This dead man’s croft wasn’t far from the clan line, and she wondered if his sheep had originally been stolen from the Tamerlaines. Had he profited off Breccan raids of the past, taking Tamerlaine goods and livestock as his own?
Adaira’s compassion for the murdered man began to wane. She remembered the winter nights laced with worry and terror when she was a child. She remembered being woken by the sound of feet rushing down corridors and voices slipping through cracked doors. She remembered Alastair and Lorna giving orders and mustering the guard to defend and aid the Tamerlaines who suffered from the Breccans’ pilfering.
In those days, Adaira hadn’t fully understood why the raids happened. All she knew came from the opinions that had been passed down to her: The Breccans were their enemies. Their clan was bloodthirsty and callous, greedy and coldhearted. They preyed upon the innocent people of the east.
As Adaira had gotten older, though, she had learned the power of biases, and she had longed for truth. For facts that weren’t relayed with a certain slant that made one clan look better than the other. She had delved into the lore of the isle and discovered that the Breccans had raided even before Cadence was divided by magic. Descendants of a fierce and proud people, Breccans were born with swords in their hands and hot tempers and possessive bonds.
But when the clan line had been created by the doomed marriage and deaths of Joan Tamerlaine and Fingal Breccan, the western side of Cadence had truly started to falter. What good was magic in your hands if your kail yard couldn’t feed you through the winter? What good was an endless supply of enchanted swords and plaids if your sheep had no grass to graze upon? If your water was murky and the wind blew so harshly from the north that you had to rebuild your homes and outbuildings with south-facing doors?
Adaira still hadn’t grasped how it was for the Breccans until she had lived in the west and seen for herself the haggardness of their land, the lack of sunshine, the constant threat of the northern wind. She saw that they rationed their food in the summer, hoping it would last through the winter, but it inevitably didn’t. She saw how much easier it was for them to steal from the Tamerlaines than from their own clan.
She had passed so many graves in the vale. Graves of children and young people.
It made her heart ache to wonder if they had starved when the snow came.
Rab’s hooded eyes slid to Adaira, as if he heard her thoughts. She held his stare, unflinchingly.
Of Rab Pierce, she knew three things.
The first—he was a favored son of one of the west’s thirteen thanes. As such, he was to inherit a large swath of land and was considered a powerful noble.
The second—he seemed to appear at the most convenient as well as the most inconvenient of moments, as if he often planned to cross paths with Adaira.
The third—his gaze often strayed to the half coin she wore at her neck.
“Yes, someone stole from him,” Rab finally said, rising. “But only because this summer has proven to be scarce, and the stores ran low.” His attention returned to Innes, his eyes softening, imploring. “Laird, I would ask for your wisdom.”
Adaira wasn’t entirely sure what his statement meant—there seemed to be a further implication to it—but her mother did. Innes said, “I’ll consider your request. If this man’s sheep were stolen, you should be able to follow a trail to where they were herded and find the culprit. In the meantime, please see to his burial.”
Rab bowed his head.
Adaira followed Innes from the cottage into a dismal kail yard where the crops grew thin and sparse, the fruit small from strong winds and too little sunshine. She mounted the horse she had left waiting by her mother’s steed at the gate.
The clouds hung low, swallowing hilltops and all sense of time as the two women rode along a muddy road. When it began to mist, Adaira breathed in the wet air, feeling the moisture bead on her face, along her arms, but the enchanted blue plaid she wore kept her warm and dry. In the east, she had possessed one enchanted plaid shawl, which she had worn nearly everywhere, knowing how much it had cost Mirin Tamerlaine to weave it. In the west, however, Adaira had been given five, as well as an enchanted blanket to sleep beneath at night. The prevalence of magical raiment among the Breccans continued to be a shock to her.
Adaira’s attention was suddenly drawn to her left, where she knew the Aithwood grew thick and tangled. If it had been a clear day, she would have been able to see the forest, and perhaps envision the cottage on the barrow just beyond it.
The place where Jack had been raised. The place she had last seen him.
“Let’s stop here,” Innes said abruptly, turning her horse from the road.
Adaira didn’t know where they were stopping—she could see no structures or crofts through the haze—but she followed her mother. It looked like Innes had taken a cow trail, worn down to mud, and Adaira was further surprised when she dismounted.
Innes left her horse beneath a crooked rowan tree and stepped over a stream, fading into the mist without a word or a backward glance. Realizing the laird wasn’t going to wait on her, Adaira hastily slid from her sheepskin saddle. She left her horse beside Innes’s and hurried after her, stepping over the stream and following a footpath worn down in copper-tinged bracken.
She tried to make sense of what was happening, but this was only the fourth time she had ridden with Innes beyond the castle walls. Adaira strained her eyes against the gray air, but she couldn’t see any trace of her mother. She quickened her pace, the bracken brushing against her knees, but didn’t know if she was walking in the right direction. She didn’t know if the laird was testing her, to see if she would obey and follow without hesitation, or maybe to assess how the land would take to her. If the hills would shift, stranding her for days like a mainlander. Like someone who didn’t belong.
Adaira hadn’t ventured through the west on her own yet to see if the spirits would try to beguile her. The few times she had left the castle she was with Innes, and the folk seemed to know better than to trick such a laird. But Adaira also wouldn’t have been surprised if the spirits in the west were too weak and tired to make mischief.
She parted her lips, but then bit back the urge to call after her mother.
She sharpened her vision, paying attention to the path she was following. A rock appeared every nine strides, like a marker. Her hands were cold, in defiance of summer, and she could taste the clouds as she drew in deep breaths, but she was steadier now as she wended her way through the ferns.
And then she felt it.
She was approaching something massive. A structure, or a hill most likely, because the air suddenly tasted like loam. Adaira noticed how the wind in her face eased and the way sound changed. She slowed her pace as the hill materialized, a shadow in the mist. Innes stood at the foot of it, waiting for her.
“I wanted to show you this place,” the laird said. “In case you ever need to shelter here.”