The mere thought made his stomach churn.
They passed the croft of Torin’s father, Graeme Tamerlaine, the laird’s brother. Jack noticed the kail yard was beset with brambles and the cottage looked dismal. The front door was framed with gossamer. Vines snaked across the stone walls, and Jack wondered if Torin’s father still lived there, or if he had passed away. And then he remembered that Graeme Tamerlaine had become a recluse in his old age and rarely left his croft. Not even for feast days in the castle hall, when all of Eastern Cadence gathered to celebrate.
“Your father …?” Jack asked, uncertain.
“Is quite well,” Torin said, but his voice was firm, as if he didn’t want to speak of his father. As if the dilapidation of Graeme Tamerlaine’s croft was the norm.
They walked onward as the road rose and fell with the lay of the hills, which were green from spring storms. Foxglove grew wild in the sun, dancing with the wind, and starlings soared and trilled against a low swath of clouds. In the distance, the morning fog began to burn away, revealing a glimpse of the ocean, endlessly blue and sparkling with light.
Jack soaked in the beauty, but he remained guarded against it. He didn’t like the way the isle made him feel alive and whole, as if he were a part of it, when he wanted to remain a distant observer. A mortal who could come and go as he pleased and suffer nothing for it.
He thought of his classes again. His students. A few of them had burst into tears when he shared the news that he had been called away for the summer. Others had been relieved, as he was known to be one of the strictest of teaching assistants. But if a pupil was going to take his class, he wanted to ensure they had grown in skill by the end of it.
His thoughts were still centered on the mainland when he and Torin reached Sloane. The city was just as Jack remembered. The road had been transformed into smooth cobbles winding between the buildings, houses built close to each other, their walls made of stone and cob with thatched roofs. Smoke rose from the forges, the market brimmed with activity, and the castle sat in the heart of it, a fortress made of dark stones dressed in banners. The sigil of the Tamerlaines snapped from the parapets, betraying which wind blew that afternoon.
“I think a few people are happy to see you, Jack,” Torin said.
Caught off guard by that statement, Jack began to pay attention.
People were noticing him as he passed. Old fishermen sitting beneath canopies, mending their nets with gnarled hands. Bakers carrying baskets of warm bannocks. Milkmaids with their swinging pails. Lads with wooden swords, and lasses toting books and quivers of arrows. The blacksmiths between strikes on their anvils.
He didn’t slow his pace, and no one dared to stop him. Most of all, he didn’t expect to witness their excitement, their smiles as they watched him pass.
“I have no idea why,” Jack said dryly to Torin.
As a boy, he had been disliked and mistreated because of his status. If Mirin had sent him into town to buy some bread, the baker would give him the burnt loaf. If Mirin asked him to bargain for a new pair of boots in the market, the cobbler would give him a used pair with worn leather thongs that would break before the winter snows had melted. If Mirin gave him a silver mark to buy a honey cake, he would be given the sweet after it had fallen on the ground.
Bastard followed him in whispers, more than his own name. Some of the wives in the market would study Jack’s face to compare against their husbands’, wondering and suspicious despite the fact that Jack was an unforgiving reflection of his mother and unfaithfulness was rare in Cadence.
When Mirin began weaving enchanted plaids, the people who had snubbed Jack suddenly became a little kinder, because no one could rival Mirin’s handiwork, and she suddenly knew everyone’s darkest secrets while they had yet to learn hers. But by then he had begun carrying every slight around like a bruise in his spirit. He had provoked fights at school, broken windows with rocks, refused to bargain with certain people when Mirin sent him to the market.
For him, it was bizarre now to acknowledge how eager the clan was to see him, as if they had been waiting for the day he would return home as a bard.
“This is where I leave you, Jack,” Torin said when they reached the castle courtyard. “But I suppose I’ll see you again soon?”
Jack nodded, stiff with nerves. “Thank you again for breakfast. And the clothes. I’ll have them returned as soon as I’m able.”
Torin waved away his gratitude and led his horse into the stable. Jack was admitted into the castle by a set of guards.
The hall was lonely and quiet, a place for ghosts to gather. Thick shadows hung in the rafters and in the corners; the only light streamed in through the arched windows, casting bright squares on the floor. The trestle tables were coated in dust, the benches tucked beneath them. The hearth was cold and swept clean of ashes. Jack remembered visiting with Mirin every full moon to feast and listen to Lorna Tamerlaine, Bard of the East and the wife of the laird, play her harp and sing. Once a month, this hall had been a lively place, a place for the clan to come together for fellowship after a day of work.
The tradition must have ceased with her unexpected death five years ago, Jack thought, sorrowful. And there was no bard on the isle to take her place, to carry the songs and legends of the clan.
He walked the length of the hall to the steps of the dais, not realizing the laird was standing there, watching his approach. A grand tapestry of moons, harts, and mountains covered the wall in glorious color and intricate detail. Alastair seemed woven into the tapestry until he moved, catching Jack by surprise.
“Jack Tamerlaine,” the laird said in greeting. “I didn’t believe the wind this morning, but I must say the sight of you is much welcome.”
Jack knelt in submission.
The last time he had seen the laird had been the eve of his departure. Alastair had stood beside him on the shore, his hand on Jack’s shoulder as he prepared to board the sailor’s boat to cross over to the mainland. Jack hadn’t wanted to appear afraid in his laird’s presence—Alastair was a great man, in stature and character, imposing even though he was prone to smile and quick to laugh—and so Jack had boarded the sailor’s boat, holding in his tears until the isle had faded, melting into the night sky.
This was not the man who greeted Jack now.
Alastair Tamerlaine was wan and gaunt, his clothes hanging loose from his narrow frame. His hair, once dark as raven feathers, was bedraggled, a dull shade of gray, and his eyes had lost their luster, even as he smiled at Jack. His thunderous voice was hoarse, made from shallow breath. He looked weary, like a man who had been at battle for years without respite.
“My laird,” Jack said in a wavering tone. Was this the purpose of his summoning? Because death stalked the ruler of the east?
Jack waited, bowing his head as Alastair drew close. He felt the laird’s hand on his shoulder, and he lifted his eyes. His shock must have been evident, because Alastair let out a rasp of laughter.
“I know, I am much changed since you last saw me, Jack. Years can do that to a man. Although time on the mainland has been good to you.”
Jack smiled, but it failed to reach his eyes. He felt a flare of anger at Torin, who should have mentioned the laird’s health that morning at breakfast, when Jack had inquired after him.
“I have returned, sir, as you have asked me to. How may I serve you?”