At last, Torin thought, but he couldn’t move as he marveled at the hill spirit. He had never seen one manifested. He had never heard one speak so clearly.
“You are surprised that we have welcomed you here, Torin of Tamerlaine?” the spirit remarked.
Yes. The word beat in Torin’s mind, but it failed to find its way to his mouth. So he continued to stand there, dumbfounded.
“You should not be,” the spirit continued, and when he moved his hands, petals fell from his fingertips, drifting like snow. “Come, we are assembled and waiting for you to join us.” He turned to lead the way over the moors, and Torin finally roused his voice.
“I must go to my wife first. She’ll be concerned about me. I’ve been away longer than I thought.”
The spirit paused and regarded Torin with a strange, almost dangerous light in his eyes.
“Sidra is indeed wondering where you are,” said the hill spirit, and Torin’s heart lurched to hear how her name rolled in the spirit’s deep-timbred voice. As if he were very familiar with her. “You will see her soon, but for now, I must ask you to make haste and join the assembly. Our time grows short.”
Torin relented and followed the spirit, but he took care where he stepped. He could suddenly see the lads in the pennywort patches, the hungry maws in the mud puddles, the sleeping faces in the rocks, and small creatures made of woven grass.
He nearly stepped on one, and it let out a rustling hiss.
“Ah, take care, mortal laird,” the hill spirit said, but he was amused. “The ferlies can sting if they are angered. Follow in my steps.”
Torin heeded him, mimicking the long strides of the spirit. It felt like kilometers passed by with every breath. “I’ve never noticed these things before.”
“Things?”
“Spirits,” Torin corrected himself, with a grimace.
“You didn’t notice because your eyes were closed to us. You walk in our realm now. Come, just ahead.”
The pace quickened. Again, Torin had that sense that acres were rippling beneath every step he took, and he felt dizzy. The light never changed either. He was trapped in dusk, and he thought of Sidra. Sidra, I am coming, I am coming . . .
The hill spirit led him to a place he recognized. The sacred hill of the Earie Stone.
A great company had gathered here. Willowy maidens with leaves in their long tresses, young men with arms and legs like kindling. Old men shaped from wood, with reddened burls for noses, and old women woven from silver-leafed vines. In the center of them stood Lady Whin of the Wildflowers, the ruler of the eastern earth spirits, with her long dark hair, golden eyes, and crown of yellow gorse. Her skin was the shade of heather—a soft purple—and like the hill spirit, she had flowers blooming from her fingertips. She extended her hand to him, and the hill approached her, wove his long fingers with hers. Whispered something in her hair as the blossoms drifted around them.
Torin halted, transfixed by Whin as she stared at him.
He began to sweat as he felt the prickle of countless eyes on him. All the congregated spirits were watching him, and he didn’t know what to say or where to look. Was it rude to meet their gaze? Was it folly to speak first?
He waited, and finally the hill spirit stepped away from Whin.
“I bring you Torin of the Tamerlaines,” he said in his soothing deep voice. A lilt of summits and valleys. “Mortal Laird of the East.”
The spirits were silent, but they bent their heads to him in respect.
“Welcome, Laird,” said Whin. “It has been a long time, by mortal reckoning, since one of your kind has been invited to our realm.”
Torin bowed, uncertain. “I’m honored to be here, Lady Whin.” Now tell me why you have summoned me. Tell me what you want.
Whin smiled, as if she had read his thoughts. “You wonder why we have invited you?”
“Indeed. Although I have a suspicion that the invitation has something to do with the blight.”
At once the air became colder and the shadows crept longer. The spirits were visibly disheartened, afraid. Torin could feel their worry faintly beating beneath the ground.
“Our sisters of the orchard have been stricken,” Whin said, and her words began to thicken, like honey on her tongue. As if she were facing resistance as she spoke. “We . . . we have not obeyed our . . . king’s command, and so we have suffered his ire. He struck the orchard first, but he will soon strike again.”
Questions swarmed in Torin’s mind. He wanted to demand answers, but he drew a deep breath instead. “I’m sorry to hear of this. The blight has also spread to a few mortals of my clan. I’m at a loss, and I hope that you can guide me. Tell me how to fix this terrible dilemma.”