Yvaine herself had chosen Blair to ride with Sidra when she visited her patients. At first Sidra hadn’t liked the thought of having a guard trail her everywhere. But then she realized how difficult it was becoming for her to mount a horse, to pull herself up into the saddle and then dismount to the ground below, multiple times a day. Her foot ached constantly, but she couldn’t dull the pain with herbs, having sworn them all off ever since she realized she was pregnant.
Blair had swiftly proven himself useful. He was strong and tall enough to easily lift her up to the saddle and to help her down, so her foot barely throbbed when it touched ground. Sometimes Sidra wondered if he suspected she was blighted, if he could tell she was favoring her foot even though she hid it as best as she could with the shield of her skirts and the brace beneath her boot. But if he did, he never let on, and that made her trust him.
She looked at him now as he also took note of the guards flying by.
“What do you think?” she asked, slipping through the gate.
Blair frowned. “I’m not sure, Lady.”
Sidra inhaled a deep breath, wondering how much more trouble she could manage. It could be something as simple as a flock of sheep wandering too far, or a bull getting loose from its pen, or even the hills shifting and causing a bit of mischief for a crofter. There was no telling these days.
Blair had gently taken hold of her waist and was about to lift her to the saddle when they both heard the rhythmic pounding of hooves. A rider was approaching. Sidra stepped around the horses, Blair in her shadow. They both watched as Yvaine drew near, then reined her stallion to a sliding halt in grass.
The moment Sidra met the captain’s eyes, she knew it was bad. She braced herself, wondering who was sick, who had died, which part of the isle had just been blighted.
“Come, Lady,” Yvaine said, dismounting in a rush. “To the storehouse, out of the wind.”
Sidra followed, Blair remaining with the horses. Rodina’s storehouse was at the back of the property, within view of the orchard, which had now fallen entirely to the blight. The building was round and small with a thatched, mossy roof. Within, it was cool and dim, the dusty shelves lined with preserves set aside for winter.
Stifling a sneeze, Sidra leaned against the wall to take the weight off her foot. “Tell me, Yvaine. What’s happened?”
Yvaine was silent. It was that silence that turned Sidra’s dread into ice, and she shivered despite the heat of the day and the sweat dampening her dress.
“I can’t believe I’m about to say this to you, Sidra,” she said, dragging her hands over her face, breathing into her palms. It was the first outward sign of distress Sidra had ever seen from Yvaine, but it was strangely fortifying to know that the captain felt comfortable enough with her to completely let down her guard. Even if it was just for a moment.
Sidra nearly cast her own mask aside. She almost told Yvaine then and there that she was sick with the blight and didn’t know how much time she had, and that she could no longer treat herself because, yes, she was also pregnant with Torin’s child, who was still unaccounted for, even though they both believed he was walking the spirits’ realm. But no, it was all too much, these recent days that could have inspired a horrifying ballad. Instead, Sidra bit the inside of her cheek and waited.
Yvaine lowered her hands. The cords of her throat shifted as she met Sidra’s stare.
The captain had been right. There truly was no way Sidra could have prepared for the news she brought. Yvaine’s eyes shone with shock when she finally spoke.
“Moray Breccan has escaped from the dungeons.”
When Sidra was a girl living in the cradle of the vale, she had often gone deep into the hills when she was troubled or upset. She would take her staff, sometimes herding the sheep but most of the time she’d go alone. She would walk and walk and walk. She would walk until she found a marker, which could be anything—a strangely shaped rock, a small trickle of waterfall, a patch of wildflowers, a cloud in the sky that cast a distinct shadow on the grass. Then she would stop and sit beside it. Usually by then she was so tired from walking that her troubles had lost the worst of their sting and she was beginning to see a way out of them.
She wanted now, more than anything, to walk the hills.
“I need to make one more stop,” she told Blair after he had lifted her up to the saddle.
Yvaine had long since galloped away to rejoin her guards’ search, leaving Blair and Sidra behind on Rodina’s croft. Blair hadn’t even flinched when the captain whispered into his ear the news of Moray’s escape, but his eyes were quick, taking in every flicker of shadow as if the prisoner could spring forward at any moment.
“I’ll follow you,” Blair said, and Sidra nodded, waiting for him to mount his horse.
They rode side by side at a gentle trot, past white chickweed and violet mallow blooming along the edges of the road. The wind blew warmly from the south, unfurling clouds across the sky as the sun continued its morning rise. A deer and her speckled fawn bounded from a thicket and stopped halfway up a hillside of heather to gaze back at Sidra curiously.
She couldn’t walk the hills, so she rode home. To the cottage that now sat quiet and empty and full of shadows and a kail yard slowly being taken over by weeds.
Blair helped her down. This time she winced when her foot touched the ground, and he noticed. Yes, Sidra thought, so weary she could have collapsed right there in the grass. He must have sensed something wasn’t quite right, but he only ensured she was steady before turning to search the cottage. It was clear, as Sidra knew it would be, and Blair waited outside while she sat at her old kitchen table, trying to think of what to do. How to resolve a situation she didn’t want to handle.
She closed her eyes, but the house felt hollow and strange. Sidra could hear the wind rattling the shutters, panting on old ashes in the hearth.
She would find no answers here, even though Moray had once stood in this very place. It made her shudder to remember that night.
Sidra gritted her teeth.
She pushed herself up from the table and emerged back into her sun-limned garden. Blair, as expected, was standing by the gate. Sidra paused to pick an armful of her herbs, as well as a few of the weeds. She had been working several hours a day to find a cure for the blight, but nothing slowed its spread; she could only treat minor symptoms in her patients who also suffered from it. She sighed as she tucked the harvest into her basket.
Her gaze absently drifted to the hill. The place where she had once stabbed Moray.
“I’m going to visit my father-in-law for a spell,” she told Blair.
He gathered their horses and walked beside her up the hill to Graeme’s croft. When Sidra paused, halfway up the path, Blair offered her his arm.
Sidra hesitated but took it, swallowing her embarrassment as she leaned on him. If Blair was going to shadow her for the next few weeks or months or however long until Torin returned, then he would eventually discover the truth about her foot. He would also eventually know she was carrying a child. Sidra’s mind began to reel as she wondered if she should just go ahead and announce both of her conditions to the clan.