It was an old ballad, but one that Graeme and Torin had once sung together, when Torin was a lad.
“It makes the work pass by much faster if you sing,” his father had said as they repaired the cottage, as they tilled the garden, as they cooked their dinner, as they patched the holes in their garments. It was work that Graeme did as both mother and father, keeping Torin’s childhood days steady and predictable.
Torin watched Graeme for a while, comforted. When he turned back to face the garden, he saw that a flat stone had been suspiciously set in his path. It had a hollow center, as if rain had dripped on it for years, wearing down its heart. A perfect place for him to crush herbs.
“Thank you,” Torin murmured to the yard, returning to his knees. He reached for the flowers in his pockets and spread them into an arc before him. He felt as if he had everything he needed, and yet he was still nagged by a sense of inadequacy. He began to hum in tune with Graeme, placing the two sisters—Orenna and Whin—on the stone. Next, the last white flower of the west and the fire spurge of the east. He used all the blooms, saving none for later should he fail a third time.
He took up a smaller stone and began to crush the plants. The blisters on his palms protested so vibrantly that Torin felt his temples throb. But he kept working, swallowing the pain. One by one, the blisters burst. A groan slid through his teeth. Soon his palms were slick, and he couldn’t find the strength to continue humming his father’s song.
Falling silent, Torin studied his hands and found they were bleeding. Blood, bright as summer wine, trickled from his fingers down into the poultice he was churning. Drop after drop, until the pulp in the rock had turned crimson.
He thought of Sidra and ached when he imagined her waiting for him to return as the seasons continued to pass and the constellations continued to cycle. Soon, she would grow weary of her cold wait. She would continue to lead the clan, far better than he ever could, healing those in need and raising his children and perhaps even coming to love another, until she at last turned to dust in the ground.
Torin thought about all the days he had squandered, all the moments he had let pass by. If he found a way home, then he would never waste another day, another hour, another minute with those he loved. He wouldn’t complain about leading the clan; he wouldn’t resist visiting his father. In fact, Torin would bring Sidra and Maisie here to Graeme’s as soon as he could, and they would sit in the sunlit garden and eat oatcakes and laugh at old stories—
He began to weep.
Bowed over the stone, Torin stopped crushing the remedy. The sobs tore through him, emerging from that deep, lonely cavern in his chest. The broken place he had hidden for years, fearful of acknowledging the damage that dwelled in him. But it was there, and he felt its jagged fragments.
His tears cut paths through his beard. They dripped off his chin and landed on his hands and on the stone, hissing like rain as they melded with his blood and the flowers of the isle.
Torin could hardly see, but he continued to mix everything together until all he saw was his blood and the salt of his tears and his many, many regrets. The pain in his hands finally caught up to him, eclipsing his inner turmoil.
He dropped his makeshift pestle.
Torin closed his eyes and lay facedown in the garden, letting his exhaustion drag him into a world where there was nothing but darkness and stars.
Sidra rode along the northern road, heading west. She took Blair and three other guards with her, her healing records, and a chest full of eastern herbs and the remedies she had created, as well as a gift for her enemies—a sack of golden oats, a jar of honey with the comb, and a bottle of wine. Everything felt uncertain, and yet when Sidra had readied herself that morning, she had never been more at peace.
She wore the raiment of a laird—a vermilion tunic, a leather jerkin stitched with silver thread, vambraces on her forearms, and tall hide boots that concealed the blight, which had nearly reached her knee. She draped the enchanted green plaid that Torin had commissioned across her chest in place of armor, holding the wool in place at her shoulder with a brooch in the shape of a leaping deer with a ruby in its eye.
She stood before her mirror, gazing at herself as if she were a stranger, but someone she deeply admired. She braided portions of her long black hair before setting a silver circlet across her brow. Torin had the signet ring, but when the Breccans looked upon her they would know who and what she was. Lastly, she belted a broadsword to her waist.
Sidra had never worn a sword sheathed at her side. The only blade she had ever carried had been her foraging knife and the occasional dirk. But carrying the sword had been one of Yvaine’s conditions. She could go to the west for five days and five days only, and she could take a small gift of provisions. She could stay with the Breccans under Adaira’s protection, and she could share whatever knowledge she had learned to aid the west in the battle with the blight. She could do all of these things so long as she had her guards accompany her and she remained armed at all times.