He exhaled a deep breath and began to think about the notes he would play for the fire spirits and the words he would sing for them. A ballad began to take shape in his mind, and Jack decided to lean into it, improvising as he had done with Adaira’s song. He was learning that there was great power in such music, in letting himself go.
He brought the harp to his shoulder, closed his eyes, and began to find notes. A scale rose to meet him and Jack hummed, seeking words to accompany his music.
All he knew was the cold dark. All he wanted was fire and fire alone.
He sang to the spirits, to the dead ashes in his hearth. He played for fire and the memory of flames.
His eyes remained closed, but he felt the warmth on his knees, on his face. He could see the light growing, and he opened his eyes to watch the kindling crackle, bright and eager. The fire spread to the wood, igniting with a sigh, and suddenly it was blazing, wild and unhindered. The fire danced high and wide. Jack had no choice but to shift backwards, its unbearable heat almost scorching his skin.
What have I done? he wondered, but he continued to play and sing, encouraging the fire to rise higher, wider. Soon, it was escaping the hearth. I will burn the house down.
When he thought he could play no more—his harp was smoldering in his hands, the strings sparking beneath his fingertips—the fire gathered itself together into the shape of a tall man. It was difficult to look upon his face at first. Jack squinted and ended his ballad, his voice fading. But the heat and light finally calmed, and he studied the fire spirit, awestruck.
The spirit was translucent but his manifested body seemed solid as it radiated with the shades of fire. Blue and gold, red and ocher. His face was like a mortal man’s: narrow, with a heavy brow, a long nose, a cleft in his chin, and a mouth pressed into a thin line. But his eyes glimmered like embers coming back to life. His hair was long, constantly changing color. His arms were thin, malnourished, but his hands were strong, his fingertips like candle flames. Yes, there was a hungry look about him, as if he knew he was burning down his resources and there was not enough fuel to keep him alive.
“At last, Bard,” said the fire spirit. His voice, like one long hiss, the words twisting in his mouth, sent a shiver through Jack. “At last you summon me.”
Jack’s face felt blistered, but he didn’t dare move away. “Or perhaps you have summoned me?”
The spirit cackled, amused. “You speak of the cold ashes. Yes, it was the only way I could think to gain your attention.”
“Why do you need my attention? How can I ensure my mother and sister have fire in this hearth? You are life to us. Surely you know that.” As soon as Jack spoke the words, he regretted them. It was foolish to make bargains with spirits.
“There is indeed something I want of you,” the fire spirit said.
“And what is that?”
The spirit opened his mouth. Flames danced on his tongue, but only ashes fell from his lips. Jack knew that the spirit’s voice had been hindered by Bane.
“The northern wind has bound you,” Jack whispered. He could still taste the tang of lightning in his own mouth. He could still feel the prickling of his skin.
How had a spirit of the northern wind grown so powerful? Who or what had crowned Bane, making him king of all others?
The fire spirit slumped, weary. “’Tis so, Bard. I am shackled by the northern wind. My king. I can only speak so much, and my time grows short with you.”
“Should I continue to play for you? Would that strengthen you?”
“No, no. That harp is . . . he might hear you and arrive to interfere, as he did in the orchard.” The spirit paused, measuring his words. “I have come to warn you, Jack of the Tamerlaines, Jack of the Breccans. My king is afraid of . . . I cannot say it, but he will soon strike the isle. Your clan cannot stand alone against him, nor can the spirits of earth and water. You will need to unite with them and join your rival clan. The isle is stronger as one, and perhaps you will be able to . . . to defeat . . . dethrone . . . him.”
Jack sat forward, wide-eyed. “You speak of Tamerlaines and Breccans uniting?” He almost laughed but caught the sound just before it slipped from his mouth. “And you cannot mean me. I’m not the one capable of accomplishing such a task.”
Because it is impossible, he wanted to say. Unfathomable. And yet this fire spirit stared into Jack, saw the slant of his preconceptions and beliefs and lineage.
Jack was both Tamerlaine and Breccan.
His face flushed. He felt stricken by the insurmountable odds of this request.