Torin clenched his teeth. He abruptly stood, thankful when the voices fell quiet. He looked for Sidra again—she was nowhere to be found—and then said, “I’ll take a cup of water. I don’t need boots or a tunic. Bring me all the Tamerlaines who have been afflicted by the blight. And someone please tell my wife I’m here.”
For a moment, uncertain looks passed among those crowding around Torin. He frowned, struggling to understand what was happening, but then the awkwardness passed and the hall was once again a hive of activity and conversation and wonder.
The table around him was cleared and he set down his bowl of remedy on it. The Tamerlaines who were sick—their numbers had grown since he had departed—came to sit before him. Torin thought it best to first attempt the healing on Sidra. She wouldn’t be afraid to try, and he thought she could even lend her knowledge to help him apply the remedy. The hall fell silent again as everyone watched him, expectant.
Torin glanced at Edna, the chamberlain, who stood close to his elbow with his cup of water.
“Will you please bring Sidra to me?” he asked.
Again, that strange, terrible hesitation. Edna released a long breath and said, “She’s not here, Laird.”
Torin’s stomach twisted. “Where is she?” At once, an image of a grave stained his mind. Freshly turned earth and wildflowers, and a headstone with her name carved across its face. He could feel the first prick of unspeakable grief mounting in his spirit.
“She’s in the west,” Edna replied. “She departed yesterday, with four of the best guards.”
Torin gripped the back of the closest chair. He shuddered in relief, which lasted for only a breath before he demanded, “Why is she in the west?”
“She went to assist the Breccans,” Yvaine said, easing her way to the front of the crowd. “Adaira wrote to her, saying they were in great need of her healing.”
Torin was quiet, pensive. He remembered the conversation he had overheard between Innes and David, when they spoke of Adaira. Let her write to Sidra. Of course Torin shouldn’t have been shocked that when asked to come, Sidra had gone willingly.
“And where is my daughter?”
“With your father at his croft.”
Torin nodded. There was nothing else he could do at the moment but try to heal the ones who waited before him. His gaze touched each of their faces, his mind swarming.
Sid, what would you do? Guide me.
Among the sick were two of his guards, who now sat at the table. He decided to attempt the healing on one of them first, an older man named Ian who was a seasoned warrior.
“Come forward, Ian,” Torin said.
Ian instantly obeyed. He gingerly removed his tunic, exposing the place on his body where the blight had struck him. His right shoulder was veined in gold and dappled with purple. Torin carefully touched the skin; it was soft, and he thought back on how he had healed the spirits. All the trees had suffered gaping wounds, places where their infected sap ran freely.
Torin said, “Hand me your dirk, Ian.”
Without hesitation, Ian unsheathed the dirk at his belt. It was a mundane blade, just as Torin wanted. Carefully, he made the cut in the center of the blight. Ian winced as his skin broke, but it wasn’t blood that dripped down his skin. It was the golden curse. Torin quickly dipped his fingers into the remedy and applied it over the open wound, smudging the thick gold. Then he waited, feeling his pulse in his ears.
He didn’t know what he would do if this failed. All his hope was in the remedy.
The gold continued to weep from Ian’s wound, smelling like rotten fruit and moldy parchment. It streamed down his arm and dripped from his elbow, but Torin didn’t remove his hand or the salve. He watched as the light gradually chased away the last of the illness, and when Ian’s blood ran red, cheers resounded in the hall.
Torin stood on the threshold, staring into the castle courtyard. The wind was still bellowing, and the clouds continued to seethe. It was a long way to the west, especially by the standards of the mortal realm. He no longer had that long-legged stride of the spirits, and yet he couldn’t wait for the storm to abate.
He had healed the sickened Tamerlaines. All but one, and she was many kilometers away.
“Laird?”
He turned to see Edna behind him, bearing the leather satchel he had requested.
“Thank you,” he said. He safely tucked the bowl of remedy in the pouch before strapping it across his chest. Andrew stood in the foyer, his mouth pressed into a thin line, as did Yvaine.
“Laird,” Yvaine said, “let us come with you.”