“You are the one to bring unity, Jack. The Tamerlaines will need the Breccans, and the Breccans will need the Tamerlaines. Do not forget the earth, the sea. They are experiencing the pangs of rebellion; they are resisting his call to turn against mortals.”
“Is this why the orchard has been sick?”
“Yes . . .” the fire spirit’s voice was fading, his body turning diaphanous.
Jack sensed he had only a few moments left with the spirit. His mind whirled with questions he needed answers to. He struggled to decide which ones to voice, which were most important to ask before the fire died.
“Tell me how I can dethrone Bane.”
The spirit hissed, pained. “I cannot . . . my mouth is barred from speaking that knowledge. You will have to travel west, Bard. You will find the answer among the Breccans.”
Jack’s heart became thunder. Travel west. To Adaira.
“How can we stop the blight?”
“That is not my knowledge to give. You must seek that among the earth spirits.”
“Will you promise to keep this hearth alight?”
The spirit bowed. Smoke began to rise from his shoulders. “I swear it, Bard. So long as you strive to do what I ask.”
Unite the clans. Discover the way to dethrone tyrannical Bane. All simple tasks, Jack thought, becoming almost hysterical as their implausibility sunk in.
“Take care with that harp you wield. Now I must go. Do not summon me again, or he will know.”
Yet the spirit shifted closer. Jack resisted the temptation to wince, to flee from the sudden wash of heat he felt. Wide-eyed, he watched as the spirit reached out his hand, pressing his flame-riddled thumb against Jack’s lips.
This time Jack flinched. The pain was sharp, like a blister suddenly rising, but after a breath it abated, leaving a remnant of numbness in his lips.
Jack watched the spirit shrink himself back into the hearth, his body giving way to flames. But his face was still there, observing Jack. It occurred to him that this spirit had been watching him from the hearth since he was a boy.
“Who are you?” Jack said.
“I am Ash. Laird of Fire. Be valiant; do not bend until the peace comes. I will be waiting for you, Jack.”
The spirit vanished, but the fire in the hearth remained, burning heartily, casting light and warmth upon Jack as he continued to sit on the floor. He had never felt more chilled, more anxious, and more ill prepared.
But strangest of all . . . he could taste ashes in his mouth.
Chapter 11
The full moon arrived on a clear, warm night in the east. A stream of its silver light found Torin sitting in the castle library with a glass of whiskey in hand. He was at Alastair’s desk, papers and ledgers and a map of the Eastern Cadence spread before him. Candles burned along the tabletop, casting rings of light on the stacks of parchment, but the darkness felt thick in the room, gathering in corners and in the rafters.
“Laird?”
He glanced up to see Yvaine stepping into the library. She was a few years older than him, with curly black hair and a scar on her jaw that she had earned during a Breccan raid. A brown-and-red plaid was fastened at her shoulder, a sword sheathed at her side. Her palm was still healing from the enchanted wound Torin had given it weeks ago, so she would be bound to the eastern territory.
“Captain,” he said. “I surmise you bring an update on the new recruits?”
“No.” She came to a stop on the other side of the desk, noticing the whiskey in his hand. “The blight has spread to the Ranalds’ orchard.”
Torin’s heart sank, but he was sadly not surprised. “Has anyone caught it?”
“Yes. Their youngest son. I’ve roped off the orchard and given the family strict orders to stay away from the trees, even the healthy ones. But I wanted you to know.”
“Thank you, Yvaine.” He glanced at the map and the places he had marked upon it. Places where the blight had appeared. So far there were three, and he feared only more would crop up. “I’ll let Sidra know.”
Yvaine was quiet for a long moment. Her silence drew Torin’s bloodshot eyes to her.
“What is it?” he asked gruffly.
“Have the two of you discussed your move to the castle yet?”
“No.”
“I’m beginning to feel like I need to set a watch over your croft, Torin.”
“You’ll do no such thing, Yvaine.”
“But you understand why I feel this way?”
Torin didn’t want to have this conversation. But yes, he knew. He was the laird, and he was living in a cottage on a windswept hill. He was traveling to and from the castle every morning and night, alone, sometimes before the sun rose or after it set.