He still seemed to hesitate, even when he brought the edge of the knife to her calf. He finally gave her a shallow cut. Sidra bit the inside of her lip as she watched gold begin to well and drip down her leg. Torin set aside the knife and dipped his fingers into the salve. He brought it to her wound and Sidra gasped to feel how cold it was.
She bled and bled, until the gold had stained Torin’s forearm and formed a pool on the floor beneath her. But then she felt it—the moment when the salve began to burn through the blight. She watched, tears lining her eyes, as the sickness was driven out of her and her blood became her own again.
Torin tenderly wrapped her wound with a strip of linen. He smiled up at her, and Sidra’s chest flooded with warmth.
“Does anyone else here need to be healed?” Torin asked as he rose. “I have the remedy for the blight.”
His offer was met with stone-faced silence and dark disbelief. Sidra knew there were Breccans present who were sick, and yet they kept their mouths closed. Her joy began to dwindle, watching them refuse to yield.
Torin waited, but when no one moved, he began to tuck the bowl of remedy back into his satchel. He was looking at Sidra again, his eyes tracing her every line and curve, when a voice at last broke the quiet.
“I need to be healed.”
Sidra turned to see that David Breccan had stepped forward.
He removed his gloves and let them fall to the floor at his feet, revealing his afflicted hand. He held it out to the light, wholly trusting Torin.
Whispers spun through the crowd.
Torin cleaned the knife, took up the remedy, and went to David.
And Sidra watched in wonder as Torin healed the west with his hands.
Chapter 41
Jack had passed through Spindle’s Vale with little trouble, the earth spirits having risen to help him travel swiftly in the storm. As he emerged from the valley, he knew the Aithwood was near, looming in the distance. He could almost see its shadow in the gloam when lightning branched overhead, illuminating the low, boiling clouds.
A bolt struck the tree in front of him, a mere six paces away, and Jack jumped back in shock. He watched in horror as the tree split in half and fell with a tremendous crash, the blaze washing over him. As the lightning prepared to strike again, Jack realized that Bane had seen him. Bane knew exactly where he was, and if he didn’t move and find shelter, he would be sliced down before he ever had the chance to sing.
Jack broke into a frantic run.
His knees throbbed from the impact, and breath cut his lungs like a blade when the lightning flashed again. He was about to be struck; he could feel it in the air around him, how it tingled and hissed. Bane was about to kill him, and Jack knew he couldn’t outrun the northern wind. Not in the open, stranded between the mountains and the forest.
Just before the lightning could strike, heather grew thick and tall around Jack, its purple blooms defying the wind. It was like a shield and Jack dropped to his knees and crawled beneath it, sheltered by its shadows.
Bane’s lightning hit only a few meters behind him. The heather shuddered but kept growing, wide and thick, drawing up the meager magic it could find in the earth. As Jack crawled through it, Bane kept hurling his lightning, seeking to hit him in the expanding thicket.
Panting, Jack paused. He had lost his bearings; he didn’t know in which direction the forest lay, and the sweat dripped from his chin as he pressed close to the earth.
He wondered how he ever thought he was brave enough or strong enough to sing against Bane. All of this felt like some foolish, unattainable dream, and he was thinking about turning around when he saw a face form in the heather. It was a spirit—a woman with pointed ears, sharp teeth, long bedraggled hair, and cat-slit golden eyes. She looked frail, with lines grooving her ethereal face, and Jack realized she was giving everything she had within her to protect him, to turn against her king.
“The forest lies ahead of you, Bard,” she whispered. “The trees are stronger than me and can offer you better shelter.”
Jack hesitated.
But then she winced and said, “Run!”
He lurched upwards and sprinted, just as Bane struck the spirit in the heather. Jack wanted to stop and turn around, but he heard her dying scream. She had given herself up for him, and he could taste the burning heather on the wind. The emotion finally slammed into him when he raced into the shadows of the Aithwood, where the high, interlocking boughs hid him from Bane’s sight.
Jack came to a stop and reached out to steady himself on a tree. Gasping, he bent over, struggling to regain his composure. Tears stung his eyes and welled in his throat. He didn’t know how he would sing when he felt so battered and had nothing to guide him but his own heart.
His thoughts broke when Bane struck again. Lightning hit an oak tree not far from Jack, and the impact forced him to swallow his tears and press onward. He needed to find shelter. A place where he could rest a moment and catch his breath. Where he could take his harp into his arms and set his fingers on the strings.
Jack looked into the dense, dark forest.
He ran to his father’s house.
He was afraid that he would stand at Niall’s door and knock, over and over, only to be ignored. Jack didn’t know where this fear came from, only that it had seemed written in his bones since he was a boy. It was strange that knowing his father’s name now, and where he dwelled, only heightened his worry—so much so that Jack froze in the kail yard when he was halfway to the door.
He stared at the cottage.
The plants whipped around him in the garden, breaking in the rush of storm. The trees groaned as the scent of scorched wood began to ride the wind. Jack knew he was exposed. He was standing in the only clearing in the entire Aithwood, in his father’s front yard. Bane was striking only kilometers away, hunting him. But Jack was too afraid to move forward.
The front door swung open.
Niall appeared on the threshold, as if he had sensed Jack’s presence. They stared at each other, sharing a moment of shock.
“Jack?” Niall finally called to him.
“I need . . . to shelter somewhere,” Jack said, stumbling over the words. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
“Then come inside.” Niall beckoned him. “Before the storm carries you away.”
Jack moved forward, relieved. He stepped into the cottage, surprised by how different it felt with the fire extinguished and a storm raging overhead. It was dark, but the cottage was warm and felt safe. Jack sighed. He was sliding the harp from his back when he saw Elspeth approach him in the dimness.
“I was worried about you, Jack,” his grandmother said, hands clasped. “But Niall told me what you did for him.”
Did for him? Jack wondered, glancing toward Niall, who stood nearby. His father was staring at the wall, hands shoved into his pockets, obviously embarrassed.