When Torin had become laird, Jack had confided in both of them that Lorna Tamerlaine had once played for the spirits of the sea and earth every year. Her offering of praise had kept the east thriving, and as the clan’s current bard, Jack would do the same. It was a secret only the laird and the bard held, out of respect for the folk, but it would be impossible to keep such a secret from Sidra, as she had already come to suspect that Jack was singing for the spirits. It made him ill every time.
“He sang for the earth and the sea,” Torin said. “When he and Adaira were looking for the girls last month.”
“But he also played for the wind, which caused it to storm for several days.”
Torin grimaced. “So maybe the northern wind is displeased with something we’ve done?”
“Yes, maybe,” Sidra said. “But I’d like to see this orchard for myself.”
“Do you think you’ll find answers within it, Sid?”
Sidra’s lips parted, but she hesitated. She didn’t want to give reassurance just yet. Not when it felt like she was treading deep waters.
“I’m not sure, Torin. But I’m beginning to believe the blight is a symptom of something far more troubling, and only the spirits of the infected trees hold the answer. Which means . . .”
Torin sighed, leaning his head back to stare at the ceiling. “We need Jack to sing for the earth again.”
Chapter 2
“Shit.”
Jack’s boot slid in a pile of manure. He nearly lost his balance and swung his arms out to catch himself, but not before he saw his little sister’s wide-eyed stare. Frae had come to a halt, as if his curse had frozen her to the kail-trampled ground.
“I didn’t mean that,” Jack rushed to say to her. But he had never been good at spinning lies. This entire day was shit—the past month had been shit—and he and Frae were both trying to chase the neighbor’s cow out of their yard, while preserving as much of the garden as possible.
The cow bellowed a moo, stealing Frae’s attention again.
“Oh no!” she cried as the heifer began to tromp the beans.
Jack shifted to drive the cow forward, where the yard gate sat open. The animal panicked and spun around, churning up the stalks, and Jack had no choice but to step into the pile of manure again, trying to cut her off.
“Jack!”
He glanced to his right, where Mirin stood on the stone path, holding a strip of plaid in her hands. He didn’t have to ask her what she meant; he reached out and took the fabric before chasing the cow into the backyard.
After a few more cuts and dodges, Jack finally draped the plaid over the cow’s neck, forming a loose lead. Sighing, he surveyed the damage. Frae looked devastated.
“It’ll be all right, little sister,” he said, tapping her under the chin.
Frae would soon turn nine, when winter came, and yet she had already grown since Jack first met her, a mere month earlier. She had gained half a hand’s width in height and he wondered if she would eventually grow to be as tall as him.
As his mother and sister began to repair the garden, Jack pulled the cow forward. He made sure to latch the gate before he led the beast some kilometers north, to where the Elliotts’ croft lay, nearly hidden between heather-cloaked hills.
The Elliotts had lost everything in the last Breccan raid. Their livestock had been rounded up and driven over the clan line. Their home and outbuildings had been burned. But slowly, their farm was being restored. A new cottage, storehouse, and byre had just been erected, but fences were lower on the priority list and were still in disrepair. Their new herd of cows often drifted onto Mirin’s property, and Jack, tempted to buy a dog at this point, had dutifully brought the animals back. But he was beginning to tire of it all. He felt like he was living the same day, over and over.
His chest ached as he glanced to the left, where the Aithwood, dappled in morning sunlight, grew thick and tangled. Beyond those trees was the clan line, and beyond the clan line was the west. It had once concerned Jack that Mirin lived so close to the Breccans’ territory. Years ago, when he was a boy, the western clan had raided their home, stealing their winter provisions. That night was still vibrant in his mind, a memory that was bruised by fear and hatred.
But winter-borne worry was simply a way of life for the Tamerlaines, even with the magic of the clan line—a boundary that couldn’t be crossed without alerting the other side. The Breccans trespassed to steal food and livestock, typically in the lean, cold months. They had to strike quickly, before the East Guard converged on them.
This was the price the Breccans had to pay for the enchantment of the clan line. While they could craft magic with ease, the Breccans’ land struggled to meet their needs, and they resorted to thievery to survive. It was the opposite for the Tamerlaines: wielding magic sickened them, but they had an abundance of resources to last them through the winter with comfort. Hence the violence of the raids, and occasional bloodshed, when the clans clashed. Jack wondered if this pattern would now change, with Adaira in the west.
She had given herself in exchange for Moray. Her twin brother would remain shackled in the east as long as Adaira remained in the west. It was one prisoner for another, although Jack had seen the way Innes Breccan, the western laird, had looked at Adaira. Innes hadn’t regarded Adaira as leverage, or as an enemy to be chained, but as a daughter who had been lost, as someone she wanted to know now that the truth had come to light.
I would like for there to be peace on the isle, Adaira had said to Innes when the prisoner exchange was agreed upon. If I come with you into the west, I would like the raids on the Tamerlaine lands to cease.
Innes had made no promises, but Jack suspected—knowing what he did about his wife—that Adaira would do everything she could to prevent the raids from unfolding again, to maintain at least a tentative peace on the isle. Such was her commitment to Cadence that she had chosen duty over her heart, leaving Jack behind when she left.
Music is forbidden in the west.
Adaira had dropped that millstone on him, mere moments before she departed. She couldn’t imagine a life for him without his first love, musician that he was. But the more Jack had relived that agonizing exchange, the more he realized that Adaira must also have wanted to appear as nonthreatening as she could in the west. And Jack was a threat in two ways: as a bard, and as the illegitimate son of the Breccan who had given her away to the Tamerlaines decades earlier.
Jack was panting now. The cow dragged its hooves behind him.
“She’s written me only twice, you know,” he said to the cow just as they crested the hill. He could see the Elliotts’ croft in the distance. “Two times in almost five weeks, as if she is far too busy for me, doing whatever it is Breccans do.”
It felt good to finally speak those words aloud. Words he had swallowed like stones. But Jack felt the southern wind at his back, tousling his hair. If he wasn’t mindful, the breeze would carry his words in its wings for others to hear, and Jack had already suffered enough mortification.
And yet he kept talking to the cow.
“Of course, she said she missed me in the first. I didn’t write her back directly.”
The heifer nosed his elbow.