Sidra had acquiesced.
Once she was prepared to ride, she had seen to the final and most important of her preparations. Sidra had placed Maisie in the saddle and set off to deliver her daughter to Graeme.
Torin’s father stood in the yard and watched Sidra and Maisie crest the hill on foot. Maisie squealed with excitement at the sight of her grandfather, and Sidra smiled, even though she felt an ache in her chest. She let her daughter’s small hand slip from her own.
Graeme reached out to scoop Maisie into his arms. “Now who is this young lass? I don’t know if I’ve ever seen you before!”
Maisie giggled at his teasing, wrapping her arms around his neck. “It’s me, Grandda. Maisie.”
“Ah, Maisie! Yes, one of the bravest girls in all the east. I’ve heard stories about you.” Graeme said with a wink before glancing at Sidra.
Sidra stood in the garden, the wind teasing her hair. She noticed the awe in Graeme’s expression as he beheld her, as well as a spark of worry when he noted that she was dressed for war.
“Remember what I told you, Maisie?” Sidra said to her daughter, holding up her hand to count on her fingers. “I’ll be away for five sunrises and five sunsets, and then I’ll return. Be good for your grandda.”
Maisie nodded, and Graeme set her down on the stone pathway. “I’ve got some oatcakes on the griddle, and Tabitha needs to be brushed. Do you want to go on in and help me, lass?”
Maisie smiled and darted inside. Knowing that Maisie felt secure and safe enough to not worry about her mother’s absence made Sidra feel weak in the knees. It was a small but comforting mercy, and Sidra was still gazing at the open doorway when Graeme stepped closer. He stumbled over a stone set in the middle of the garden path, and Sidra reached out to steady him.
“That’s a strange place to put a stone, Da,” she mused, studying the odd rock. It looked worn down in its heart.
“Aye, and I’ve never seen it before today,” Graeme replied, scratching his beard. “The spirits must be afoot.” His attention shifted back to Sidra. He sighed and whispered, “You’re going west then?”
“Yes,” she replied. “Thank you for watching Maisie. I should be back soon.” She didn’t say that if something befell her, Graeme would need to raise Maisie to be the next laird. She didn’t say that there was a small pit of doubt in her stomach about crossing the clan line. That for the first time in her life she had no inkling of what was going to happen, whether something good or terrible awaited her.
Graeme saw these doubts in her eyes. Tenderly, he framed her face in his hands. “May you be strong and courageous,” he said. “May your enemies kneel before you. May you find the answers you seek. May you be victorious and spirits-blessed, and may peace follow as your shadow.”
Sidra knew the ancient blessing was spoken to a laird when conflict was imminent. The words gripped her now, settling into her bones. And yet she felt steadier the longer she dwelled on them. Weeks ago, she would have never believed she would be standing in such a moment, and she would have blamed it on a cruel twist of fate. But now she thought that perhaps she was always destined to be here. All those hours devoted to gardening beside her nan, learning the secrets of herbs. All those hours she had spent alone on the hills, gazing up at the stars and thinking of where she wanted to go and who she wanted to become.
You were always meant to be here, a voice whispered in her mind.
Graeme kissed her brow and released her. Sidra turned away before he could see the tears in her eyes.
She didn’t look back as she descended the hill and went to her horse, waiting on the road with the guards. She grimaced as she mounted, the pain in her foot stealing her breath. Her limp was more pronounced now, and she had decided to finally confide in Blair. The guard now held her secret as if it were his own, but soon her affliction would come to light. She only hoped that would happen after her visit to the west.
As Sidra approached the clan line, she dwelled on Graeme’s benediction, clinging to the reassurance of those ancient words. She was almost there, even though her horse had slowed from a canter to a trot, and then at last to a walk. Her heart was pounding, churning anxious heat into her blood.
She saw the northern signpost, weathered with age, and the weeds that bloomed between the trees. She saw the road curve and then dip, as if surrendering to the west, and Sidra drew her horse to a halt.
A host of Breccans were waiting to greet them, blue plaids at their chests and neutral expressions on their faces. Spangles of sunlight danced over their hair—blond and brown and auburn and black—and the intricate woad tattoos on their skin. But Sidra saw only Adaira, standing at the forefront, waiting for her.