Torin watched it all in silence.
He watched as his uncle was buried in the soggy earth. He watched Adaira stand in the graveyard, soaked from the storm with eyes that seemed dead. The clan gathered around her. Torin couldn’t hear what was spoken, but he saw the Elliotts approach her, faces red from weeping. He saw Una and Ailsa embrace her. He saw Mirin hold her hand, and Frae wrap her arms around Adaira’s waist.
Ever since he had lost his voice, Torin had begun to notice things that he would have missed before. Weeds in the garden, the difficulty of making parritch, how empty rooms felt without Sidra and Maisie. And now he lifted his eyes and watched the northern wind rake across the east. This storm was a display of power and a warning. Torin felt the fear of Bane in his bones and knew Jack’s music must have challenged the northern king.
An hour later, Torin found his cousin sitting in the library, cradling a cup of tea, as if her hands couldn’t shake their chill. The laird’s signet ring shone on her forefinger. Her hair was still damp from the funeral, but she was dressed in dry clothes, and she sat in the chair Alastair had loved, facing the hearth as the fire crackled.
Torin shut the door and stared at Adaira. He knew she heard him enter, but she said nothing, her gaze captive to the flames.
He walked closer, sat in the chair next to hers, and listened as the storm seethed beyond the windows. Glancing down to his forearm, he saw that his silencing wound had almost healed, thanks to Sidra’s tenacity with the fire spurge. She applied the salve three times a day, and every time he felt the heat of the plant seeping into his wound, closing it bit by bit.
Soon he would be able to speak again, and yet what words would suffice in this moment? Torin knew the heavy burdens Adaira carried. And while he once would have endeavored to take them from her, those thoughts had died over the years as he found his place with the guard. She was laird now, and the best he could do was carry the burdens alongside her.
He sat with her in that tender silence.
If his life had not been interrupted by the sting of an enchanted blade, he would have spoken. He probably would have become frustrated, wondering what Adaira and Jack had done to bring the storm. He would have peppered her with questions he felt entitled to have answers to. He would have said anything to fill the roar of such silence, but now he understood it better. The weight of each word he uttered, and how his words unfolded in the air. He was far more mindful of them now, understanding that most of them were worthless.
He was a man built from many regrets, and he didn’t want to add to that number.
“Torin,” Adaira said at last. “If I call upon you to ride with me into war … will you support my decision?”
He was silent a beat too long. She had expected him to agree instantly, and Adaira shivered in alarm as she glanced at him.
He was thinking of the ghosts in his dreams. Now that Torin had beheld the Breccans’ faces and listened to their grief, he had begun to see the trade as a way to atone for his actions. He couldn’t bring the lives back, but he could ensure the widows, the children, and the lovers were still looked after.
But he nodded, in spite of his conflicted feelings.
“Bane confirmed our suspicions. The Breccans have been stealing the girls,” Adaira said. “They’re alive and well looked after, but we still need to learn of their location.”
Torin’s hands curled into fists. He wanted to go now, to cross the clan line and bring Maisie home, and he struggled to rein in his impulsivity.
Adaira must have sensed the impatience within him, because she said, “There are a few more things I need to do before we’ll be ready to steal into the west and find the girls. In the meantime, I’m going to ask your second in command to very quietly tell Una to begin forging as many swords and axes as she can, Ailsa to prepare her finest horses, Ansel to begin fletching arrows and stringing as many yew bows as he is able, Sidra to prepare tonics and healing salves, and the guard and watchmen to train, to sharpen their swords, to wear their enchanted plaids like armor. We need to be prepared for conflict when we bring the lasses home.”
Torin nodded again, agreeing with her. He would have to be patient; he would have to trust Adaira’s judgment.
He sat with her a while longer, his mind whirling with images of Maisie and the thought of bringing his daughter home to war.
“What happened to your hands?” Jack said.
Sidra didn’t pause as she prepared a tonic for him. For the past two days, the bard had looked the worst she had ever seen him, his skin pallid, his eyes bloodshot. His voice was hoarse, and his hands trembled when he raised them. He was sitting upright in his bed at the castle, watching her work.
She was worried about him and the strong magic he was casting. The cost was too heavy for him to bear so frequently, and she debated over how much she could fuss over him.
“I picked a spiteful weed,” she explained. The splotches of red and the blisters on her palms had been slow to heal, but Torin’s wound was nearly mended. She met Jack’s gaze as she brought the healing brew to his lips. “Here, drink all of this. You pushed yourself too hard this time, Jack. You need to be mindful of the things I mentioned to you before: how long you wield magic and how intricate it is. You also need to give your body time to rest in between, as your mum does with her plaids.”
Jack grimaced at her gentle scolding. “I know. I didn’t have much choice, though, Sidra.”
She wondered what he meant, but he didn’t offer an explanation as he took a sip, wincing at the taste.
“I’m sorry,” Sidra said, lowering the cup. “I know it’s bitter.”
“I’ve tasted far worse on the mainland,” he replied, and Sidra was glad to hear a touch of wry humor in his voice.
“Do you miss it?” she asked.
Jack was pensive for a moment. She worried she had offended him until he said, “No. I did when I first returned to Cadence, but this place is home to me.”
She smiled, wondering if he would stay wed to Adaira. She thought that he would. She was setting out a salve and tonic for him to take later when Jack took her by surprise.
“What do you know of Bane, Sidra?”
She paused, but her gaze flickered to the window, where the storm continued to howl for a third day beyond the glass. “The king of the northern wind? I’m afraid I don’t know much about him, other than to prepare for the worst when he decides to blow.”
Jack was silent. Sidra began to pack her basket but suddenly remembered a story her grandmother used to tell her often.
“One of my favorite legends is from the time preceding his reign, when the folk of fire reigned on the isle.”
“Tell me,” Jack said softly.
Sidra settled on her stool beside the bed. “Before the clan line was split between the east and the west and Bane rose to power in the north, Ash was a beloved leader amongst the fire spirits. He was generous and warm, full of light and goodness. All of the spirits answered to him, even those of the wind, the water, and the earth. All save one, that is. Ream of the Sea had always detested him, for she was made from tides and he was made of sparks, and every time they met threatened a catastrophe.
“But then one day Ash found out that a member of his court had set an ancient grove aflame and the fire was devouring the trees and the earthen spirits within them. Desperate, Ash had no choice but to go to the shore, where Ream dwelt in the foam of the sea, and call her forth to help him. Ream, however, wouldn’t do it without seeing Ash on his knees, willing to be doused first. He submitted without qualm, even though he knew what would come of it: he knelt before her and allowed her tide to wash over him. A great portion of his power turned to smoke and left him, but he continued to kneel despite the pain of the water.