She wondered if just the fact that he was Adaira’s relation by marriage would be compelling enough to convince Innes to let him go. But Adaira remembered that merely asking about where Oathbreaker was had turned David cold, breaking the rapport they had built. And then Innes had invited Adaira to watch him fight in a duel to the death, as if his life were meaningless.
Adaira felt that she needed something more. Not a way to catch Innes off guard necessarily, but a way to get her attention. She needed to figure out how to look shrewd rather than soft when it came to freeing Jack’s father.
She retraced her notes.
There was one small tidbit of tradition that she had found fascinating. It was the “draping of the plaid,” or giving someone protection under your name and prowess. In the past, such protection had been extended by thanes or the laird, those who held power and sway in the west and, as such, could serve as a formidable shield for others who had little influence. But even then, there were stipulations to be met.
The life of the one being protected had to be in danger. The thane or the laird had to remove their own plaid and drape it over the individual they were protecting, while speaking a specific set of words. Most of all, the draping of the plaid had to be performed publicly, so that the entire clan would become aware of the ramifications of harming the one being shielded.
Adaira wondered if she could embrace this tradition without offending the clan. Without offending Innes. Could she drape her father-in-law with her plaid on the basis of this old tradition? If she did, no one would be able to harm him without essentially harming her.
She was mulling over this possibility, trying to predict all the ways it could spin and turn and how Innes might oppose it, when an unexpected burst of sunlight warmed the table.
Adaira glanced up at the window.
The clouds had broken for a reason: something had cut through them.
At first, she thought she saw a large bird, falling through the air. A wounded creature. But then she saw a flash of silver, like the light of a star. Arms and legs trying to harness the wind. An iridescent sheen rippled behind the person like a torn sail.
Electrified, Adaira stood, leaning toward the glass. She watched as a spirit with indigo hair and tattered wings fell to the earth.
Part Two
A Song for Embers
Chapter 15
Sidra didn’t realize Torin was missing. Not until the newly appointed Captain of the East Guard came knocking on her door around midday.
“Yvaine?” Sidra said as she stood on the threshold, assuming the captain had come for an ailment. “How can I help you?”
“Hello, Sidra.” Yvaine’s voice was unusually grave. “Is Torin at home?”
It was the last question Sidra expected. For a moment she could only blink, because the question sounded ridiculous. Torin was never at home during the day. Yvaine, of all people, would know this.
It also brought back the night before in stark relief. She could still see the expression on Torin’s face when she dismissed him, the pain and shock reflected there. She could still taste the warm air that had billowed around him as he opened the door to the night and left.
Her regret that morning was like a bruise, tender on her arm.
“No, he’s not,” she said, but her stomach clenched. “Why?”
“I was hoping to find him here.”
“He’s not at the castle? I assumed he would be with the guard for midday drills.”
“I haven’t seen him today,” Yvaine said. “We were scheduled to have a meeting with the council this morning, to discuss the blight. He never showed, and as you and I both know, that’s not like him.”
“He and I argued last night,” Sidra confessed hoarsely. “He left here angry. I assumed he went to the castle to sleep.”
“If he did, no one saw him.”
“Then something must have happened to him after he left. I . . .” Sidra couldn’t even speak of what might have happened. The words felt as sharp as fractured glass in her mouth, threatening to cut her into ribbons if she said anything. But she saw the possibilities unfold in her imagination. Torin, storming away in the dark. Walking through the hills. Falling into a bog. Breaking his leg on treacherous ground. Beguiled by shifting hills and lochs and valleys.
“Mummy!” Maisie was tugging on her skirt. “Can I have an oatcake?”
Sidra roused herself from these thoughts, but the dread continued to weigh her down. She inhaled sharply and glanced at her daughter, rosy-cheeked and smiling in hope.
“Yes, just one,” Sidra said.
Maisie scampered away to the kitchen table, and Sidra refocused her attention on Yvaine. The captain’s face was guarded, but her dark eyes were gleaming with fear. The same fear Sidra felt, as if they stood in a sinking boat, losing precious time as cold water crept ever higher.
“Where would he go?” Yvaine murmured. “I can begin to canvass the hills, but the search will go faster if you can tell me of a place that is significant to him. Or perhaps to you?”
Sidra thought for a moment. Her frantic memories flashed like sun on a loch, difficult to grasp, but one came to the forefront. She thought of her old home, where she and Torin had first crossed paths. A place where the two of them had decided to become one, even as the world seemed to be crumbling around them.
“The Vale of Stonehaven perhaps,” Sidra answered. It was a peaceful place on the isle, full of lush grass and wandering sheep, where time seemed to slow down. Picturing it in her mind, Sidra suddenly found it difficult to imagine Torin being harmed there. “I honestly can’t think of anywhere else,” she said, “but let me take Maisie to Graeme. Give me a moment, and I’ll ride with you.”
Yvaine nodded and returned to where her horse was tethered by the gate.
Sidra left the door open and backed away. Her feet turned leaden as her worries began to multiply at an alarming rate. As she stared at the last place she had seen Torin, a thunderstorm brewed beyond the threshold. Soon the rain began to fall, and the wind stirred up dead leaves. Her garden bowed to the storm, the herbs drooping, the kail getting splattered with mud.
Only then, when she felt the summer mist fan across her face, did Sidra’s mind begin to lay out clear instructions. She would find Torin, but she first needed to take Maisie to Graeme.
She pinned her green plaid to her shoulder and braided her hair, preparing for a long slog in the rain. Then she slipped on Maisie’s leather shoes and wrapped her in a heavy shawl, and together they dashed up the hill to where Torin’s father lived.
Graeme was surprised but delighted to see them on his front stoop, speckled from the rain.
“Ah, Sidra, Maisie, come in, come in!”
Maisie trotted inside, becoming instantly distracted by the bowl of mainland trinkets Graeme kept on a stool. His house was messy, disorganized, and full of treasure. Sidra didn’t mind the clutter, although Torin could hardly abide it. She tried to calm her pulse as she shut the door behind her.
“May I have a word with you, Da?” she said quietly.