She dropped Jack’s slingshot in the river.
“Jack?” Mirin’s voice broke his reveries. She touched his arm. “Jack, what are you going to do with what I’ve told you?”
She was afraid of what the clan would do to her. If the news came to light of her love for the enemy, it would destroy her life.
It would destroy him and Frae.
Jack swallowed, but it felt like his heart was in his throat when he whispered, “I’m not sure yet, Mum.” He looked at Mirin, remembering Bane’s words. “I can’t tell you how I know this, but I was informed that you might know where the lasses are being held in the west.”
Mirin startled. “What? I … I have no idea, Jack.”
Jack decided some tea would help them both get through this conversation. He needed to do something with his hands, and he thought about how to frame his next questions as the kettle boiled. He was pouring two cups of tea when he heard a faint shout.
“Did you hear that?” he asked, setting the kettle down.
Mirin fell quiet. “No, what was it, Jack?”
He thought it might have been Frae, and a chill swept through him as he strode to the window, opening a shutter. He could see the cows in the byre, but his sister wasn’t there.
Maybe she was in the backyard.
Jack began to head to the door when he heard it, clearer this time. Frae was screaming for him, and his blood went cold. He and Mirin both rushed to the garden, but there was no sign of Frae.
“Frae?” he shouted, stomping through the vegetables. “Frae!”
He was almost at the gate when movement in the valley caught his eye. Jack stopped, staring down at the river. Moray Breccan was carrying Frae upstream.
Mirin emitted a shrill cry. Jack’s heart melted, first in shock, then in terrible fury. He felt like he was a breath away from combusting into flames as he darted through the gate, his eyes fixed on Frae as she fought, kicking and flailing.
Jack made it all of three steps before Moray saw him. The Breccan vanished upstream with impossible speed, into the shadows of the Aithwood, and Jack slid to a halt in the grass, stricken.
He was weak and frail. He had no chance of catching Moray before he crossed the clan line with Frae. Not if Moray had consumed one of the Orenna flowers.
I can’t defeat him in my own strength, Jack thought, grief and terror tangling in him, and then it occurred to him like a blinding light.
He turned and rushed back into the garden, grasping Mirin’s arm as she tried to dash past him.
“Find a strip of plaid,” he ordered, dragging her into the house with him.
“What are you doing?” she cried, nearly clawing his face. “He has Frae! Let me go, Jack.”
“Listen to me!” he shouted, and Mirin startled. She fell quiet, staring at him. “Take my plaid and tear it into strips, and then meet me on the hill. I’ll catch him, but you have to trust me, Mum.”
She nodded, taking his plaid when he shoved it into her hands. Its enchantment was completely gone now, and Jack strode across the room to pick up his harp.
Half of the strings had broken, but half were still intact, albeit darkened with soot. Jack tucked the instrument beneath his arm and returned to the backyard, running as fast as his feet and lungs would allow him. He went halfway down the hill and sat in the grass, his hands trembling as he tried to find a way to comfortably hold his twisted harp.
He didn’t know if this would work. He didn’t know what the music would sound like coming from a harp that was warped. He hadn’t even thought about trying to play it again.
But he set his gaze on the river, where it slithered from the Aithwood. Where Frae had vanished into the shadows.
Jack couldn’t afford to let his emotions escape. He had to quell his fear, his anger, his distress, burning deep within him, like salt in a wound.
He needed to steady himself.
He closed his eyes and became aware of the earth beneath him. The grass at his knees. The scent of the loam. He stretched that awareness out further, to the voice of the river, the deep roots of the forest.
His fingers found a place on the strings. He began to play, and the notes emerged strange and wild, as if they had come from embers. They were tinny and sharp, cutting through the air with a haunting sound, and Jack opened his eyes again to watch the river flow.
This music was spontaneous, passing through him like breath. He began to sing to the spirits of the forest, to the spirits of the river. To the grass and the loam and the wildflowers. To Orenna.
Bring them back to me.
Jack could hear a beat in his mind. He played to it, his notes coming faster, faster with his urgency, knowing Moray Breccan might already be in the west. Jack offered his faith to the spirits around him, weaving a command into the notes.