Angry, Jack continued to play, his nails plucking music from the strings faster and faster, as if he could outplay the storm. But a strange tingling rippled over his skin. He could feel it in his teeth. A hum of warning.
He had experienced this before. On a mountaintop with Adaira. When he had summoned the four winds without knowing the cost of such foolish bravery. When he had held Bane captive for one mesmerizing, desperate moment.
Playing his music had nearly killed him that day.
“Stand down, Jack!” Torin’s shout was hardly discernible as the storm howled. “Stand down!”
Jack pressed on, his voice rising and weaving into the wind. The clouds darkened, and the gusts grew so strong they nearly lifted him off the ground. The rain pelted his face and his hands, and yet Jack didn’t stop, didn’t sway, didn’t bend to the northern wind.
He had a moment of unexpected relief, even as the raging storm came terrifyingly close. If Bane was here, then he was no longer wreaking his havoc in the west. Adaira might be standing under a blue sky, enjoying a break in the clouds.
The thought fueled Jack onward as he continued to sing for the orchard, but his voice was small and weak compared to the northern wind. He drew a deep breath, filling his chest with air so cold it made him think of winter. He strummed onward, even as his nails began to weaken.
The magic was eclipsing his strength. He could feel the pain surging through him.
I’m pushing myself too hard, he thought. But he had Sidra’s tonics ready in his satchel, and he knew he had more to give.
“Jack! Enough! Cease this!” Torin’s order melted in the storm as the laird was blown off his feet and forced to scramble in the grass.
Jack watched the dark clouds split above him, pulsing with lightning. He felt the rustle of invisible wings encircle him, taunting him. And then they withdrew, leaving him vulnerable and alone. He was one lyric away from being struck. He sensed it, felt the white-heat crackle and gather around him. The hair on his arms rose.
I will not bend I will not bend I will not—
He surrendered.
He bent.
He dropped the harp and knelt.
His final note died in the storm. He closed his mouth and swallowed the last of his ballad.
Bane’s lightning struck the closest apple tree. It was the spirit who had been transforming to answer Jack’s call. The beam sliced the maiden in half, clean through her heart. The sound rent the air, and the earth shook and wept.
The tang of scorched applewood permeated the grove. Smoke rose from the orchard, dancing on the wind.
Jack felt the edge of his mortality. Terrified, he fell to the grass, face first.
A throb of emotions knotted in his chest. He was relieved that Bane hadn’t struck him. He was terrified that he had been one lyric away from being divided himself. One lyric away from being cut through his own heart. He was ashamed that he had not outlasted the northern wind, and that a tree had taken the punishment for his defiance.
Jack knew then what sort of bard he was as he lay there, dazed, in the mud.
A weak and foolish one.
Adaira was in the castle stables, brushing one of the horses and listening to the rain drip from the eaves. She liked to come here, to hide herself in the comforting scent of horses, tanned leather, and sweet summer grains. It was a place that felt comfortable, a place that felt like home. The grooms had finally become accustomed to her daily visits and allowed her to curry a few of the gentler steeds on her own.
A bird flew into the stall and found a perch in the corner. Adaira watched as it shook the rain from its wings. She continued to curry the horse, but she imagined what it must feel like to be a bird, to have the freedom to fly from place to place.
A moment later, the storm abated.
Adaira paused, then stepped around the horse to slide open the stall window. The dark clouds were breaking, the northern wind retreating.
Shouts echoed through the barn. Horses whinnied, stomping their hooves. The bird darted out the window with a chirp.
Adaira slipped from the stall and followed the grooms into the castle courtyard. She gazed toward the western horizon, squinting against the brightness. Unfamiliar in a land of clouds and winds, light had arrived, fragile yet radiant, transforming the gray west into a world of glittering windows and steaming cobblestones.
Adaira smiled as she watched the sun set.
Torin, sore and exhausted, his eyes still haunted by lightning, stumbled home in the rain. The song for the orchard had failed, and now he needed another plan.
He had no idea what to do.
He stepped into the cottage, tore off his drenched plaid, his muddy boots, his anger, and his indecision, leaving them all in a heap by the door. It was only then that he noticed how quiet and serene the house was.