“Any of these endings could be true, but what we know is that a great storm blew in that day, cold and dark and merciless, full of lightning and thunder. Speculation says that the mob caused it or Iagan, but the darkness hasn’t faded since that day, and the west became a gray, quiet land.”
Jack was quiet for a beat, soaking in the story. He had suspected that playing for the spirits in the west would be very different from playing for them in the east. He briefly imagined what Iagan must have felt: the intoxication of creating such magic without cost, of drawing all the enchantment of the isle unto himself. The praise, the worship. The power.
Jack had to break up the image in his mind before it enticed him any further.
“So now I must ask you, Jack,” Elspeth said, glancing down at his satchel again. “Do you carry an instrument with you, and what do you intend to do with it?”
“I do have my harp,” he answered, watching her face groove with displeasure. “I’ve been instructed to bring it. But I will be very mindful and careful.”
“You should leave behind your harp,” his grandmother said sharply. “Bury it somewhere deep or give it to the river and tell no one that you are a bard. Or else I fear it will see you slain, Jack. The Breccans still fear the power of a song, and if they knew you had dared to bring an instrument with you . . .” She shook her head, as if she couldn’t bear to imagine what might come next.
Her words chilled him, making him doubt his conversation with Ash a few nights ago. Jack wondered, Did I imagine it all? Am I losing my mind?
Thinking back on that encounter now made it suddenly seem like a feverish dream. Perhaps Jack had been missing Adaira so deeply that he had only heard what he wanted to hear, to be given an excuse to cross the clan line. After taking in Elspeth’s story, Jack felt he had made a foolish and dangerous mistake to be in the west with a harp.
The fire in the hearth gave a loud pop, and a spark arced across the dim space, landing on Jack’s boot. Elspeth didn’t notice, but Jack sensed that Ash was speaking to him again, perhaps reaching out his hand and tapping Jack’s foot to reassure him. Jack relaxed in the chair and sipped his tea.
“Thank you for telling me the story,” he said. “I’d never heard it, and I will keep it at the forefront of my mind.”
Elspeth still seemed unsettled, but she nodded, wearily. She seemed to know there was no persuading him to give up the harp. Then she said, “I see there’s a gleam in your eye, lad. As if a question is burning you up from within.”
Jack drained his tea to the dregs and then met Elspeth’s gaze, his breath feeling thin and shallow. His heart was pounding, as if he had been running for hours.
“Indeed. Can you tell me where I might find Cora?”
Chapter 17
Torin walked the earthen corridor, his posture bent as vines dragged like fingers over his hair. The passage curved, lit by strange clumps of bramble ensconced on the walls. It isn’t true fire, Torin thought, frowning every time he passed a torch. The light was pale, with a blue heart. It held no heat, only secrets it seemed. He feared the flames would make him forget who he was if he stared at them too long.
Eventually, he came to a door.
He was fairly certain this was the same threshold over which he had entered, and he hesitated. When he had stepped through this door a few minutes earlier, he had been awestruck. He had believed the passage would lead him somewhere else. To a different door.
Why would it bring him back to where he started?
He sighed, realizing this earthen passage was nothing more than a giant circle burrowed in the ground like a rabbit warren. What was the point of such a thing?
Disappointed, Torin opened the door and emerged back into the world.
He was initially surprised by how quiet, how reverent, the land was. He felt like he was in a painting, fixed in time. Then he noticed it was twilight, the moment when day and night are equal. The hills were now covered in gleams and shadows, and Torin’s pulse quickened.
It had been early night when he passed over that bewitched threshold. Now it was dusk?
Torin gazed at the sky, looking for the trail of the setting sun so he could determine in which direction south lay. But there was no sunset. The entire sky was a rippled medley of lavender, cerulean, and gold, as if the sun had set on every horizon. He felt dizzy, trying to make sense of it. A few stars glistened, scattered around the moon.
“Hail, mortal laird.”
The voice was deep and mirthful, startling Torin. He turned and was shocked to see a man standing nearby.
No, not a man. One of the spirits.
He was tall and broad chested, and his skin shimmered with a green hue. His square-jawed face was perfectly shaped and cut by a dimpled smile, and his eyes were dark like summer soil, boasting long lashes. His ears were pointed, and his hair, flowing wild and free, almost looked like fine grass; small yellow blossoms and heart-leafed vines grew within the tangles. He was barefoot—flowers bloomed from the tips of his toes and fingers—and he wore only a pair of trousers that appeared to be spun from bark and moss.
At last, Torin thought, but he couldn’t move as he marveled at the hill spirit. He had never seen one manifested. He had never heard one speak so clearly.
“You are surprised that we have welcomed you here, Torin of Tamerlaine?” the spirit remarked.
Yes. The word beat in Torin’s mind, but it failed to find its way to his mouth. So he continued to stand there, dumbfounded.
“You should not be,” the spirit continued, and when he moved his hands, petals fell from his fingertips, drifting like snow. “Come, we are assembled and waiting for you to join us.” He turned to lead the way over the moors, and Torin finally roused his voice.
“I must go to my wife first. She’ll be concerned about me. I’ve been away longer than I thought.”
The spirit paused and regarded Torin with a strange, almost dangerous light in his eyes.
“Sidra is indeed wondering where you are,” said the hill spirit, and Torin’s heart lurched to hear how her name rolled in the spirit’s deep-timbred voice. As if he were very familiar with her. “You will see her soon, but for now, I must ask you to make haste and join the assembly. Our time grows short.”
Torin relented and followed the spirit, but he took care where he stepped. He could suddenly see the lads in the pennywort patches, the hungry maws in the mud puddles, the sleeping faces in the rocks, and small creatures made of woven grass.
He nearly stepped on one, and it let out a rustling hiss.
“Ah, take care, mortal laird,” the hill spirit said, but he was amused. “The ferlies can sting if they are angered. Follow in my steps.”
Torin heeded him, mimicking the long strides of the spirit. It felt like kilometers passed by with every breath. “I’ve never noticed these things before.”
“Things?”
“Spirits,” Torin corrected himself, with a grimace.