They could both see it—a fleeting view of the western half of the isle. The clouds hung low and thick over it like a shield, but a few patches of green and brown were sneaking through the weak points of gray. Adaira felt her heart skip, apprehensive as she imagined Annabel, Catriona, and Maisie in those small breaks of sunlight.
“Let us summon the spirits with our faces to the west,” she said. “Are you ready to play?”
He nodded, but she saw the doubt and worry in him. She knew he was more than worthy to play his own composition for the powers of the isle, and she hoped he would sing through those feelings of inadequacy. For Adaira had come to love the deep timber of his voice when he sang, the deftness of his hands when he played the strings.
“This is your moment, Jack,” she said. “You are worthy of the music you sing, and the spirits know it and are eager to gather at your feet.”
Jack nodded, and the doubt relinquished him. He found a safe place to sit with the cave at his back; the sun danced on his face and the wind tousled his hair as he unpacked his harp.
Adaira settled beside him. She watched as he found the glass vial in his harp case. His hands trembled, but he opened the cork.
“I hope this works,” he mumbled. “Because I don’t want to make this climb again.”
“If it proves otherwise, I’ll let you choose where to play next time,” she promised.
He glanced at her, but her face was inscrutable. Jack had no idea that her heart was pounding as he swallowed the western flower.
He felt no different at first. But when Jack propped his harp against his left shoulder and began to strum, he felt the power in his hands. He could see his notes in the air like rings of gold, spreading wide around him.
The height no longer frightened him. He felt the depth of the mountain beneath him, aware of everything living within the summit—on its craggy slopes and deep in its heart, where caves ran crooked like veins. He could sense Adaira—her presence like a dancing flame beside him—and he turned to look at her.
She was watching him intently; he could see his music, illumined in her eyes.
“How do you feel, Jack?”
He almost laughed. “I’ve never felt better.” His hands no longer ached. His fingers felt as if he could play for an endless era.
He gave himself another moment to adjust to how effortless it was to pluck the strings, watching the music caress the breeze. Eventually, he felt an overwhelming urge to meld his voice with the notes, and he began to play his ballad for the wind.
Jack sang his verses, his fingers strumming with confidence. He sang to the southern wind with its promise of harvest. He sang to the eastern wind with its promise of strength in battle. He sang to the western wind with its promise of healing. He sang to the northern wind with its promise of vindication.
The notes rose and fell, undulating like the hills far beneath him. But while the wind carried his music and his voice, the folk of the air didn’t answer.
What if they refuse to come? Jack wondered, with a pulse of worry. From the corner of his eye, he watched as Adaira rose to her feet.
The wind seemed to be waiting for her to move. To stand and meet it. She stood planted on the rock as Jack continued to play, shielded by the Orenna’s essence. Twice, he had played for the spirits and had nearly forgotten he was a man, that he was not a part of them. But this time he held firmly to himself as he watched the folk answer.
The southern wind manifested first. They arrived with a sigh and formed themselves from the gust, individualizing into men and women with hair like fire—red and amber with a trace of blue. Great feathered wings bloomed from their backs like those of a bird, and each beat of their pinions emitted a wash of warmth and longing. Jack could taste the nostalgia they offered; he drank it like a bittersweet wine, like the memories of a summer long ago.
The east wind was the next to arrive. They manifested in a flurry of leaves, their hair like molten gold. Their wings were fashioned like those of a bat, long and pronged and the shade of dusk. They carried the fragrance of rain in their wings.
The west wind spun themselves out of whispers, with hair the shade of midnight, long and jeweled with stars. Their wings were like those of a moth, patterned with moons, beating softly and evoking both beauty and dread as Jack beheld them. The air shimmered at their edges like a dream, as if they might melt at any moment, and their skin smelled of smoke and cloves as they hovered in place, unable to depart as Jack’s music captivated them.
Half of the spirits watched him, entranced by his ballad. But half of them watched Adaira, their eyes wide and brimming with light.
“It’s her,” some of them whispered.
Jack missed a note. He quickly regained his place, pushing his concern aside. It felt like his nails were creating sparks on the brass strings.
He sang the verse for the northern wind again.
The sky darkened. Thunder rumbled in the distance as the north reluctantly answered Jack’s summoning. The air plunged cold and bitter as the strongest of the winds manifested from wisps of clouds and stinging gales. It answered the music, fragmenting into men and women with flaxen hair, dressed in leather and links of silver webs. Their wings were translucent and veined, reminiscent of a dragonfly’s, boasting every color found beneath the sun.
They came reluctantly, defiantly. Their eyes bore into him like needles.
Jack was alarmed by their reaction to him. Some of them hissed through their sharp teeth, while others cowered as if awaiting a death blow.
His ballad came to its end, and the absence of his voice and music sharpened the terror of the moment. Adaira continued to stand before an audience of manifested spirits, and Jack was stunned by the sight of them. To know that they had rushed alongside him as he walked the east. That he had felt their fingers in his hair, felt them kiss his mouth and steal words from his lips, carrying his voice in their hands.
And his music had just summoned them. His voice and song now held them captive, beholden to him.
He studied the horde. Some of the spirits looked amused, others shocked. Some were afraid, and some were angry.
Just as Adaira was taking a step forward to beseech the spirits, their gathering parted to make way for one of their own to come forward. Jack saw the threads of gold in the air; he felt the rock tremble beneath him. He watched as the south, the east, and the west drew in their wings, watched the spirits quiver and bow to the one who was coming to meet Adaira.
He was taller, greater than the others. His skin was pale, as if he had forged himself from the clouds, his wings were the shade of blood, veined with silver, and his hair was long, the color of the moon. His face was beautiful, terrifying to look upon, and his eyes smoldered. A lance was in his hand; its arrowhead flickered with tendrils of lightning. A chain of stars crowned him, and the longer he stood, held by Jack’s music, the stormier the sky churned and the deeper the mountain quaked.
It was Bane, the king of the northern wind. A name that Jack had only heard whispered in children’s stories, in old legends that flowed with fear and reverence. Bane brought storms, death, famine. He was a wind one wanted to evade. And yet Jack knew the answers they sought were held in his hands; he had been the one to seal the mouths of the other spirits, to keep the truth concealed from them.
Bane motioned for Adaira to approach him, and Jack’s heart blazed with fear.
“Come, mortal woman. You have been clever, tricking this bard into summoning me. Come and speak to me, for I have long awaited this moment.”