Torin was deeply moved. He reached out to grasp Hap’s forearm, pleased when Hap returned the gesture. The spirit’s hand was cold and smooth. Flowers cascaded from his hair when he at last released Torin.
“Go, my friend,” Hap urged.
Torin turned and stepped over the threshold. He heard the door latch, enclosing him in the portal. He breathed, tasting rich dirt in the air, feeling the dampness beneath his feet. It was completely silent here, and he didn’t realize how badly his ears had been ringing from the wind until he escaped its roar.
He followed the passage, the bramble lights winking as he passed them. The earthen corridor curved; he walked a full circle back to the door, where he hesitated. What if it had all been a trick and he emerged once again in the spirits’ realm? He had given the folk what they wanted and needed, and perhaps they would now laugh at his expense.
Foolish, trusting mortal.
Torin glanced down at the bowl he carried and saw that the remedy still gleamed like the moon. He released a deep breath as he opened the door.
He was first struck by how drab the world appeared. There were no threads of gold in the earth, no trace of the spirits. The sky churned as if it were about to touch the isle, and lightning flickered through the clouds. The wind howled, so cold it tore the breath right from Torin’s mouth.
And yet all he could focus on was what sprawled before him. The city of Sloane was dark, as if abandoned. How much time had passed? Had a century molted its years while he walked with the spirits?
Torin ran, defying the wind, all the way to the city. The thoroughfare was empty save for the debris that the wind kicked through the streets. There were no guards, no people. No sign of life anywhere. Torin was so amazed and terrified that he came to a halt. Clumps of thatch spun around him, stolen from a roof. A plaid fluttered over the cobblestones. A few buckets rolled on their sides before splintering against a wall. Shards of glass glittered like stars on the street.
He set his eyes on the castle, which loomed in the distance, shadowed and dismal. Torin made his way to it, going as fast as he could through the treacherous thoroughfare. Soon he reached the gates, which were open, welcoming anyone and anything to step through their iron. Although, if the entire city and castle were empty, perhaps he shouldn’t have been shocked, perhaps—
“Laird!”
The sound pierced Torin like an arrow. He stopped and turned, watching as one of his guards emerged from a door in the outer wall.
“Andrew?” Torin asked.
Andrew broke into a grin, tossing aside all propriety as he embraced his laird. Torin had to swallow a sob as he wrapped his arm around the guard.
He was seen and heard. He could be held. He had returned to his life and his time frame. He nearly fell to his knees.
“My laird, we weren’t expecting you!” Andrew said, leaning back, wincing as the wind nearly unbalanced them both. “Here, come inside.”
Torin let Andrew shepherd him across the courtyard. The moment they stepped into the foyer, Torin knew something was wrong. He blinked against the thick darkness and said, “Where is everyone? Why isn’t the fire burning?”
“The fire went out this morning,” Andrew explained, drawing Torin through the shadows. “In all our hearths, even the crofters’. Most people are sheltering at home, waiting for the worst of the storm to pass. Others are here. We left the gates open in case anyone needed to take refuge in the castle.”
They arrived at the hall, where meager gray light streamed in through the windows.
Torin stopped, beholding the crowd that had gathered. Tamerlaines sat at the tables, close together and wrapped in their plaids. Some were trying to pass the time by talking and sipping ale or wine. Others were trying to entertain anxious children with games and stories. Some were curled up on the floor, dozing.
But everything came to a halt when the clan saw that their laird had returned.
People gathered around him with booming laughter and smiles of relief. Torin was nearly overwhelmed, feeling so many hands touch him. He clung to his bowl of remedy and searched the countless faces, looking for Sidra, for her long sable hair and amber-hued eyes. For her gentle smile and graceful hands.
He was surprised that she wasn’t among them. But before he could ask for her, Andrew drew Torin to one of the tables.
“Sit, Laird. You look weary.”
Torin sat.
“Would you like me to bring you something to drink? Eat?” Andrew asked. “Go and fetch the laird some boots!” someone else cried. “And a new tunic!” Another said, “There’s grass in your hair, Laird. And dirt on your hands. Should I bring a ewer and a comb to you, or would you like to go to your bedchamber?”