His words made her tremble. The weight of all the burdens she had been carrying began to lift from her shoulders, like a boulder on her back finally slipping away, and she could suddenly draw a deep breath and straighten her spine.
“Let me heal you, Sid,” Torin whispered, and her world went quiet in shock.
She didn’t speak when he led her to one of the chairs. But her heart had quickened, and her hands suddenly felt cold when Torin knelt before her. She remembered the Breccans then. They had gathered close to watch. She saw Innes and David among them.
But Torin remained wholly fixated on Sidra as he began to unlace her left boot.
Panic surged through her. “Torin, wait,” she said, reaching for his hands.
He paused and then whispered again, “Let me heal you.”
She didn’t understand how he knew she was sick, but she nodded, even as a splinter of worry stung her heart. She sat back and let Torin untether her boot. The leather strings and tanned hide fell away, and then he gently unknotted her makeshift brace and drew down her stocking, exposing her illness to the Breccans.
Murmurs sprouted in the crowd. Sidra couldn’t bear to look up until Torin reached for her paring knife on the table. Tension crackled through the air, but Innes lifted her hand, bidding her clan to stay silent.
Torin opened his leather satchel and brought out a wooden bowl, filled with a shining substance. Sidra held her breath when his eyes met hers again.
“Do you trust me?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“This will hurt only for a moment.”
“I know. It’s all right.”
He still seemed to hesitate, even when he brought the edge of the knife to her calf. He finally gave her a shallow cut. Sidra bit the inside of her lip as she watched gold begin to well and drip down her leg. Torin set aside the knife and dipped his fingers into the salve. He brought it to her wound and Sidra gasped to feel how cold it was.
She bled and bled, until the gold had stained Torin’s forearm and formed a pool on the floor beneath her. But then she felt it—the moment when the salve began to burn through the blight. She watched, tears lining her eyes, as the sickness was driven out of her and her blood became her own again.
Torin tenderly wrapped her wound with a strip of linen. He smiled up at her, and Sidra’s chest flooded with warmth.
“Does anyone else here need to be healed?” Torin asked as he rose. “I have the remedy for the blight.”
His offer was met with stone-faced silence and dark disbelief. Sidra knew there were Breccans present who were sick, and yet they kept their mouths closed. Her joy began to dwindle, watching them refuse to yield.
Torin waited, but when no one moved, he began to tuck the bowl of remedy back into his satchel. He was looking at Sidra again, his eyes tracing her every line and curve, when a voice at last broke the quiet.
“I need to be healed.”
Sidra turned to see that David Breccan had stepped forward.
He removed his gloves and let them fall to the floor at his feet, revealing his afflicted hand. He held it out to the light, wholly trusting Torin.
Whispers spun through the crowd.
Torin cleaned the knife, took up the remedy, and went to David.
And Sidra watched in wonder as Torin healed the west with his hands.
Chapter 41
Jack had passed through Spindle’s Vale with little trouble, the earth spirits having risen to help him travel swiftly in the storm. As he emerged from the valley, he knew the Aithwood was near, looming in the distance. He could almost see its shadow in the gloam when lightning branched overhead, illuminating the low, boiling clouds.
A bolt struck the tree in front of him, a mere six paces away, and Jack jumped back in shock. He watched in horror as the tree split in half and fell with a tremendous crash, the blaze washing over him. As the lightning prepared to strike again, Jack realized that Bane had seen him. Bane knew exactly where he was, and if he didn’t move and find shelter, he would be sliced down before he ever had the chance to sing.
Jack broke into a frantic run.
His knees throbbed from the impact, and breath cut his lungs like a blade when the lightning flashed again. He was about to be struck; he could feel it in the air around him, how it tingled and hissed. Bane was about to kill him, and Jack knew he couldn’t outrun the northern wind. Not in the open, stranded between the mountains and the forest.
Just before the lightning could strike, heather grew thick and tall around Jack, its purple blooms defying the wind. It was like a shield and Jack dropped to his knees and crawled beneath it, sheltered by its shadows.