“You didn’t notice because your eyes were closed to us. You walk in our realm now. Come, just ahead.”
The pace quickened. Again, Torin had that sense that acres were rippling beneath every step he took, and he felt dizzy. The light never changed either. He was trapped in dusk, and he thought of Sidra. Sidra, I am coming, I am coming . . .
The hill spirit led him to a place he recognized. The sacred hill of the Earie Stone.
A great company had gathered here. Willowy maidens with leaves in their long tresses, young men with arms and legs like kindling. Old men shaped from wood, with reddened burls for noses, and old women woven from silver-leafed vines. In the center of them stood Lady Whin of the Wildflowers, the ruler of the eastern earth spirits, with her long dark hair, golden eyes, and crown of yellow gorse. Her skin was the shade of heather—a soft purple—and like the hill spirit, she had flowers blooming from her fingertips. She extended her hand to him, and the hill approached her, wove his long fingers with hers. Whispered something in her hair as the blossoms drifted around them.
Torin halted, transfixed by Whin as she stared at him.
He began to sweat as he felt the prickle of countless eyes on him. All the congregated spirits were watching him, and he didn’t know what to say or where to look. Was it rude to meet their gaze? Was it folly to speak first?
He waited, and finally the hill spirit stepped away from Whin.
“I bring you Torin of the Tamerlaines,” he said in his soothing deep voice. A lilt of summits and valleys. “Mortal Laird of the East.”
The spirits were silent, but they bent their heads to him in respect.
“Welcome, Laird,” said Whin. “It has been a long time, by mortal reckoning, since one of your kind has been invited to our realm.”
Torin bowed, uncertain. “I’m honored to be here, Lady Whin.” Now tell me why you have summoned me. Tell me what you want.
Whin smiled, as if she had read his thoughts. “You wonder why we have invited you?”
“Indeed. Although I have a suspicion that the invitation has something to do with the blight.”
At once the air became colder and the shadows crept longer. The spirits were visibly disheartened, afraid. Torin could feel their worry faintly beating beneath the ground.
“Our sisters of the orchard have been stricken,” Whin said, and her words began to thicken, like honey on her tongue. As if she were facing resistance as she spoke. “We . . . we have not obeyed our . . . king’s command, and so we have suffered his ire. He struck the orchard first, but he will soon strike again.”
Questions swarmed in Torin’s mind. He wanted to demand answers, but he drew a deep breath instead. “I’m sorry to hear of this. The blight has also spread to a few mortals of my clan. I’m at a loss, and I hope that you can guide me. Tell me how to fix this terrible dilemma.”
Whin looked at her hill spirit, who stood beside her, watching Torin with inscrutable eyes. “Ah, but that is why we have invited you here, Torin Tamerlaine,” Whin said. “Because we need your help.”
“Mine? What can I do?”
“You are the one who can solve the riddle of the blight,” she explained. “We are powerless against it, but you . . . you are capable of healing us.”
Torin gaped. He felt the blood drain from his face, his stomach knot. “Forgive me, Lady, but I have no knowledge, no insight. I have no idea how to help you.”
“You will have to pay close attention then,” the hill spirit said. “The king left a riddle, and should you solve it, the blight will end.”
Spirits below, Torin thought, I must be having a nightmare.
He brushed his hand over his beard, shifted his weight from foot to foot. He didn’t have the time, the energy to do this. But then an idea sparked, and he said, “Let me return to the mortal world. I will bring you a bard who can solve this riddle for you.”
Whispers spun among the spirits. His mention of Jack had visibly stirred their emotions; some sounded hopeful, others doubtful.
Whin’s pleasant face hardened. “Your bard must not come here.”
“But he is very shrewd, very capable with riddles,” Torin said, even though he knew Jack was in the west by now.
“No, mortal laird. We almost welcomed him into our domain when he sang to ensnare us,” Whin said, but then she paused, unable to further explain. A tremor moved through her as she remembered.
“We should have claimed him then,” said one of the ancient, burl-nosed men.
The hill spirit gave him a sharp glance. “But the bard would not have entered our hold willingly. He must come on his own volition. We would have paid a steep price if we had claimed him without his agreement.”
“And we cannot claim him now. Ash,” Whin said, with a curled lip as she uttered his name, “has seen to that.”
“If Ash could move faster,” someone muttered, “then it would end.”
“Ash has been all but extinguished. How can we trust him?”
“We must not trust fire,” one of the vine women said. “Never, never trust fire!”
“I don’t understand,” Torin said, beseeching Whin. “Why not invite the bard? Why not bring one more capable than me to help?”
The spirits merely stared at him.
“Please,” Torin murmured, holding his palms up. “Please, my people are not well. They need me. I cannot be away from them any longer. You will need to choose someone else to help you in this realm, and I will do my best from mine.”
More silence. And long, piercing stares.
Torin flushed. He felt oddly vulnerable for a reason he couldn’t understand. One of the alder maidens said, “Tell him, Lady Whin. He will strive to help us if he knows. Tell him about his—”
“Quiet,” Whin ordered, and the maiden wilted.
Torin studied the alder girl, seeing that her eyes were like dew. He looked back at Whin and said, “What does she speak of?”
Whin could no longer hold his gaze. She glanced away, and Torin felt stung with dread.
“Tell me what?”
“It is not our place to say. You can find the riddle in the orchard,” she said. “The sooner you can solve it, the sooner we are healed and the sooner you can return to your realm. But not before then, mortal laird.”
Astounded, he watched as the spirits began to depart. They were leaving him here, standing on the sacred hill.
Torin spun and dared to take the arm of the hill spirit. “Please,” he begged. “I need to return home. You said that I could see Sidra after the assembly.”
The hill spirit sighed. He suddenly appeared old and weary, as if he were withering. “Yes. Go and see her, mortal laird.”
Torin waited, but nothing happened. The hill spirit unhinged himself and began to leave with Whin, flowers drifting in their wake.