When he thought he could play no more—his harp was smoldering in his hands, the strings sparking beneath his fingertips—the fire gathered itself together into the shape of a tall man. It was difficult to look upon his face at first. Jack squinted and ended his ballad, his voice fading. But the heat and light finally calmed, and he studied the fire spirit, awestruck.
The spirit was translucent but his manifested body seemed solid as it radiated with the shades of fire. Blue and gold, red and ocher. His face was like a mortal man’s: narrow, with a heavy brow, a long nose, a cleft in his chin, and a mouth pressed into a thin line. But his eyes glimmered like embers coming back to life. His hair was long, constantly changing color. His arms were thin, malnourished, but his hands were strong, his fingertips like candle flames. Yes, there was a hungry look about him, as if he knew he was burning down his resources and there was not enough fuel to keep him alive.
“At last, Bard,” said the fire spirit. His voice, like one long hiss, the words twisting in his mouth, sent a shiver through Jack. “At last you summon me.”
Jack’s face felt blistered, but he didn’t dare move away. “Or perhaps you have summoned me?”
The spirit cackled, amused. “You speak of the cold ashes. Yes, it was the only way I could think to gain your attention.”
“Why do you need my attention? How can I ensure my mother and sister have fire in this hearth? You are life to us. Surely you know that.” As soon as Jack spoke the words, he regretted them. It was foolish to make bargains with spirits.
“There is indeed something I want of you,” the fire spirit said.
“And what is that?”
The spirit opened his mouth. Flames danced on his tongue, but only ashes fell from his lips. Jack knew that the spirit’s voice had been hindered by Bane.
“The northern wind has bound you,” Jack whispered. He could still taste the tang of lightning in his own mouth. He could still feel the prickling of his skin.
How had a spirit of the northern wind grown so powerful? Who or what had crowned Bane, making him king of all others?
The fire spirit slumped, weary. “’Tis so, Bard. I am shackled by the northern wind. My king. I can only speak so much, and my time grows short with you.”
“Should I continue to play for you? Would that strengthen you?”
“No, no. That harp is . . . he might hear you and arrive to interfere, as he did in the orchard.” The spirit paused, measuring his words. “I have come to warn you, Jack of the Tamerlaines, Jack of the Breccans. My king is afraid of . . . I cannot say it, but he will soon strike the isle. Your clan cannot stand alone against him, nor can the spirits of earth and water. You will need to unite with them and join your rival clan. The isle is stronger as one, and perhaps you will be able to . . . to defeat . . . dethrone . . . him.”
Jack sat forward, wide-eyed. “You speak of Tamerlaines and Breccans uniting?” He almost laughed but caught the sound just before it slipped from his mouth. “And you cannot mean me. I’m not the one capable of accomplishing such a task.”
Because it is impossible, he wanted to say. Unfathomable. And yet this fire spirit stared into Jack, saw the slant of his preconceptions and beliefs and lineage.
Jack was both Tamerlaine and Breccan.
His face flushed. He felt stricken by the insurmountable odds of this request.
“You are the one to bring unity, Jack. The Tamerlaines will need the Breccans, and the Breccans will need the Tamerlaines. Do not forget the earth, the sea. They are experiencing the pangs of rebellion; they are resisting his call to turn against mortals.”
“Is this why the orchard has been sick?”
“Yes . . .” the fire spirit’s voice was fading, his body turning diaphanous.
Jack sensed he had only a few moments left with the spirit. His mind whirled with questions he needed answers to. He struggled to decide which ones to voice, which were most important to ask before the fire died.
“Tell me how I can dethrone Bane.”
The spirit hissed, pained. “I cannot . . . my mouth is barred from speaking that knowledge. You will have to travel west, Bard. You will find the answer among the Breccans.”
Jack’s heart became thunder. Travel west. To Adaira.
“How can we stop the blight?”
“That is not my knowledge to give. You must seek that among the earth spirits.”
“Will you promise to keep this hearth alight?”
The spirit bowed. Smoke began to rise from his shoulders. “I swear it, Bard. So long as you strive to do what I ask.”
Unite the clans. Discover the way to dethrone tyrannical Bane. All simple tasks, Jack thought, becoming almost hysterical as their implausibility sunk in.
“Take care with that harp you wield. Now I must go. Do not summon me again, or he will know.”
Yet the spirit shifted closer. Jack resisted the temptation to wince, to flee from the sudden wash of heat he felt. Wide-eyed, he watched as the spirit reached out his hand, pressing his flame-riddled thumb against Jack’s lips.
This time Jack flinched. The pain was sharp, like a blister suddenly rising, but after a breath it abated, leaving a remnant of numbness in his lips.
Jack watched the spirit shrink himself back into the hearth, his body giving way to flames. But his face was still there, observing Jack. It occurred to him that this spirit had been watching him from the hearth since he was a boy.
“Who are you?” Jack said.
“I am Ash. Laird of Fire. Be valiant; do not bend until the peace comes. I will be waiting for you, Jack.”
The spirit vanished, but the fire in the hearth remained, burning heartily, casting light and warmth upon Jack as he continued to sit on the floor. He had never felt more chilled, more anxious, and more ill prepared.
But strangest of all . . . he could taste ashes in his mouth.
Chapter 11
The full moon arrived on a clear, warm night in the east. A stream of its silver light found Torin sitting in the castle library with a glass of whiskey in hand. He was at Alastair’s desk, papers and ledgers and a map of the Eastern Cadence spread before him. Candles burned along the tabletop, casting rings of light on the stacks of parchment, but the darkness felt thick in the room, gathering in corners and in the rafters.
“Laird?”
He glanced up to see Yvaine stepping into the library. She was a few years older than him, with curly black hair and a scar on her jaw that she had earned during a Breccan raid. A brown-and-red plaid was fastened at her shoulder, a sword sheathed at her side. Her palm was still healing from the enchanted wound Torin had given it weeks ago, so she would be bound to the eastern territory.
“Captain,” he said. “I surmise you bring an update on the new recruits?”
“No.” She came to a stop on the other side of the desk, noticing the whiskey in his hand. “The blight has spread to the Ranalds’ orchard.”
Torin’s heart sank, but he was sadly not surprised. “Has anyone caught it?”