“No. But you seem to fear that I have ill intentions toward the west.”
David leaned against the edge of the table, arms crossed. “You speak of your post.”
She nodded.
“If I wrote a letter to Moray,” he began, “would the eastern laird read it? And likewise, if Moray wrote to me—which he hasn’t—would the eastern laird read it too before sending it?”
Adaira felt the heat rising in her skin. “I don’t think that’s a fair comparison, given what I haven’t done versus what Moray has.”
“That much is true, Cora. But even in the face of such truths, you cannot deny that the Breccans and the Tamerlaines have a long, bloody history, and unfortunately you are caught between the two clans.”
“By no choice of my own,” she said.
David was silent, but Adaira knew he felt the sting of her words.
She stood with a sigh, thankful she felt steady. She reached for her new sword, belting it to her waist. She liked the weight of it, and how reassuring it felt.
It felt like power.
“Whatever happened to him?” she dared to ask.
“To whom?” David said.
“To the man who carried me eastward.”
David turned away and began to clean up his worktable. But a chill had fallen between them. When he finally spoke, his voice was clipped, as if the rapport they had been building had crumbled. “I’m afraid I can’t answer that, Cora.”
Dismissed, Adaira left the chamber, which fed into the armory. She eventually found her way back to the winding corridors.
Adaira walked slowly, lost in her thoughts and pondering what she had just learned. Her heart was heavy until she reconsidered David’s parting words to her. If he was refusing to answer her question, then chances were that Jack’s father wasn’t dead.
He was still alive.
Chapter 9
“You’re certain about this, Jack?” Torin asked for the third time, pacing through the long grass.
Jack glanced sidelong at him, thinking now was not the best time for doubt. Not with his new harp in hand and the sick orchard spread before them, dappled in shade. But neither could he fully fault Torin for being skeptical. Jack vividly remembered the night he had first sung for the spirits. He had struggled to believe Adaira’s wild claim that his music was powerful and binding enough to entice the folk to manifest.
“I’m certain,” he said.
Blue evening shadows draped the orchard, half of which was now consumed by the blight. Rodina had been sent away from the croft, and only Torin and Jack stood in the twilit yard. Even all the cats had been rounded up, which had been no simple feat.
Jack eased closer to the trees to study the glittering sap. The month before, when he sang to the earth, the alder trees around him had become maidens. The pennywort had transformed into lads. Wildflowers had woven together to form a ruling lady. Stones had found their faces.
So while Jack’s eyes saw blighted apple trees, he also sensed that it was the maidens in the parallel realm, the spirits who dwelt in these trees, who were ill. If he could summon and draw one of the maidens from a healthy tree, then perhaps she could provide answers.
“When can you begin playing?” Torin asked.
“I’m ready now,” Jack replied. He settled in the grass, the harp in his lap, and began to warm his fingers with a scale. “Whatever manifests, don’t draw your weapon, Torin.”
Torin was silent, but from the corner of his eye, Jack saw the laird’s hand twitch toward the hilt of his sheathed sword.
Jack began to play the ballad he had penned for the plight of the orchard. He sang an invitation to the trees, sang his worship of their existence. His notes resounded in the air, settling like snow on the branches, gleaming like frost on the bark. He sensed the trees falling solemn, their shadows running long and crooked over the grass as they answered his call.
A maiden with white apple blossoms in her emerald hair began to spin herself from the boughs and leaves. Her face, still forming from a burl, wrinkled as if she were in pain.
Jack was so intent upon her transformation that he didn’t see the storm blow in. He didn’t feel the shift of temperature until it was too late. The northern wind blasted through the grove, slashing the last light of eventide. Jack lifted his eyes to study the dark clouds boiling overhead. A stinging rain began to fall.
He knew this wind.
“Should you stop?” Torin asked, sensing the danger that lurked just beyond the clouds.
Jack considered stopping, but for just a breath. He had to ask himself: What sort of bard did he want to be? Would he be one who sang in defiance of the northern wind? Or would he fall prey to fear and submit to what Bane wanted, which was his eternal silence?