold it steady while Adaira opened the sack.
She withdrew a large blanket, woven from the finest of dyed wool. It was a vibrant purple, even in the dusky light, with traces of gold in the pattern. Jack had an inkling it was enchanted; did all the Breccans sleep beneath charmed weavings?
“The blanket will keep you warm in the winter and cool in the summer,” Moray explained. “It will also protect you from any harm that might befall you in the night.”
“It’s beautiful,” Adaira said. “Thank you.”
Next, she found a bottle, sloshing with amber liquid. She held it up to a stream of sun, and Moray said, “It’s called gra. A fermented drink that is revered in the west. We consume it only in the presence of those we trust.”
Adaira nodded, appreciating the message, and reached for the last object in the sack. Jack watched, his brow creasing as she withdrew a piece of an antler.
“I couldn’t bring you a dirk,” Moray explained. “Because we had agreed to come unarmed for this first meeting. But you’re holding a hilt in your hand, Adaira. Tell me what enchanted blade you long for, and I will have it forged for you.”
Adaira was quiet, studying the piece of antler. There were countless charms she could ask for. Jack had heard of blades being enchanted with terror, confusion, weariness. There were tales of swords stealing joyful memories from the mortals they cut. Most enchanted weapons held terrible things, emotions and feelings that one would only desire to bestow upon an enemy.
Jack sensed this was a test. Moray wanted to arm her, which felt strange until Jack realized this was his way of measuring Adaira’s true determination to seek peace. It was tempting to ask for the Breccan’s steel. To ask the Breccans to forge them weapons that the Tamerlaines could in turn use against them.
Adaira returned the antler to the sack. She looked across the water at Moray and said, “Forge me a blade with an enchantment of your choosing. I’ll trust your judgment.”
Moray nodded, his expression neutral. Jack couldn’t read the slant of his thoughts, but it seemed Adaira had answered correctly.
“Will you bring our crate to me, Jack?” Adaira whispered to him.
Jack nodded, gathering the blanket and the bottle of gra. The tide was rising; the water was beginning to reach their waists and he felt a tremor of fear as he half-walked, half-waded to their crate. He set Moray’s offerings on the rock and took the box in his hands, bringing it to Adaira’s side.
She felt the rising tide as well and quickly loaded their resources into the boat. A sack of oats. A sack of barley. A jug of milk. A jar of honey with the comb. A bottle of blood red wine. A taste of the east.
“All right,” Adaira said, and Moray began to pull the boat back to him.
He touched each of the offerings, and when he glanced across the water again, a smile had warmed his face.
“Thank you, Adaira. This is generous of you and your clan,” he said. “Now I would like to ask when you can visit the west. Both my mother and my father are keen to meet you and learn more of the trade you dream of.”
No further preamble. This was the heart of the matter. Jack was tense, waiting for Adaira to speak. He still didn’t think the visit was a good idea. Even if he was with her, there was only so much he could do to protect her. He wasn’t Torin. He wasn’t a guard. He was a musician who was siphoning away his vitality to sing for spirits.