“I am with you,” she said, uncertain if Jack could hear her over the rattle of thunder and the howl of the wind. “I won’t let you go.” And he rose. She brought him back to his feet, and they continued onward until he slipped to his knees again, his strength ebbing.
There was a shot of silver in his brown hair now, gleaming at his left temple, as if he had aged years in a day. She didn’t know if it was from the magic or from Bane, but it worried her. She didn’t say that they would return to the ground in one piece, because she didn’t know. Every moment felt long and arduous, and Adaira couldn’t shake the chill that had overcome her in the cave. Her legs went weak when the path at last gave way to the grass and she stood on flat earth again.
She hurried with Jack to where they had left their horses, her heart like a hammer in her breast. She could scarcely draw breath, so heavy did the dread weigh upon her shoulders, and Bane didn’t make it simple for her. He continued to rage, impeding her at every turn. With a curse, Adaira realized the horses were gone, spooked by the storm.
“Leave me here, Adaira,” said Jack, sagging from exhaustion. “You will be much faster without me holding you back.”
“No,” she replied. “No, I’m not leaving you. Come, just a little farther.”
She hauled him toward the road. They had just crested a hill when she saw shapes moving through the haze of the rain. Knowing it was the guard, Adaira came to a gradual halt in the mud, waiting for one of them to see her and Jack.
It was Torin who reached them first. Adaira sensed his ire as he drew his horse to a sliding halt. He dismounted in a rush and took hold of her arm, his grip firm as he gave her a slight shake.
Though his wound was finally healing, he still couldn’t speak. But he didn’t need to. Rain sluiced down his face as he stared at her. His hair was lank on his broad shoulders, like tangled threads of gold. Mud splattered his raiment.
She saw the fear shining in his eyes. She had told him where Jack was going to play for the wind, but she hadn’t thought it would take hours, ending in a tremendous storm.
This day had gone completely awry. She felt like collapsing.
“Torin,” Adaira said, and she hardly recognized the sound of her own voice. “Torin, my da …” She couldn’t finish the words. She watched the shift of Torin’s expression, how his fear burned away into sadness. She knew it then. She had felt it in the cave; she had heard it in the storm. The passing of life into death—the vengeance of the north wind—and yet she waited for her cousin to confirm it.
Torin drew her into his embrace, holding her tight against him.
Adaira closed her eyes, feeling his plaid brush her cheek.
Her father was dead.
Laird Alastair was laid to rest beside his wife and three children in the castle graveyard, in unrelenting rain and thunder. The clan was devastated, and life seemed to come to a halt. But the storm hadn’t ceased, and the roads had become streams. A few low paddocks had begun to flood.
Torin watched it all in silence.
He watched as his uncle was buried in the soggy earth. He watched Adaira stand in the graveyard, soaked from the storm with eyes that seemed dead. The clan gathered around her. Torin couldn’t hear what was spoken, but he saw the Elliotts approach her, faces red from weeping. He saw Una and Ailsa embrace her. He saw Mirin hold her hand, and Frae wrap her arms around Adaira’s waist.
Ever since he had lost his voice, Torin had begun to notice things that he would have missed before. Weeds in the garden, the difficulty of making parritch, how empty rooms felt without Sidra and Maisie. And now he lifted his eyes and watched the northern wind rake across the east. This storm was a display of power and a warning. Torin felt the fear of Bane in his bones and knew Jack’s music must have challenged the northern king.
An hour later, Torin found his cousin sitting in the library, cradling a cup of tea, as if her hands couldn’t shake their chill. The laird’s signet ring shone on her forefinger. Her hair was still damp from the funeral, but she was dressed in dry clothes, and she sat in the chair Alastair had loved, facing the hearth as the fire crackled.
Torin shut the door and stared at Adaira. He knew she heard him enter, but she said nothing, her gaze captive to the flames.
He walked closer, sat in the chair next to hers, and listened as the storm seethed beyond the windows. Glancing down to his forearm, he saw that his silencing wound had almost healed, thanks to Sidra’s tenacity with the fire spurge. She applied the salve three times a day, and every time he felt the heat of the plant seeping into his wound, closing it bit by bit.