But the truth was that it had always been difficult for him to let go of things. Of roles that had suited him. Of places he was fond of. Of the people he loved.
“Was Hamish here this morning?” Torin asked. He couldn’t ignore the chill that touched him, soft as a shroud being drawn across his shoulders. He stifled a shudder as he stared into the orchard.
“Took the morning off to fish with his friends,” Rodina said. “Why, Laird? Do you need to speak with him?”
“I think I should, yes.” Torin gently guided Rodina away from the trees. The rotten scent trailed them all the way to the crofter’s kail yard. “I’m going to ask him to rope off your orchard. In the meantime, don’t touch the trees or the fruit. Not until I know more about this blight.”
“But what about my crop, Laird?” Rodina asked, pausing at the garden’s rusty gate. One of her cats—Torin didn’t even want to know how many she had—leapt up onto the stone wall beside her, meowing as it rubbed against her arm.
Torin hesitated, but he held the woman’s determined stare. She believed that her crop could be salvaged, but Torin sensed there was far more at play in the orchard. Ever since Jack and Adaira had played and conversed with the folk of water, earth, and wind, Torin had come to learn more about the spirits of the isle. Their hierarchy, for one thing. Their limitations and their powers. The fear they harbored toward their king, Bane of the Northern Wind. It didn’t seem like all was well in the spirits’ realm. He wouldn’t be surprised if every tree succumbed to the blight—blight he had never seen before, he realized as he raked his hand through his hair. And he had been roaming the eastern side of the isle for nearly twenty-seven years.
“Try not to worry about your crop,” he said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ll be back soon to ensure the ropes are securely in place.”
Rodina nodded, but was frowning as she watched Torin mount his horse. Perhaps, like Torin, she sensed the hopeless fate of the trees, which were far older than both of them. Their roots ran crooked and deep beneath Cadence’s surface, down to an enchanted place that Torin could only dream of.
The folk were secretive and capricious, answering only to a bard’s music, and as far as Torin knew, Jack and Adaira were the only living Tamerlaines to have seen them manifest. And yet a good number of the Tamerlaines worshiped the earth and the water, the wind and the fire. Torin rarely did, in contrast to Sidra’s devotion. But despite his meager praise, Torin had grown up on their lore. His father, Graeme, had fed stories of the spirits to him every night like bread, and Torin knew of the balance between human and spirit on Cadence, one side influencing the other.
He mulled over his options as he traveled by road to the Brindles’ croft. The customary afternoon storm was about to break and the shadows had cooled when Torin saw a woman and a child walking along the road up ahead of him. A breath later, he realized the two were Jack’s mother, Mirin, and her young daughter, Frae. Torin reined his horse to a halt.
“Cap—Laird,” Mirin said, nodding to him.
Torin had grown used to this greeting. His old title being cut in half for his new one. He wondered if “Laird” would ever truly fit him, or if the clan would always think of him as “Captain.”
“Mirin, Fraedah,” he greeted them, noticing that Mirin was carrying a pie in her hands. “It looks like the two of you are heading for a celebration?”
“Not a celebration, no,” the weaver said, her voice heavy. “I take it you didn’t hear the news on the wind?”
Torin’s stomach clenched. Usually, he always listened to the wind, in case Sidra or his father called him. But he had been distracted that day. “What happened?”
Mirin glanced at Frae. The lass’s eyes were large and sad as her gaze dropped to the ground. As if she didn’t want to see the news hit him.
“What happened, Mirin?” Torin demanded. His stallion sensed his nerves, sidestepping off the road and crushing a cluster of daises beneath its large hooves.
“A boy drowned in the sea.”
“Which boy?”
“Trista’s youngest son,” Mirin said. “Hamish.”
It took a moment for the truth to sink into Torin. But when it did, it felt like a blade caught between his ribs. He could hardly speak, and he urged his horse onward, galloping the remainder of the way to the Brindles’ croft.
His blond hair was snarled and his knee-high boots and plaid speckled with mud by the time he reached the Brindle farm. A crowd had already gathered. Wagons and horses and walking canes littered the path to the kail yard. The front door was wide open, leaking sounds of grief.