He needed to steady himself.
He closed his eyes and became aware of the earth beneath him. The grass at his knees. The scent of the loam. He stretched that awareness out further, to the voice of the river, the deep roots of the forest.
His fingers found a place on the strings. He began to play, and the notes emerged strange and wild, as if they had come from embers. They were tinny and sharp, cutting through the air with a haunting sound, and Jack opened his eyes again to watch the river flow.
This music was spontaneous, passing through him like breath. He began to sing to the spirits of the forest, to the spirits of the river. To the grass and the loam and the wildflowers. To Orenna.
Bring them back to me.
Jack could hear a beat in his mind. He played to it, his notes coming faster, faster with his urgency, knowing Moray Breccan might already be in the west. Jack offered his faith to the spirits around him, weaving a command into the notes.
Bring them back to me.
He waited, his vision bent upon the distant sun-speckled rapids and arching branches. He gave his words to the essence of a red flower with gold-laced petals that grew on dry, heartsick land. He sang to the power that had once invigorated him, when his eyes had been opened to see beyond his world.
Bring them back to me.
Jack could feel his strength ebbing. His hands were aching, his head throbbing. A trickle of blood emerged from his nose, coating his lips. He pushed himself to keep strumming, to keep singing, even though he feared he had nearly reached the end of himself and his abilities.
His nails were splitting, the quicks bright with blood. But he pressed on through the pain and was rewarded with a glimmer of movement.
Moray Breccan was returning, his face furrowed in confusion until he saw Jack singing on the hill. His bewilderment gave way to anger, but the power that had granted Moray the ability to move with speed and prowess was now dragging him to Jack.
Jack didn’t care to look at Moray’s face. He looked at Frae, who was still fighting to get free. She was blindfolded, but Jack could see the gleam of her teeth as she kicked and clawed.
He was moved by both pride and grief.
He continued to play, his voice a raspy offering. The notes were slowing, like the final aspirations before death, but Moray was still tethered to the music. Even as it faded, he was beholden to its creator.
The Breccan heir walked Frae up the hill. He was moving more and more slowly the closer he came to Jack, as if he were wading through honey. When he at last came to a stop at Jack’s feet, the magic held him completely still. Only then did Jack rise. Mirin was beside him—he realized she had been beside him the entire time—and he met Moray’s defiant gaze with a cold, deadly stare of his own.
“Release my sister,” he said.
Moray loosened his hold on Frae. She was weeping now, hearing Jack’s voice.
“Come to me, Frae,” he said, holding out his hand to her. Frae ripped off the blindfold and gag, leaping toward her brother. He could feel how she trembled, and he held her close to his side before Mirin embraced her.
Moray snickered, glancing over Jack. “You never said you were a bard.”
“You never asked,” Jack replied.
There were many things Jack needed to know. The questions were like a flood within him, and he wanted Moray Breccan to answer every single one.
That is, if Jack didn’t murder him. The temptation was keen, pounding in his skull as Moray continued to stare at him, unrepentant.
The Breccan was opening his mouth, beginning to say Adaira’s name.
Jack snapped. Reality began to overtake him, and he bared his teeth and swung the corner of his harp. It caught Moray in the side of his head.
Down he went into the grass, limp and pale. Blood began to pool in Moray’s golden hair.
Jack stared at the Breccan for a moment, wondering if he had just killed the Heir of the West.
“Jack …” Mirin sounded hesitant.
“Bind his wrists, Mum,” Jack said. His strength was waning. He could no longer stand and slowly sank to his knees. “We need to take him inside, tie him to a chair.” His hands were tingling, going numb. Jack’s harp tumbled to the ground. “Call for Adaira.”
It was his last request before he was captured by exhaustion. Jack sprawled facedown in the grass next to Moray Breccan.
His enemy.
His laird by half.
CHAPTER 25
Sidra was walking along the western road on the way to visit a patient when she heard Mirin’s voice on the wind. She was calling for Adaira, and she sounded desperate.
Concerned, Sidra quickened her pace, heading in the direction of Mirin’s croft. She veered from the road and trusted the hills, Yirr in her shadow. The land shifted for her, folding kilometers and flattening craggy slopes, urging her forward through deer trails in the heather.
She was anxious when she reached Mirin’s gate. By appearances, everything seemed well, and Sidra approached the front door.
“Mirin? Frae?” She knocked and waited. Sweat was beginning to seep through her dress when Sidra decided to open the door. “Hello?”
She ordered Yirr to wait for her in the yard and stepped inside the cottage. It was empty and dimly lit, all of the shutters latched save for one. The back door was cracked open, inviting a stream of morning light. Sidra set down her basket of herbs and slowly walked to it.
She stepped onto the rear stoop and was amazed to find Mirin and Frae attempting to drag a body through the garden. Sidra didn’t know what shocked her more: the blue plaid on the man, how his hands were bound, or the blood on Mirin’s dress as she struggled to haul him to the house.
Mirin has killed a Breccan, Sidra thought, mouth agape. And she’s trying to hide the body.
“Mum!” Frae cried, pointing at Sidra.
Mirin whirled, tense until she recognized the healer. “Blessed spirits! Can you help us, Sidra?”
Sidra didn’t hesitate. She stepped forward, the ground soft beneath her boots. “Yes. Where are we taking him?”
“Inside,” Mirin panted. Her face was ruddy, and stray hairs were escaping her braid.
“Are you wounded, Mirin?” Sidra asked, glancing again at the blood on the weaver’s skirts.
“No, it’s his blood. Is he … is he dead, Sidra?”
Sidra knelt and quickly glanced over him. A head wound, which looked far worse than it was. One of his palms bore a shallow, intentional slice. She checked his pulse; it was slow but strong.
“He’s alive,” she said, moving to take hold of his ankles. “He’ll most likely wake soon.”
“Frae?” Mirin said, clearing her throat. “Will you run inside and clear a space in the common room? Set out one of the kitchen chairs. And close the shutter.”
Frae nodded and dashed to obey.
A strange feeling began to creep over Sidra. She paused, staring at the Breccan’s boot.
Is this him?
She didn’t know where the query came from, but it made her stomach clench. She was wearing the green plaid Torin had commissioned for her, and she felt safe beneath its enchantment. But her chest began to ache.
“Sidra?” Mirin gently asked, breaking her strange reverie.
Sidra hurried to lift the man’s feet as Mirin heaved his upper body, and together they painstakingly carried him into the house and to the chair Frae had arranged. It took a bit of shuffling to get him seated upright—he was backbreakingly heavy—and Sidra was sore for breath by the time she and Mirin had removed his plaid and weapons.