Jack soaked in the beauty, but he remained guarded against it. He didn’t like the way the isle made him feel alive and whole, as if he were a part of it, when he wanted to remain a distant observer. A mortal who could come and go as he pleased and suffer nothing for it.
He thought of his classes again. His students. A few of them had burst into tears when he shared the news that he had been called away for the summer. Others had been relieved, as he was known to be one of the strictest of teaching assistants. But if a pupil was going to take his class, he wanted to ensure they had grown in skill by the end of it.
His thoughts were still centered on the mainland when he and Torin reached Sloane. The city was just as Jack remembered. The road had been transformed into smooth cobbles winding between the buildings, houses built close to each other, their walls made of stone and cob with thatched roofs. Smoke rose from the forges, the market brimmed with activity, and the castle sat in the heart of it, a fortress made of dark stones dressed in banners. The sigil of the Tamerlaines snapped from the parapets, betraying which wind blew that afternoon.
“I think a few people are happy to see you, Jack,” Torin said.
Caught off guard by that statement, Jack began to pay attention.
People were noticing him as he passed. Old fishermen sitting beneath canopies, mending their nets with gnarled hands. Bakers carrying baskets of warm bannocks. Milkmaids with their swinging pails. Lads with wooden swords, and lasses toting books and quivers of arrows. The blacksmiths between strikes on their anvils.
He didn’t slow his pace, and no one dared to stop him. Most of all, he didn’t expect to witness their excitement, their smiles as they watched him pass.
“I have no idea why,” Jack said dryly to Torin.
As a boy, he had been disliked and mistreated because of his status. If Mirin had sent him into town to buy some bread, the baker would give him the burnt loaf. If Mirin asked him to bargain for a new pair of boots in the market, the cobbler would give him a used pair with worn leather thongs that would break before the winter snows had melted. If Mirin gave him a silver mark to buy a honey cake, he would be given the sweet after it had fallen on the ground.
Bastard followed him in whispers, more than his own name. Some of the wives in the market would study Jack’s face to compare against their husbands’， wondering and suspicious despite the fact that Jack was an unforgiving reflection of his mother and unfaithfulness was rare in Cadence.
When Mirin began weaving enchanted plaids, the people who had snubbed Jack suddenly became a little kinder, because no one could rival Mirin’s handiwork, and she suddenly knew everyone’s darkest secrets while they had yet to learn hers. But by then he had begun carrying every slight around like a bruise in his spirit. He had provoked fights at school, broken windows with rocks, refused to bargain with certain people when Mirin sent him to the market.
For him, it was bizarre now to acknowledge how eager the clan was to see him, as if they had been waiting for the day he would return home as a bard.
“This is where I leave you, Jack,” Torin said when they reached the castle courtyard. “But I suppose I’ll see you again soon?”
Jack nodded, stiff with nerves. “Thank you again for breakfast. And the clothes. I’ll have them returned as soon as I’m able.”
Torin waved away his gratitude and led his horse into the stable. Jack was admitted into the castle by a set of guards.
The hall was lonely and quiet, a place for ghosts to gather. Thick shadows hung in the rafters and in the corners; the only light streamed in through the arched windows, casting bright squares on the floor. The trestle tables were coated in dust, the benches tucked beneath them. The hearth was cold and swept clean of ashes. Jack remembered visiting with Mirin every full moon to feast and listen to Lorna Tamerlaine, Bard of the East and the wife of the laird, play her harp and sing. Once a month, this hall had been a lively place, a place for the clan to come together for fellowship after a day of work.
The tradition must have ceased with her unexpected death five years ago, Jack thought, sorrowful. And there was no bard on the isle to take her place, to carry the songs and legends of the clan.
He walked the length of the hall to the steps of the dais, not realizing the laird was standing there, watching his approach. A grand tapestry of moons, harts, and mountains covered the wall in glorious color and intricate detail. Alastair seemed woven into the tapestry until he moved, catching Jack by surprise.
“Jack Tamerlaine,” the laird said in greeting. “I didn’t believe the wind this morning, but I must say the sight of you is much welcome.”