“With your father at his croft.”
Torin nodded. There was nothing else he could do at the moment but try to heal the ones who waited before him. His gaze touched each of their faces, his mind swarming.
Sid, what would you do? Guide me.
Among the sick were two of his guards, who now sat at the table. He decided to attempt the healing on one of them first, an older man named Ian who was a seasoned warrior.
“Come forward, Ian,” Torin said.
Ian instantly obeyed. He gingerly removed his tunic, exposing the place on his body where the blight had struck him. His right shoulder was veined in gold and dappled with purple. Torin carefully touched the skin; it was soft, and he thought back on how he had healed the spirits. All the trees had suffered gaping wounds, places where their infected sap ran freely.
Torin said, “Hand me your dirk, Ian.”
Without hesitation, Ian unsheathed the dirk at his belt. It was a mundane blade, just as Torin wanted. Carefully, he made the cut in the center of the blight. Ian winced as his skin broke, but it wasn’t blood that dripped down his skin. It was the golden curse. Torin quickly dipped his fingers into the remedy and applied it over the open wound, smudging the thick gold. Then he waited, feeling his pulse in his ears.
He didn’t know what he would do if this failed. All his hope was in the remedy.
The gold continued to weep from Ian’s wound, smelling like rotten fruit and moldy parchment. It streamed down his arm and dripped from his elbow, but Torin didn’t remove his hand or the salve. He watched as the light gradually chased away the last of the illness, and when Ian’s blood ran red, cheers resounded in the hall.
Torin stood on the threshold, staring into the castle courtyard. The wind was still bellowing, and the clouds continued to seethe. It was a long way to the west, especially by the standards of the mortal realm. He no longer had that long-legged stride of the spirits, and yet he couldn’t wait for the storm to abate.
He had healed the sickened Tamerlaines. All but one, and she was many kilometers away.
“Laird?”
He turned to see Edna behind him, bearing the leather satchel he had requested.
“Thank you,” he said. He safely tucked the bowl of remedy in the pouch before strapping it across his chest. Andrew stood in the foyer, his mouth pressed into a thin line, as did Yvaine.
“Laird,” Yvaine said, “let us come with you.”
He shook his head. “I want you to remain here. Keep watch and be ready to assist any of our people who may need it.”
Yvaine frowned. She wanted to argue with him, but after years of training at his side, she knew better. Andrew, on the other hand, did not.
“This is no weather to ride in, Laird!”
“I’m going on foot,” Torin said tersely.
Andrew, Yvaine, and Edna all glanced down to his bare, dirty feet.
“Can I at least provide you with some boots?” Edna asked with a touch of exasperation.
“No,” he said, taking his first step into the wind-battered courtyard.
“Will you at least take my plaid?” Andrew cried, his hands rushing to unfasten the checkered fabric. “And my sword? You cannot go into the west unarmed.”
Torin held out his hands, warding off the offerings. “I go as I am. And I’ll send word to you when the storm breaks. Until then, hold fast.”
He left them gaping after him, but he soon forgot all about their incredulous expressions as he ran down Sloane’s thoroughfare. The chimney of one cottage had crumbled, spilling stones over the road. The roof had been stripped to its timbers. Torin stopped to gaze into the house, to ensure that no one lay hurt within. The windswept place was deserted, so he pressed onward.
When the cobblestoned road turned to hard-packed dirt, Torin stopped. He could see the hill that Hap had given him, a hill that would never move or shift. A reminder that what had happened was not a dream. The wind almost knocked Torin over, and he rushed to the hill, finding shelter in its southern slope.
He didn’t know how he would manage running all the way to the west, not with the wind bearing down from the north, seeming intent on driving him across the isle and into the sea.
Shivering as he crouched in the hill’s shadow, Torin finally decided it didn’t matter how long the journey took him. He would crawl all the way to the clan line if he had to. He took one step into the grass, then another, hunched over to maintain his balance. When the wind pushed him down to his knees, Torin cried, “Hap! I need your help!”
He didn’t expect the hill spirit to answer so quickly, or to spare whatever power he held to shift the hills. But Torin watched as a narrow valley unfurled before him, its rising side taking the brunt of Bane’s wrath.
Torin ran along the vale’s grassy floor. The kilometers folded and he swiftly reached the edge of the Aithwood. He cut through the groaning trees, feeling Hap’s power wane beneath his feet. When the clan line surged before him, Torin crossed it without a moment of doubt and entered the western side of the forest.
He vividly remembered Castle Kirstron, but reminded himself that he had seen it from the other side of the veil. He wasn’t certain how many kilometers he needed to run before he reached the fortress, and the western half of the isle seemed to be at the mercy of the same gale battering the east. If anything the storm was even worse on this side of the clan line.
But then, as Torin began to stumble forward, he felt the ground shift again, providing him swift passage. He wondered if the spirits here had heard of his deeds. Or maybe they sensed that he carried the remedy. With no time to wonder, he decided to trust them and set off running along their sheltered routes until the city came into view.
Kirstron reminded him of Sloane—full of shadows and haunted by a sense of emptiness. Doors were bolted, and shutters were latched. Trash tumbled through the roads. Cottages on the high end of the city had crumpled into heaps.
He remembered that there had been a bridge that led to the castle. To cross the moat he wended his way to the northern edge of the city, where he finally saw some movement. Torin recognized David Breccan instantly. The laird’s consort was hurrying through the streets with three Breccan guards, heading in the direction of the bridge.
Torin followed.
He soon caught a wind-blurred glimpse of the gate and the bridge beyond. It was a chaotic scene, with people being fastened to a rope and urged forward. The gates were beginning to groan and shift, and Torin quickly realized that once David passed, they would be shut.
He darted forward, slipping into the crowd. No one took note of him; there was nothing about his appearance that betrayed who he was, and when one of the guards told him to hold to the rope and draw himself across, Torin only nodded.