“It is not a fate I fear,” Jack said. “What I fear is living for an eternity with a wound that will never heal.”
The folk seemed unable to fathom this notion. A spirit of the southern wind said, “But, King, your reign will be honored among mortals. They will sing of your deeds for generations to come. Your prowess will grow greater, but only if you remain with us.”
“I don’t want my deeds to be sung of,” Jack replied. “I would rather live them.”
Ash looked troubled. His brows were slanted, his mouth pressed into a hard line. But then the Laird of Fire said, “Your music is your crown, Majesty. If you give it to one of us, you will be stripped of your craft when you return below.”
“I am already stripped of it here,” Jack gently replied. “And I would rather live a short breadth of days, working with my hands even if they can no longer play a harp, and living with those I love. If you keep me here, I will only grow weaker. I cannot be the king you hope for, as I am incomplete in your realm.”
The spirits argued amongst themselves, upset by his confession, and Jack stood by quietly, watching them debate. Soon the spirits of the sea had merged deeper into the crowd, as had the spirits of the earth, until fire was brushing shoulders with water, and earth with wind, but none of them seemed able to reach a satisfactory conclusion. Finally, a hill spirit named Hap spoke over the noise: “My king? Who would you choose among us to wear your crown? Who among us is worthy?”
That silenced the noise. Suddenly every eye was fixed upon Jack. Hap’s question was easy for him to answer. He had known whom he would choose the moment he saw her glide into the hall. She stood at the back of the assembly near Whin, her wings tucked in close.
“Kae,” he called to her.
Kae’s eyes widened, but when the spirits parted for her, she stepped forward. “Majesty?” she said, and her voice was deep and gentle. It was the first time Jack had ever heard it apart from in her own memories, and he smiled to see her restored.
“You are as gentle-hearted as you are fierce,” he said. “You know the many faces of the isle, its secrets and its marvels, and you are good to mortal and spirit alike. You aided us in our time of need, and you are not afraid to choose the hard but right path. Without you, I would have never discovered how to defeat Bane. If you will accept my crown, I give it freely to you. If you will accept my offering, then carry me back to the mortal realm so I may restore my own soul.”
Kae hesitated. She drew in a sharp breath and glanced at Whin. The Lady of the Wildflowers was already gazing at her softly. The two spirits seemed to hold a conversation in their minds for a while. Then Kae returned her attention to Jack.
She knelt.
Jack descended the dais stairs. The moment he touched her head, the stars of his crown began to drift. They moved through the space, gathering in Kae’s indigo hair. Jack knew he had made the right decision; one of their own should rule amongst them, not another bard.
When Kae rose, the spirits bent to her.
Jack suddenly felt weak, struggling to stand upright. He didn’t know if it was due to surrendering his power or because he knew he was about to walk the mortal realm again.
Kae took his hand. A wind began to gather in the throne room. It stirred Ream’s kelplike hair and drew wildflowers from Whin’s fingers. It made the fire in the braziers dance, and Jack met Ash’s gaze one final time.
The Laird of Fire nodded, his sorrow evident.
Kae called to the wind.
She carried Jack away.
It was winter.
Snow was falling when Jack opened his eyes.
He stood on the clan line, the very place where the fire had once claimed him. The last place he had seen Adaira. Of course Kae would bring him here.
The woods before him were charred and speckled with snow. Jack—barefoot, freezing, and naked—began to walk forward through the ruin he had once inspired. There were no spirits here and it felt empty; Jack mourned them, tracing the scorched trunks he passed, the charcoal marking his fingers.
He shivered, but he also savored the bite of the air, the reddening of his skin from the cold—the reminder that he was alive.
Soon he heard voices echoing through the woods. Someone was laughing, and another person was talking loudly. Jack knew the voices must be coming from his father’s house, and he quietly approached it, coming to a stop when he could see the cottage through the ruin.
He didn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t tables in the yard and people gathering up baskets of goods. It looked like a market. Jack remained hidden behind the trees as Tamerlaines and Breccans parted ways, the snow having ended the trade early.
Jack recognized Adaira, carrying a crate into the house. He almost ran to her but remembered he was naked, and a few Breccans were hanging about her. Jack waited, even as his feet went numb in the snow.
Adaira finally emerged into the yard again, wearing a cloak. Her hair was braided, and he could see a flash of silver gleaming at her brow.
“Shall we fetch your horse, Heiress?” one of the Breccans said.
Adaira seemed to hesitate. Jack could only wonder if she sensed his presence. He prayed she did, uncertain what he would do if she left with what looked to be her guards.
“No,” she replied. “There are a few more things I’d like to do here. Go on without me and tell my mother I’ll be home by eventide.”
The Breccans left, one by one, their boots leaving a trail in the snow.
Jack watched as Adaira poured snow over a firepit, the flames hissing in response. She was finally alone. He began to weave through the trees, his heart pounding.
She must have heard him. Her head snapped up and her eyes narrowed as they scanned the Aithwood.
Jack came to a halt at the edge of the forest, waiting for her to catch sight of him. He stood in ankle-deep snow and breathed, slow and deep. He felt pierced by her gaze when her eyes found him among the blue, winter shadows.
Adaira’s lips parted. Her breath turned into clouds as she cried, “Jack?”
“Adaira,” he said, his voice breaking. It felt like he hadn’t spoken in years.
She ran across the riverbed, unknotting the cloak at her collars. She threw it around his shoulders, and he groaned at the warmth of it and the heat of her arms as she embraced him.
“Jack, am I dreaming?” she whispered into his hair.
His hands were numb, but he touched her in return. She felt like an awakening. His blood sang to be near her, to see her, to be in her arms. He laughed, tightening his hold on her.
“No,” he said. “I’ve returned to you.”
Adaira leaned back to study his face, then downward, past his ribs, all the way to his reddened feet. “Naked,” she said with a hint of incredulity. “Spirits, come inside before you freeze!”