Adaira halted.
“You stole my daughter,” Torin said, looming over Moray. “You wounded my wife, and I will kill you for it.”
He kicked Moray in the chest. The very place the Breccan had once booted Sidra. The blow rocked him, overturning the chair. Moray hit the ground with a grunt of pain, sliding across the floor until he and his chair hit the back of the divan.
“Adaira,” Moray wheezed through the gag.
She didn’t know how Moray knew she was present. He was still blindfolded, and she had made no indication that she was present. Chills swept through her as she watched Torin stalk him, preparing to land another blow.
At last, Adaira moved to interfere. She needed Moray Breccan conscious and whole and most of all able to speak.
Sidra beat her to it, moving to stand behind Moray, in Torin’s line of sight. She reached out her hand to him and said, “Not like this, Torin.”
Adaira watched as Torin’s breaths heaved. Her cousin had never been one to back down in a fight, and she was amazed when he calmed himself, accepting Sidra’s hand. He stepped over the Breccan, finding a place along the back wall to stand and watch, with Sidra tucked under his arm.
Rattled, Adaira took a moment to steady her voice. She turned to the guards and said, “Will two of you please set Moray Breccan and his chair upright?”
Her guards hurried to obey. Moray’s breaths were labored, and blood was trickling from the corner of his mouth. It suddenly felt warm and cramped in the cottage as Adaira stepped closer to the western heir. Her heart was beating far too swiftly for her liking, but her face was composed and cold. The expression her father taught her to wear when it came to justice.
Adaira yanked the blindfold away from Moray’s eyes. She watched the harsh lines in his brow ease as he stared up at her, as if he believed she would save him.
“Before I remove this gag from your mouth,” she began, “I want you to know that we kill Breccans who trespass into the east with ill intent. You’re here on my lands, uninvited and unexpected, and I can only presume you came either to betray me or cause pain to my clan. I’m going to ask you questions, and I expect you to answer everything with honesty. If you understand and agree to that, nod your head.”
Moray’s eyes smoldered, but he nodded.
Adaira pulled the gag from his mouth, and he coughed. One of the guards brought her a chair, to sit before the Breccan, and she was about to take a seat when Jack stepped forward.
“Laird?” he said, and while his voice still sounded strained, he stepped toward her with confidence. “May I share a suggestion?”
“Go on,” she said. But he didn’t have to explain. Jack unsheathed the dirk at his belt. His truth blade. Adaira accepted his offering and returned to stand before Moray.
“Are you going to cut my throat before giving me the chance to speak?” Moray asked. “Because I have a story you will want to hear.”
Adaira ignored his sarcasm and the curiosity she felt at his taunt. “While your blood runs from this blade, you will be compelled to answer everything I ask you in truth. I’m going to cut you now, because I don’t trust you to speak honestly without it.” She sliced his skin, just below his knee. Moray didn’t react; the sting of blades was familiar to him.
Adaira finally sat, her eyes fixed on his. But she could see his blood running in thin ribbons down the hide and leather of his boot.
“Why are you in the east, Moray Breccan?” she asked.
He bared his teeth. He was trying to resist answering, but the enchantment was in his blood.
“To steal a lass,” he replied.
Adaira was prepared for this answer, but his acknowledgment of his intent still hit her like a fist. She struggled to tamp down her rising gorge, to keep her mind sharp and uncluttered from emotion.
She asked, “Were you the one who stole the other Tamerlaine lasses?”
“I was.”
“Where are the three lasses being held?”
“They’re in the Keeper of the Aithwood’s cottage.”
Adaira noticed that Jack shifted. He was standing near his bedroom door, but he glanced at Mirin, who continued to stand with Frae before the hearth. The weaver looked pale as she stared at her son, and Adaira made a note to ask Mirin about this later.
“And where is that?” she continued.
“Upstream and past the clan line, deep in the heart of the woods.”
Torin flinched. Adaira held up her hand, silently commanding him to stay where he was.
“Did you partake in the most recent raid to cover your move of returning Eliza Elliott to the east?” she asked.
“Indeed.”
“Why return only one of the lasses?”
“Because I wanted to prove to you that I am merciful and I do nothing without thought,” Moray answered. “I knew you would soon discover I was the one stealing them, and you would burn with anger toward me. I needed to prove to you that there was a reason for the snatchings, and that, most of all, the lasses were being treated gently in the west.”
“Why steal them?” Adaira asked. “Why have you and your clan sunk so low as to take our daughters?”
A hint of a smile played over Moray’s lips. “Grant me another cut, Adaira. Because what I’m about to tell you … I need you to know it’s truth.”
She sat there for a moment, solemn and full of worry. But he was right; the first cut was already mending. So she granted him another wound, deep enough this time to draw a grimace across his face.
“Now then,” Adaira said. “Why?”
Moray seemed to settle in the chair, as if preparing for a long encounter. “On a stormy autumn night nearly twenty-three years ago,” he began, “the Laird of the West and her consort welcomed their first child into the world. A lad with hair like corn silk and a voice like a bleating goat. And yet he was not alone. Another bairn followed on his heels. A very small lass. She was tiny compared to her twin, with hair white as moon thistle.”
Moray paused.
Adaira swallowed and said, “Go on.”
Her enemy smiled and continued.
“She seemed shocked to enter the world on such a night, and my parents held her in awe, willing her to cry, to nurse, to open her eyes. Even then she defied them, and when the druid entered the chamber to bless the new bairns three days after their birth, he would not bless the lass. ‘She is sickly,’ he said. ‘There is a great chance your true daughter has been stolen by the spirits. Appoint a person you trust to set this lass in a place where the wind is gentle, where the earth is soft, where fire can strike in a moment, and where the water flows with a comforting song. A place where the old spirits gather, for they can return your true daughter, who is strong and destined for greatness in our clan.’
“My parents consulted with each other, and they both concluded there was one person they trusted to exchange their daughter—the Keeper of the Aithwood.
“The Keeper of the Aithwood was a good man, one who lived in solitude in the wood. He was a watchman and loyal to the clan, and he knew of a place where the folk of earth, air, fire, and water gathered. He took Cora, my sister, from my parents and carried her deep into the wood. He was given orders to lay her in a place where the spirits would find her and then to leave her there. If he was present, the spirits wouldn’t manifest to switch the children. So the keeper found a blanket of moss near a river, in the heart of the forest where the wind blew through the boughs and fire could rise and burn at a moment’s notice. And he left my sister there.