“As I thought. Thank you for your help, Una.”
Una watched as he began to drift into the street. “Be careful, Jack.”
He lifted his hand to her, acknowledging her admonition. But his thoughts were troubled. If this blade had been forged in the east, Una would have known it.
He retreated to his castle chambers for the remainder of the afternoon. He didn’t pass Adaira in the corridors, and he imagined she was with her father.
When Jack removed his plaid, he noticed that a thread in the wool had started to unravel. He stared at it for a disbelieving moment, tracing the pattern with his fingertip. Part of the enchantment was gone, and he could see that the green fabric had lost its luster. He swallowed hard as he sat at his desk. Whatever secret his mother had woven into this plaid was coming to light.
Jack attempted to distract himself by working on his composition. The ballad for the wind was nearly complete, but he could focus on it only for so long. His mind was swimming with questions, and he eventually unsheathed the dirk once more, to study the slender blade in the fading sunlight.
He had never felt the sting of an enchanted weapon. And he never wanted to, especially after witnessing Torin’s most recent wounds. But if his father had this blade made for him … Jack needed to know what enchantment it possessed. His hands trembled as he stood up from his desk and walked to the fire that burned in his hearth, deliberating.
A small cut, he decided, remembering how swiftly these sorts of wounds healed. A shallow slice on the forearm.
Jack drew in a breath as he traced a cut, just above his wrist. The dirk was sharp; it gleamed as it bit his skin, and his blood welled in the mark, bright as summer wine.
He waited to see which enchantment would greet him, his blood dripping onto the hearth stone between his boots. He waited, and yet nothing happened. He didn’t feel compelled to flee, he wasn’t afraid, he didn’t lose his voice. He didn’t feel despair, nor did he feel anything taken from him, like memories or peace or confidence.
Jack stared at the cut and his blood, full of wonder and irritation.
That was when a knock sounded on the hidden door.
“Jack?” Adaira’s voice melted through the wood. “Jack, may I enter?”
He froze, torn between telling her no and telling her yes. He hid his hands and dirk behind his back. “Come in.”
Adaira opened the door and stepped into his chamber. She had changed since their meeting with Innes. Her hair was loose, untamed waves drifting past her shoulders, and she wore a simple black gown. She noticed his stiff posture, his hesitation. How his hands were clasped out of sight.
She drew closer to him. “Are you hiding something from me?”
And that was when he discovered the enchantment of his father’s dirk. Jack wanted to respond one way, to give her an evasive reply. But he was compelled to speak truth, and it spilled from his mouth.
“Yes. An enchanted blade.”
If Adaira was surprised by his stilted reply, she gave no evidence of it. She reached out to touch his arm, light but confident, and her fingers traced downwards, where the weapon was clenched in his fingers. She brought his stubborn hand forward and studied the dirk’s gleam, the bloody edge of the steel.
“What have you done?” she whispered.
Once again, he was compelled to respond with the truth, and he ground out, “Like a fool, I cut myself to discover which enchantment it holds.”
Adaira reached for his other hand and drew forth his bleeding forearm. “A truth blade then?” she mused. Her gaze united with his, and he saw the mirth gathering within her. “You know that while your blood runs from this blade, you are compelled to answer anything I ask you with brutal honesty.”
“I know that all too well.”
Jack was eaten up by dread as he waited for Adaira to begin asking him all manner of uncomfortable questions. But when the silence deepened, he remembered how she often surprised him. She was not one who conformed to his assumptions, but one who shattered them.
She took the hilt of the dirk from him and cut her palm. Her blood welled, and he wanted to scold her. But her voice emerged first, sharper than any blade he had ever felt.
“I want no secrets between us, Jack.”
His gaze dropped as he studied their wounds. He thought about the blood vow that often took place at weddings, the deepest and strongest of bindings when palms were cut and laid against each other, blood mingling. He and Adaira hadn’t taken that vow, and they wouldn’t do so unless they decided to remain married after the term of the handfast.
And yet seeing Adaira’s blood and her willingness to meet his vulnerability, wound for wound … the air began to change between them.
“I want to talk about the meeting with the west, Jack,” she said, her voice breaking his introspection. “But before I do … let us speak as old friends who have been separated for many years and who realize they now have much ground to regain. Tell me something about you that I don’t know, and I will do the same.”
She walked to the chair that sat before the hearth, and Jack followed with two strips of cloth, one for her and one for him. She bound her hand as he wrapped his forearm, and afterward he drew up another chair to sit across from her. He realized he wanted to behold her fully, no matter what words sounded from his mouth.
He was quiet for a moment, uncertain. But then he began to speak, and it was like a door unlocking and opening just a sliver, but enough to allow the light to spill in.
“When I was younger,” Jack said, “I wanted nothing more than to be worthy of the clan and to find my place. Growing up without a father only fueled those feelings, and I longed to be claimed by something, by someone. I could think of no better honor than to join the East Guard by proving myself to Torin.”
“As I already know,” said Adaira, but she smiled. “That is, perhaps, the most common ground between us. We once dreamt of the same thing.”
“So we did,” he agreed in a reminiscent tone. “But sometimes you discover your place and purpose is not as you once thought. When I was sent away to the mainland, I was full of bitterness and anger. I thought Mirin wanted nothing to do with me, and so after my homesickness eased, I began to settle in at the university and I swore that I would never step foot on Cadence again. Despite those claims, I still dreamt of home when I slept. I could see Cadence and her hills and mountains and the lochs. I could smell the herbs in the kail yard and hear the gossip riding the wind. I can’t tell you when the dreams began to fade, when it was that I had fully convinced myself I didn’t belong here. But I suppose it happened in my third year of schooling, when I had my first harp lesson. As soon as I passed my fingers over the strings, the storm and anger that had endlessly brewed in me dimmed, and I realized that I could indeed prove myself worthy of something.”
“And so you have, bard,” Adaira said.
He smiled. “Now tell me something about you that I don’t know, wife.”
“That might be more of a challenge,” she said, settling deeper into the chair and crossing her legs. “I fear my life is often on display.”
“But we are two old friends who have just been reunited,” Jack reminded her. “A stormy expanse of water and an unforgiving stretch of kilometers have been between us for a decade.”