Elspeth sighed. “No. He lives, but he’s imprisoned in the castle keep, shamed and stripped of his name, and there he will most likely remain until his last day.”
A prisoner with no hope of a pardon. It was a terrible thought, and yet Jack’s hope rekindled, just knowing his father was still alive.
“Tell me more about yourself, Jack,” Elspeth said, drawing his attention back to the moment. “What was your life like in the east?”
He hesitated, wondering how much he should tell her. But then, realizing this moment might never come again, he said, “I’m a bard. I attended the mainland university for ten years before returning home to play for the Tamerlaines.”
Elspeth froze, her teacup halfway to her mouth. “A bard?”
He nodded, perspiration beginning to bead on his palms. He hoped he hadn’t erred, telling her who he truly was, although he couldn’t deny that he instinctively trusted her. All the same, he noticed her gaze darting to the satchel at his feet before flickering to her windows, which were shuttered, to keep the wind’s curious tendrils at bay.
“I know music is forbidden in the west,” he said. “But I—”
“That it is,” his grandmother said firmly. “And for good reason.”
“Can you tell me why?”
Elspeth set aside her teacup, then laced her gnarled fingers together on her lap. “The legend states that music’s troubled history in the west began not long after the clan line was created. I’m sure you know the story of Joan and Fingal, and how their doomed marriage and deaths divided the isle?”
Jack nodded. “I know it all too well.”
“As I thought you would, being a bard,” Elspeth said. “But in the days before the isle was divided, the west was known for its music. It wasn’t uncommon for there to be multiple bards across the land, spinning air into ballads with every season. The hall brimmed with it, night after night.
“There was one particular bard named Iagan who was greater than all the others, whose music was revered and beloved amongst the families in the west. He soon disliked the thought of there being competition among his kind and thought that it would be best for the clan to only have one appointed bard. This mindset soon took root, and musicians in the west began to lay aside their instruments, until there was only one—Iagan—and he played for the Breccans wholeheartedly.
“Not long after that, however, came the breaking. The isle changed; the west began to decline under the curse. Our spirits were weakened by the disunity, and soon Iagan’s music caused more trouble than good.”
“How so?” Jack asked, bent toward her tale.
“There was no end to it,” Elspeth said. “There were no boundaries, no way to contain his music. When Iagan played, immense power flowed through him, and the land suffered even more for it, because he drove the spirits to serve him, directing their magic to himself rather than to the land and the sea and the air and the fire. Soon the clan became angry and afraid. The music they had once danced to in the hall was now causing the crops to wither in their kail yards, their creeks to dry up in the pastures, their fires to burn cold in their hearths, and the wind to blow strong and relentless against their cottages. They begged Iagan to cease his playing, to lay down his harp and find another way to serve the clan. But Iagan, who had been devoted to music since he was a lad, couldn’t imagine giving up that which he loved more than his own life.
“He was banished from the castle, sent to live alone in the wilds. But still he played, disrupting the precarious balance of the spirits. For you see, all that those in the west had was their ability to churn magic into their craft, weaving plaids like steel, forging enchanted weapons. But when Iagan played, he momentarily stole even that magic for himself until all the Breccans had were empty hands and hungry bellies.
“In the end, his music cost him. A group of Breccans decided they had no choice but to slay him. They gathered around his cottage, teeth bared and swords drawn, ready to spill his blood on the soil. But when it comes to endings . . . well, they can take many shapes, can’t they?
“Some legends claim that the mob cut off Iagan’s hands and sliced out his tongue, leaving him to die a slow, soundless death. Other legends say that Iagan surrendered to his fellow clansmen, swearing to never play another note again if they would let him live. Some legends boast that a body was never found, that Iagan must have been drowned with his harp in the loch that surrounded his home.
“Any of these endings could be true, but what we know is that a great storm blew in that day, cold and dark and merciless, full of lightning and thunder. Speculation says that the mob caused it or Iagan, but the darkness hasn’t faded since that day, and the west became a gray, quiet land.”