“And this is a terrible thing? That your cousin dreams of peace?”
Torin leaned forward in the chair. “I don’t think the Breccans truly want peace. I think they want to drain our resources to weaken us before they overtake the east.”
Sidra swallowed. “Did they recognize the Orenna?”
Torin’s eyes darkened. “No. Which means we are no closer to solving this mystery than we were a day ago. I wish you would trust me to do my job, Sidra.”
She was angry now. Her blood was simmering. He had not only accused her of giving Adaira ill advice but dropped an innuendo that she was meddling in affairs that didn’t concern her.
“What is this really about, Torin?” she asked, slamming her pestle down on the table. “Tell me honestly.”
She had never been one to raise her voice. They had never argued like this. And while she seemed to burn, he withdrew into ice.
“Everything I’ve built with my hands is about to come undone,” he said in a low, hoarse voice. “I’ve been charged to protect the east, to give up my own life for it if necessary. It’s how I was raised. It’s why I have this scar on my hand. I’ve given all of myself to this endeavor. I’ve surrendered so much of my time, so much of my devotion, that I often feel as if I can give you and Maisie nothing more than scraps of me, when you both deserve so much more.”
His words caught her by surprise. Her fury waned, leaving ash in its wake.
“The truth is … my hands are stained, Sidra. I’ve craved violence, and I’ve drunk willingly from its cup. I’ve beaten the men who trespass over the clan line, beaten them until they cower and yield. And those who don’t? I’ve ended their lives without a moment of hesitation. I’ve slit their throats and pierced their hearts. I’ve stolen their voices and dropped their bodies into the sea, as if the water could wash away my deeds.”
Sidra was silent as she listened, but her heart was pounding.
“So when you speak of peace,” he said, “when Adaira speaks of peace, I’m unable to see it. It’s a sentiment that is unattainable in my mind, given all the things I’ve done to the Breccans in order to keep the east safe. And if the trade does happen the way my cousin hopes, I will have to encounter people marked by my actions. Do you think they’ll be glad to see me, Sid? Do you think they’ll want to trade with the man who killed their son or beat their brother?”
Torin was staring at his hands, as if he could see the blood on them. Sidra watched him with a knot in her throat. She thought he might be struggling to express his guilt, and while the healer within her wanted to smooth his brow and give him words to ease his pain, she sensed this was a festering wound in him that needed to be opened.
“I know you’ve killed men, Torin,” she said, drawing his eyes to hers. “I’ve seen the blood that stains your plaid, the blood beneath your nails. I’ve seen the haunted gleam in your eye, even though it is fleeting. I know that you are the captain of the guard, that you must protect us from the west, and that sometimes that requires you to kill. But there is more to you than violence. And I don’t want to see you become a man who kills without reason. A man who lets revenge turn his heart into a cold, bitter vessel.”
Now she was the one to take him by surprise. For a moment, he merely gazed up at her. “How would you stop it then? A heart turning to stone?”
“There is another way to protect our clan. A way that veers away from vengeance and enmity. But you must strive to find it, and you must lead the others by example.” She paused, turning her own palms upwards. “Our hands can steal, or they can give. They can harm, or they can comfort. They can wound and kill, or they can heal and save. Which will you choose for your hands, Torin?”
He answered, through his teeth, “This is the way it has always been done. The way I have been taught.”
“And sometimes we must look inward and change ourselves,” she said. “If you have killed men without cause, if you have struck them out of vengeance just because they live on a different side of the isle, then you must search within and ask yourself why you have done these things, and what is the cost for them, and how you can make reparations for them. The trade would be a good place to start.”
Torin stood. He paced the room, breathing heavily. Sidra thought he might flee, but he stopped and looked at her again.
“And if I don’t agree with your thoughts? If I can’t change to become what you hope for? Is losing you one of the costs for my sins?”
“I have been with you all this time,” she said, a soft answer that eased his rigid posture. “The good as well as the bad. Once, we were acquaintances sharing a vow. But you have become more to me than mere words spoken on a midsummer night. And I have never been one to love conditionally.”
“And yet you ask me to change?” he asked, fist over his heart.
Sidra wondered if he had even heard what she had just said to him. She had never spoken such words aloud before—that she had come to love him in a deep, quiet way. Completely, with all of his scars and mistakes and glory.
She realized she and Torin stood on two different mountains, with a deep valley between them. They saw the world from opposing sides, and she didn’t know if they would be able to find a middle ground. Their differences could be enough to break their vows, despite her feelings for him.
“You haven’t heard the things I’ve heard,” he said, as if he also sensed the divide. “You haven’t gone hungry after a raid, or watched your storehouse go lean, losing all of your winter provisions. You haven’t had to draw a sword and fight them, Sidra.”
“I haven’t,” Sidra agreed. “But I’ve had to heal wounds caused by the raids. I’ve given to those who have suffered losses, and I have been with them through their pain. And so I must say this, Torin … what has brought on these feelings within you? It doesn’t sound as if I am asking you to change, but that your own blood and bones are aching for it.”
His face went pale. He stared at her with a clenched jaw, and she sensed the divide between them grow.
“Bring the tonics to the barracks when they’re ready,” he said in a cold voice.
Sidra watched as he turned and departed. He was running from the things she had said to him, and she stood for a moment longer before sinking into a chair.
She had never felt more defeated.
CHAPTER 17
Frae was dreaming of chocolate cake and snow when she heard the hooves in the garden. A horse was stomping through the vegetables, its noble neck arched, its nostrils flaring with breath like clouds. At first, Frae thought the horse was part of her dream—she had always longed for one, despite Mirin insisting the chickens and the three cows were more than enough animals for them—until she startled awake.
She opened her eyes to the darkness and listened. She could hear Mirin’s soft, deep breaths beside her, but there … just beyond the bolted shutters, to her left. A horse whickered.
She sat forward, the blanket tumbling away from her shoulders. Without a sound, she stood and walked all the way to the bedroom door. She unlatched it very quietly and slipped into the common chamber, where the hearth embers still glowed and Mirin’s loom sat in the corner like a dark, slumbering beast. She made to go to Jack’s door but then paused, thinking she had better check and make sure a horse was truly in the yard before she woke her brother.