Adaira tried to hide her relief as she followed Innes back into the courtyard. The wind was growing even stronger; they hunched against it as they shuffled across the flagstones to the portcullis gate.
A few Breccan guards were stationed in the watchtower, and one of them met Innes and Adaira, as if he had been waiting for the laird to approach. They took shelter in an alcove, protected from the worst of the wind.
“Should I close the gate, Laird?” he had to shout over the gale.
“No.” Innes’s voice was deep and calm. “My daughter wishes to pass.”
The guard glanced at Adaira, but he didn’t seem surprised. She imagined Jack had stood in this very spot not long ago, waiting to cross with his harp in tow.
Suddenly she knew exactly where he would play.
“I need to hurry,” she said.
Innes looked at her in the somber light. Adaira saw that fear in her again, bright as a candle flame. A fear born of separation and loss and seasons of loneliness.
“I’ll return as soon as I can,” Adaira added hoarsely. “He’s going to sing this storm to its end, and I need to be with him.”
Innes nodded, but she touched Adaira’s cold cheek with her knuckles. The affectionate gesture was fleeting, but it rekindled Adaira’s courage.
“Will you ensure Sidra is looked after while I’m gone?” she asked.
“She’s safe beneath my watch,” Innes replied, her eyes cutting back to the guard. “Prepare her for the crossing.”
The guard grasped Adaira’s arm and guided her from the alcove to the mouth of the bridge. She saw a rope strung from the castle gate to the city, something to hold on to as she crossed. Even though the rope was thick, Adaira imagined how easy it would be to slip and fall, for the wind to push her over the edge and down into the dark waters of the moat.
“Tie this about your waist,” the guard said, handing Adaira a shorter rope.
She did, her hands shaking with the adrenaline coursing through her. She watched as the guard secured her rope to the main one. “Don’t let go,” he warned her.
Adaira stepped up to the bridge. Even in the shelter of the portcullis, she could feel the pull of the wind, how hungry it was to whisk her away.
“Adaira,” Innes said, her voice faint even as she shouted. “If you see your father in the city, send him back to me.”
Adaira nodded.
Her heart was pounding when she took her first step onto the bridge.
Torin healed the last tree in the east. To his amazement, the remedy in the bowl never diminished. He could set his fingers into its cold light a hundred times and it would replenish itself. His relief was a balm, until he thought about Sidra and the other Tamerlaines who were infected. He realized he didn’t know if this salve would heal them or not.
“Hap?” Torin said, his voice wavering.
The hill spirit stood near him. The wind was blowing relentlessly now, and the earth was groaning, shuddering beneath Bane’s anger. Torin could see the threads of gold in the grass, in the trees, in the heather, and the rocks. The spirits were holding fast, resisting their king. Torin could even draw a small portion of their heady strength up through his bare feet to keep himself steady, even as the wind sought to cut him down. Despite the terror of the sky, dark and boiling with ire, Torin had faith. He had faith that the earth was resilient enough to hold against the wind.
“The time has come,” Hap said. “Your realm needs you to return now.”
Torin’s heart hammered against his ribs. “Can you make a door for me close to Sloane? I need to go directly to the city.” He needed to get to Sidra as swiftly as possible. He hadn’t seen her in what felt like years, and worry laced his blood. He didn’t know how much of her health the blight had stolen, how fast it had spread through her.
He was too afraid to ask Hap if he knew.
“Yes, come this way,” Hap said.
Torin followed him to a hillside. A few rocks were crumbling, their pieces cascading down the slope. The grass had gone limp, and the flowers had wilted. And yet the spirits held strong, surrendering what they didn’t need in order to keep what they couldn’t lose.
Hap touched the earth, and a door appeared in the hillside. The same door Torin had once been bewitched by. It swung open, beckoning him again with its enchanted light.
With the bowl of remedy tucked close to his side, Torin took a step forward, but then paused to look at Hap.
“Will I see you again?” Torin asked.
Hap offered a crooked smile. “Perhaps. These days one never knows what to expect.” But then his humor waned, and his eyes darkened with intensity. “I can never thank you, mortal laird, for what you have done for us. I could never repay you for your generosity. Let this hill forever stand as a testament to you.”