Torin continued to squat, listening. But that was the end, and he found he was more confused and frustrated than before.
“What does this mean, hill spirit?”
“Even if I knew, I could not tell you.”
“Read it again.”
The spirit did so, in a steady and calm voice, and Torin ruminated on the words. But they made no sense to him, and he stood up with a groan.
“This is impossible,” he said, throwing up his hands. “How am I to solve something like this?”
“If you were unworthy of this challenge, we would not have chosen you,” the hill spirit replied. “Were we wrong, Torin of the Tamerlaines?”
Torin stared at the wood, the smooth edges of a language he couldn’t read. A mystery he had no idea how to solve. Ice and fire, sisters divided, salt and blood.
“My wife would know,” he said, meeting the hill spirit’s steady gaze. “If you’d allow me to speak to her, allow her to see me. She could assist me in this.”
“I’m afraid it cannot be done,” the spirit said, but he didn’t sound at all remorseful. “Once you leave our realm, you cannot return here as you once were.”
“I want to speak with her,” Torin insisted. He was haunted by the memory of Sidra vomiting into a pot, standing forlorn in a castle room in which she had never wanted to live. Alone and burdened and thinking he had deserted her, with his child growing within her. “I won’t progress in solving this riddle until you grant me that small mercy.”
“You can see her all you desire, mortal laird.”
“But she cannot see me. She doesn’t know where I am.”
“She knows where you are,” the hill spirit said, and Torin stiffened. “She knows, and she understands why and what you must do.”
“You act as if you have spoken with her,” Torin said through his teeth.
The spirit only smiled.
Torin’s anger began to simmer. His fingers flexed at his side before curling into a fist.
“We cannot tell you how to solve this riddle,” the spirit said. “But if you pay close attention, we can help guide you.”
“Then guide me,” Torin said, exasperated.
The hill spirit cocked his head, as if he were regretting his choice of human helper. But then he became ethereal. One moment he was standing before Torin, the next he was an array of grass and hills and flowers, all the wild beauty that flourished beneath his care.
Torin was caught in a web of annoyance. He looked to the road he had come from, the road that would lead him to the castle, to Sidra and his daughter. He was homesick, and he ached for them.
He failed to see the trail of wildflowers blooming in the grass.
Frae walked home from school with a group of children now, since Jack was no longer there to escort her to and from the city. The boys and girls she walked with lived in crofts scattered throughout the spine of Eastern Cadence. Frae lived the farthest from Sloane, and so she traveled the last portion of her route alone. But by then, she had only two kilometers to go, and Mirin’s cottage was almost within view. Her mother had promised to be waiting for her at the gate to greet her that afternoon.
All the schoolchildren had new rules to follow. Frae liked to repeat them in her mind, because she didn’t want to accidentally break one.
Rule number one was that they had to walk home together and not leave the younger ones behind.
Rule number two was that they had to stay on the roads to avoid being fooled by enchantments.
And if they happened to break rule number two, above all else they had to avoid any tree that showed symptoms of blight or was roped off by the guard. Three children had already fallen sick from the blight, not including Hamish, and Frae was very anxious about catching it too. She was relieved that there weren’t many trees on her mother’s lands, save for the Aithwood. And Frae rarely went very deep into that forest.
She squinted against the late afternoon sunshine as she walked along the road. She was still considered one of the younger children, and as such, she trailed behind the older ones. But she kept up a good pace, even with her satchel of books slung over her shoulder. Her wooden sparring sword was looped into her belt, and she cradled the bowl she had made for her pottery class in her hands because she didn’t want to put it in her bag, worried it would crack. She was thinking about how she could make a bigger and even better bowl next time when something struck her in the chest.
It hit her right above her heart, and even though her enchanted plaid was draped across her body, the impact made her stumble. Her arms flailed, and she watched as her bowl fell to the road and broke into pieces at her feet.