But he would come if she needed him. All she had to do was stand in her garden and speak his name into the wind, and he would come when the whisper on the breeze found him. When he recognized her voice within it, whether the wind blew from the north, the south, the east, or the west. Sometimes it took hours for him to arrive, but he always faithfully answered her.
She remembered one particular instance. A spring evening when she had summoned him, how he had appeared only moments after she breathed his name. He had arrived with dusk-tangled hair and worried eyes, thinking something was wrong. There had been nothing amiss, only the two of them standing in a quiet cottage with elderflower wine on the table and a chemise with loose draws at Sidra’s collarbones, ready to fall.
Even then, it had not been love but something like hunger. Sidra had never hoped for the impassioned love that bards sang of, the sort that warmed blood like fire. She had always trusted Torin, even knowing who and what he was, but she had never expected him to love her as he once had loved Donella.
He and Donella had been of one mind. He and Sidra were stark opposites; he killed while she healed.
Sidra opened her eyes. They were brimming with tears, and she blinked them away, trying to set her focus on her grandmother’s words. She read one salve recipe of Senga’s, and then notes about how to cure a cough before she closed the book.
How can I heal him when I haven’t healed myself?
She needed to tell Torin how she was feeling. She needed to be honest with him, to share the most vulnerable parts of herself. But Sidra realized she was afraid.
She was afraid to be so open with him, uncertain how he would respond. Would he want to break their vows? Would he want to let her go? Would he want to continue life with her, just the two of them?
The thought of drifting away from him created such agony within her that she had no choice but to admit that she had indeed been pierced by a blade, one that made a heart wound she didn’t know how to mend.
There was a glimmer on the other side of the table. Donella materialized with her diaphanous beauty, and Sidra stiffened. The ghost had never visited her while Torin was on the grounds, and Sidra didn’t know what to think of it now. If he happened to glance into the house, would he catch a glimpse of her?
“Donella,” Sidra greeted her, speaking in a low tone so her words wouldn’t drift beyond the door.
“He is afraid, Sidra,” Donella said, and her voice was faint, as if she were about to fully fade. As if her wandering soul had found its peace at last.
“What does he fear?” Sidra thought she knew the answer, but she decided to ask it, knowing Donella had insight she didn’t.
“He is afraid of losing you, first in heart, then in body. And if you follow me to the grave, he will not be far behind you. His soul has found its counterpart in yours, and he belongs with you, even after Death’s sting.”
Sidra flushed, her blood coursing through her. She let a moment pass before she whispered, “I don’t know if he wants to stay with me. I can’t … I can’t even heal him when he needs me the most.”
“You must heal yourself first, Sidra,” Donella said.
Sidra, wide eyed, stared at the ghost. Without another word, Donella evanesced with a sigh.
She decided she couldn’t bear to dwell on those parting words. Sidra made a second breakfast, which Torin was thankful for. They ate in the sunlight on the back stoop, watching the kittens scurry across the garden path.
“I’ll find a home for them soon,” Sidra said, ignoring the welt in her throat.
Torin touched her knee. No, they’re fine, she read in his hand, in his eyes.
She nodded, and they remained there a while longer, quiet and warmed by the sun.
When Adaira came for Torin, Sidra stood in the front yard with Yirr, watching them depart. Their entourage soon melted into the hills, pressing north, and Sidra stood like a statue until the afternoon brought an unexpected squall.
The rain dampened her dress, brought her to her senses.
She turned to go inside, but the house felt too empty without Maisie and Torin. She didn’t want to wait inside its shell; she wanted to disregard the overwhelming voice in her mind. One that was whispering for her to look inward, to acknowledge her many pieces.
To heal herself.
I’ll go to Graeme’s, she thought, shutting the door and beginning to walk the hill between their crofts, Yirr trotting dutifully behind her. Graeme would be able to distract her with his stories of the mainland.
But she stopped in the heather, her heart pounding.
This was the place where her faith had first cracked. The ground where she had been attacked and had come to know firsthand the sinister ways of the world. And she heard a beloved voice in her mind, as if it were carried on the wind. Her grandmother said, Go to the place where your faith began.
Sidra stood in the storm until the rain hid her tears, and yet she didn’t go to Graeme’s, which would have been the easiest path. She yearned for her grandmother, and she turned and walked south with Yirr, into the mist of the valley.
Adaira waited on the abandoned northern road that led into the west. The old signpost was weathered and gray but still stood, even after centuries of being forgotten. Waist-high weeds had grown up through the packed dirt, marking the clan line with thorny stems and yellow blooms.
The Aithwood surrounded them, granting Adaira only a slender view of the Breccans’ land. From where she stood, it looked the same as the east, a thick gathering of pines, junipers, oaks, and rowans, with a rug of bracken on the forest floor. She wondered what it would feel like to step foot on her enemy’s territory. If they would truly welcome her, or if Moray had been playing her for a fool.
She still had yet to hear from him, but she could only surmise that his mother had learned of the raid and read his post, coming across Adaira’s ultimatum.
It was odd, how obliging the Laird of the West was being. Innes had never been so before now. She had always permitted the raids to continue in their cycle of violence and thievery.
But what would you do if your clan was starving in winter? Adaira asked herself, her eyes fixed on the overgrown curve of western road. What would you do if your people were bloodthirsty, their children skin and bones when the ice arrived?
Adaira wasn’t sure, but she wouldn’t be stealing lasses from the clan who was feeding them.
She didn’t know what Torin would advise, but Jack had been adamant that Adaira withhold the information about the missing girls.
“If Innes knows about it,” he had said to her that morning, “then she is complicit and she isn’t an ally to us in this matter, no matter how gracious she appears today. It would be better for us to gain our confirmation another way, and to take our lasses back by surprise.”
Such as a raid.
Adaira almost laughed, envisioning Tamerlaines secretly crossing into the west, to take back what belonged to them. But it was a heady imagining, and it had haunted her sleep at night.
She felt that Jack’s advice was sound, and while she wanted to make an emotional decision about the girls, she knew she had to be patient and be wise. Above all, she didn’t want the lasses harmed or moved to a different location.
She had to maintain the appearance of ignorance.
Adaira continued to wait. They had arrived early. Jack and Torin stood close behind her on the road, and ten other guards were stationed, deep into the woods but within sight. She didn’t anticipate a skirmish, but neither had she thought a raid would happen in summer.