“Do we take the chance of them killing him in their arena?” Sidra asked. “Or do we demand that they return him to us immediately?”
“If we demand his return to us,” Yvaine began, “then you’d have to kill him here, Sidra. He’s slain five of my guards, and that cannot go unpunished. His crimes have only multiplied since we first imprisoned him, and I can’t see the Tamerlaines being appeased with anything less than spilled blood at this point.”
“I agree with you,” Sidra said, even though a chill crept through her. She would have to be the one to behead Moray, and she had never killed a man before. “But if we killed him for his crimes, would that start a war with the west?”
“There’s no telling with the Breccans, but I think it could, yes. So that’s why I think you should let them handle his death. Let his blood be on their hands.”
Sidra fell silent, staring at the letter.
“Is it enough for the Tamerlaines, though?” she eventually asked. “To not witness his death?”
“Both Adaira and Jack will be present for it,” Yvaine replied. “Jack can write a ballad and sing of Moray’s death to the clan.”
Sidra nodded, but something still didn’t feel quite right to her. She traced the bow of her lips, smelling the loam beneath her nails. “Why would Innes Breccan approve of this? Approve of losing her heir?”
“I have a few theories,” Yvaine said, sitting forward to refill her tea. “But read Adaira’s letter first.”
Sidra reached for the parchment, her heart heavy with worry. But for the second time that morning, she was utterly taken by surprise. As she read Adaira’s words, the iron fist that had been gripping her insides began to ease.
She breathed once, twice.
Yvaine was fixated upon her, waiting.
Sidra set the letter down, face up on the table. “They are also suffering from the blight. And they want me to visit, to collaborate on a cure.”
“No, Laird.” Yvaine’s answer was swift and sharp. “I can’t let you leave my watch.”
“I’m not the laird,” Sidra began to say, cheeks warming. “And I—”
“No, Laird,” the captain said again, the words even sharper this time. “If something happens to you in the west . . . I don’t even want to fathom it. We cannot lose you.”
“And yet something could happen to me in the east,” Sidra countered. And it was strange, how peace settled over her. She felt calm, assured. There was no doubt marring her mind, and she said, “I’m sick, Yvaine.”
Yvaine was silent, but her frown melted into shock.
“I’m sick with the blight,” Sidra said again, “and I’m carrying Torin’s child, and I don’t know how much time I have left. I’ve exhausted all my knowledge and my resources here in the east, trying to find a cure, and yet . . . I can’t help but wonder. I remember the Orenna flower, a bloom that grows in the west but not here in the east, and it makes me wonder if there are plants that I need for the cure on the other side of the clan line. It wouldn’t surprise me, as if the isle is longing to be united once more.”
Yvaine sighed, but her prior resolve was softening. “I suspected you were pregnant, Sidra. But I didn’t know about the blight.” She paused, holding Sidra’s gaze. “I’m sorry. If I could take the sickness for you, I would.”
Sidra blinked back a surge of tears, but they sat in the corners of her eyes, gleaming like stars. “I would never allow it.”
“Of course not,” Yvaine said wryly, but her eyes also shone with emotion. “And that is why I will kill anyone who hurts you in the west.”
“I’m not worried about that happening,” Sidra said. “I’ll take Blair and three other guards with me. I’ll take my herbs, which are sharper than any knife in my hands. And I’ll be with Adaira, whom I trust entirely.”
Yvaine worked her jaw. She still wanted to protest. “You know I want to go with you.”
“No, Captain,” Sidra said.
“But, Sidra, I—”
“No. I need you here.”
Yvaine heaved a sigh, raking her fingers through her black hair. “All right. When do you plan to leave?”
Sidra rose from the table. Her foot ached constantly these days, but she had grown accustomed to the pain. She had learned to move around it, and she marveled that it was hard to even remember what her foot had felt like before it became infected.
Now, for the first time in weeks, she was experiencing a taste of hope that a cure could be found. An invitation to the west gave her a chance to see the land, to take its herbs and flowers and vines in her hands.
She suddenly felt like she could climb a mountain.
“As soon as possible, I think,” Sidra said. “I’ll write to Jack and give him my blessing for the culling. And I’ll write to Adaira and tell her I’m coming. I think I could go the day after tomorrow, to give them time to prepare for my visit.”
“As you want, Laird,” Yvaine said, draining her tea to the dregs before standing. “I’ll speak with Blair and arrange your retinue.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
Yvaine left without another word, and Sidra followed a trail of sunshine to one of the windows. She stood in its silent warmth, letting the light seep into her, and thought about where she had been, only weeks ago. Then her thoughts returned to where she was now.
Sidra shivered in the sun.
Chapter 31
Hap was waiting for Torin in the shadows of the Aithwood.
“I see you survived the west unscathed,” the hill spirit said cheerfully as soon as Torin had crossed over the clan line.
Torin snorted, but he wasn’t in the mood for jest. His mind was crowded with all the things he had seen and heard, and his worry over Sidra had grown tenfold. “Where’s Whin? Can you take me to her?”
Hap’s brow furrowed, though he seemed accustomed to Torin’s terseness. He led the way through the trees and into the misty hills, coming to a stop in one of the valleys.
“Why do you need Whin?” Hap asked.
“I believe she’s one of the sisters in the riddle,” Torin replied, kneeling in the grass. He began to prepare a workstation, drawing inspiration from all the times he had observed Sidra prepare salves and tonics. He asked two nearby rocks for their assistance, one to serve as a mortar, the other as a pestle, and then he laid out his bounty. The Orenna flowers, bright as blood on the grass, and the flowers he had harvested from the cliffside, white as snow.
Two sisters, united. Ice and fire. Salt and blood.
“You spoke with her?”
Torin turned on his knees to behold Whin standing behind him, her eyes riveted to her sister’s flowers.
“For a moment, yes,” Torin said. He hesitated, seeing the anguish in Whin’s face. “If I may have a few flowers from your crown . . . I believe it is one of the last things I need to solve the riddle.”
Whin reached up to pluck a few gorse blooms from her crown and gave them to Torin. Then she melted away, as if she couldn’t bear to watch him work.