The wildfire still followed him, vibrant with heat, but Jack had no fear of it. It was like a cloak, trailing behind him, and he knew Iagan’s power was almost broken. Now was the time to play for the wind.
Jack dared to undo the binds on the southern wind. The eastern wind. The western wind. As he sang, lightning struck erratically around him. The bolts sliced trees down to the ground, splitting open their resin-stained hearts. Trees so old that they must have held all the secrets of the isle. Their spirits gasped and died into smoke.
Jack continued to sing, even as the ground shook and the wind roared. He knew the spirits were giving themselves up to protect him, and he simply needed to hold on and reach the end. He continued to breathe in the magic the west gave to him, until every bone and vein felt illuminated, as if he had swallowed a swath of stars from the night sky.
He suddenly couldn’t remember his name, or where he had come from. All he knew was the crackling wildfire, spread like a robe behind him . . . the trees with their ancient faces and stories, standing around him like courtiers, absorbing Bane’s wrath to protect him . . . the flowers, blooming at his feet as if to welcome him . . . the rain beginning to fall, tasting like the sea.
But somewhere between the notes he played and the words he sang was a woman with eyes blue as the summer sky, and hair the shade of the moon. A woman with a scar on her palm that matched his own, whose smile made his blood quicken.
Who is she? he thought, distracted by the fleeting glimpses of her when he closed his eyes. He wanted to chase her into the darkness, to reach out to touch her skin. His hands suddenly ached as he continued to pluck note after note. He slowed his playing, distracted. He wanted to let those scars on their palms align, as if they would unlock a secret between them. . . .
Lightning struck in front of him. The white heat stung his face, and he winced, eyes flying open. The harp flared unbearably hot against him. But Jack had only one more stanza to sing.
He pressed forward, walking along the clan line, over the scorched flowers and earth. Jack began to sing down the northern wind.
Wings beat through the boughs of the trees, flashing with color. The temperature plummeted, and the light dimmed until eventide seemed to have descended.
Jack knew Bane had materialized. But he waited until he saw the northern king’s lambent eyes in the darkness between the trees. He held a lance flickering with lightning in his hand.
Jack waited until the king had stepped forward to fully face him. He was just as Jack remembered. Forged from great height and white skin, his long hair the color of faded gold, like watered-down ale. His crimson wings caught the frail light, casting a red hue on his silver-linked armor. A chain of stars crowned him.
But despite his immortality, Jack could still see a trace of Iagan. The man he once had been, as if reigning for centuries and never dying still couldn’t wash away that mortal shadow.
“Lay down your harp,” Bane said, but his voice was weak. “Lay down your harp and I will spare you.”
Only then did Jack grant the king a sharp-edged smile. He resumed his song for all that Iagan had once stolen. Torn wings and brilliant blooms of gorse. Broken, iridescent shells and a scepter of fire.
The spirits came unbound. They shed the weight of Iagan’s cruel ballad, and the world felt brighter, starker, overwhelming for a blazing moment.
Jack watched as Bane jerked in pain. The wings on his back came loose, falling away. The lightning in his lance went dark, crumbling into ashes, gorse, and shells.
“My song,” Bane said, his voice feathered with agony. He took a step closer to Jack, then another, the earth quaking beneath his feet.
Jack drew a ragged breath, tasting the smoke and the fire and the cadence of his notes. He sang until Bane was looming over him, staring down at his hands and his harp.
Then Jack fell silent. Gazing up at the king, he noticed the cracks in Bane’s skin, as if he were made of ice. The stars in his hair were beginning to drift away.
“You stole my song,” Bane said. “You stole my song and remade it, and so you have stolen my crown.”
The stars that had once graced his hair now hovered in the space between Jack and Bane, who suddenly gasped and fell to his knees. More cracks raced across his skin, exposing the shadows within him. Indigo and gray and cold as midnight in the north.
Music had once granted him his power. Music now stripped it from him.
The stars were gliding closer. Jack didn’t dare breathe as they began to weave their blue light into his hair. He held his harp and stared down at Bane as his face finally fractured. The northern king shuddered and turned into dust.