Her mind went quiet, though, as soon as she saw the charred remains of the Aithwood.
Smoke was still rising in languid curls. A great swath of the forest had burned, although there were still sections—the northern crown and the southern portion—that remained unscathed. Drawing closer, Sidra thought that the landscape looked as if the heart of the woods had been harvested, leaving behind ash and the charred ribs of tree trunks.
She eased her mare to a walk, then dismounted when their small party reached the woods. The guards remained with the horses as Torin, Sidra, and Adaira walked through the scorched remnant. Sidra imagined Jack standing in this place, singing and burning and vanishing without a trace. She still struggled to fathom the truth that he was truly gone—that, unlike Torin, he would have no way to return to his mortal life.
“Here it is.” Torin’s voice broke the quiet.
Sidra slowed her pace as she approached the clan line. She was streaked by charcoal, from brushing too close to the burned trees, as were Torin and Adaira. As if it were impossible to walk through this part of the forest and not be touched by what had happened here.
The three of them stood before the line, gazing down at it. And then Torin reached for Sidra’s hand.
“Will you step over it, Sid? I want to see if I can feel it in my scar.”
Nodding, she stepped over the line, then turned to gaze back at Torin. He was frowning at his hand, flexing his fingers.
“Did you feel anything?” Adaira asked.
“No,” he replied. “I felt nothing. The curse of the clan line has been broken here.”
“Should we test it farther down in the woods?” Sidra suggested. “In a place where the trees didn’t burn?”
“Aye. Come, Sid.” He reached for her hand again and pulled her back over the line.
They walked north first, eventually arriving at the place where the fire had ceased burning. It was like stepping from one world into another, from ash-streaked barrenness into lush abundance. Sidra shivered as she crossed the line again, this time watching Torin’s frown deepen.
“I felt your passage that time,” he said. “The curse still holds here.”
“Then it most likely also holds in the southern end of the forest,” Adaira said, but her voice sounded thin and strange, as if she was struggling to breathe. “We should walk there now.” She turned and began to stride through the burned portion again.
Sidra stepped back into the west and thought this must have been where it happened. The place where Jack had become fire.
They walked through the entirety of the scorched Aithwood and at last came to a peculiar depression in the ground, a wide and shallow bed full of golden sand and smooth stones.
“Spirits,” Sidra whispered, suddenly realizing what it was. “The river . . .”
“Is gone,” Adaira finished, glancing sidelong at her.
Sidra held her gaze for a beat. There was a feverish gleam in Adaira’s eyes, and charcoal was streaked across her face. Sidra was tempted to reach out to touch her friend’s arm, to hold her steady, knowing that this forest held an array of emotions for her. It was the place where her fate had been sealed. She had been laid down on the moss amongst these old trees, an offering that had never been claimed. And so this river had then ushered her into the east, into the arms of the Tamerlaines.
Sidra watched as Adaira crossed over the river’s exposed bed, her boots leaving impressions on it. But instead of remaining on the clan line to test their theory, Adaira followed the scorched river, walking what would have been upstream if the water still flowed.
She disappeared into the woods, and Torin murmured, “Let’s give her a moment.”
Sidra nodded.
She and Torin concluded that Jack’s sacrifice had broken a portion of the curse, but that there were still places where his music had not reached. They walked hand in hand upstream, wondering what this revelation meant for the isle, and soon came across a home in the woods. There was a kail yard, still recovering from the storm, and a cottage built of stone and thatch. Adaira was opening the shutters from inside the cottage, and Sidra tentatively joined her there.
“Do you know who lives here?” Sidra asked, taking note of the kitchen table and the herbs that hung from the rafters.
“Niall Breccan does,” Adaira replied. “Jack’s father.”
Sidra froze. She shouldn’t have been surprised at this truth, but it still hit her like a blow. “Jack’s father is a Breccan?”
“Yes,” Adaira answered, leaning out one of the windows. “Torin? Torin, come inside. I want to tell you and Sid a story, and I don’t want to have to relay it twice.”
A moment later, Torin appeared on the back threshold, framed by light. “This was where Maisie was held, isn’t it?” he said. “And the other lasses, when Moray was stealing them.”
“Yes,” Adaira said, sitting down at the table.
Sidra also sat, her knees suddenly feeling weak. Torin examined the main chamber first, looking at the candlesticks on the mantel, the walking sticks in the corner, the desk against one wall. Finally, he joined Adaira and Sidra at the table. They were quiet as Adaira began to tell them the story of Jack’s father carrying her eastward to Mirin.
By the end of it, Torin had streaked more charcoal in his beard from raking his fingers through it. He sighed, leaning his elbows on the table.
“So this is Niall Breccan’s home,” he said. “Where is he now?”
“I don’t know,” Adaira replied. “Perhaps he never returned here after he was liberated.”
“I think he did,” Torin stated. “There are things missing, as though he packed in a hurry.”
Sidra bit her lip, meeting Adaira’s steady gaze. Both women had questions, but they felt too tender to speak or even wonder aloud. The silence spread through the cottage, sweetened by birdsong and a slight breeze. Adaira finally stood and said, “I know I’ve kept you both too long. I can imagine you’re keen to return home, and it’s late afternoon now.”
Sidra and Torin followed her out the back door. It was an odd yet charming place, and Sidra struggled with her mixed feelings about it. Maisie had once been held here, but Jack’s father had been a good man caught in a terrible situation. Her emotions felt snarled up, and she sighed as she tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear.
Adaira was standing in the riverbed again, staring downstream. Looking eastward.
Sidra came to a stop beside her, a few stones shifting beneath her feet.
“What does this look like to you, Sid?” Adaira asked.
Sidra gazed ahead, uncertain at first. But then she saw the same vision as Adaira, and warmth began to course through her blood.
“It looks like a road.”
Frae was kneeling in the kail yard beside the red-headed man—Niall, her mother called him—when she finally roused her courage to speak the words she longed to say.
“Are you my father, Niall?”