Sidra only winced as she rubbed her foot. It struck him then, like a blow to his chest. He looked closer and saw the threads of gold, shining beneath her skin.
Torin rocked back on his heels, tore his fingers through his hair.
“Sidra.”
His spirit fractured. He felt like a pane of glass, laden with cracks. He felt like he was about to fall into pieces.
His eyes stung with tears as he watched her slowly draw her stocking back on.
She didn’t know how to heal herself. She didn’t know how to defeat the blight, even after all the hours she had dedicated to it.
Torin had never felt such fear before. It was a talon, piercing him in the deepest places, scoring through every organ and every secret he held. It possessed the power to root him to that spot in her chamber, unable to move or think. To turn him into smoke and memory. He sank into the fear, the fear that whispered, You are going to lose her to the grave. They had already been separated by realms, but death was a place where not even the spirits of the isle could roam.
Sidra rose.
She prepared for bed, and Torin’s eyes were glazed as he stared at the fire dancing in the hearth. When Sidra walked through him, he finally wept, and his tears flowed thick as honey. His sobs rose and fell like the waves, but no one could hear him. No one could bear witness to his grief and his terror.
Eventually, the fire gave a great pop in the hearth. An ember flew through the dimness, landing on Torin’s foot. It smoldered through him, through the fog that had encircled him, and he stared down at it, amazed he could at last feel something other than his own emotions.
“Adaira,” the ember hissed, just before it went dark.
Torin stepped back, watching the ash crumble on his foot. His thoughts gathered, still strung by cords of fear, but he found a branch of logic to cling to. He thought about all the things he had observed and heard the past few days.
Torin began to move. He looked at Sidra and Maisie, both asleep in bed, before he passed through the door.
He emerged into the courtyard, his strides lengthening, and passed through the city in a matter of breaths. When he stood in the hills, he came to a stop.
“Point me to the west,” he said, unable to tell which direction he faced. “Take me to Adaira.”
There was a rumble beneath his feet. Torin watched as the hill spirit emerged, rising from the loam.
“I can guide you to the clan line,” the spirit said, his voice faint. “But I cannot cross it.”
Torin stared at him. “Are you ill?”
“I am weary.”
“From the curse?”
“From many things, mortal laird.”
Torin thought he understood a shade of that weariness, and he said, “What is your name? You never told me.”
That drew a smile from the spirit. “You never asked. But you can call me Hap.”
“Hap,” Torin said, tasting the name. It conjured images of summer hills, cloaked in thick grass and heather. Of a time when the earth was warm from the sun and soft from the rain. “You’ll guide me to the clan line?”
Hap turned. “Yes. Stay in my shadow, Torin.”
When Hap moved, Torin followed. Every place the spirit stepped, so did he. Lochs folded for them, granting them swift passage on their sandy beds. Rocks sank below, rising once more only after they had passed by. The hills were gentle, requiring no exertion or struggle to ascend them. Even a waterfall held her breath, so they could be on dry ground as they climbed the summit she cascaded from.
When they reached the Aithwood, the trees rustled and groaned, pulling back their branches and curling up their roots. A clear path was forged, rugged with moss, and Torin’s heart began to pound again. He had never walked the west, and he didn’t know what he would find.
Hap came to a stop a safe distance from the clan line.
Torin hesitated, feeling the hum of magic in the earth. It was repellent to him as well, and sweat beaded his brow. “Will the spirits in the west be kind to me, or should I prepare for a fight?”
“I’m afraid I cannot answer that,” Hap said. A flower fell from his hair, resting on the ground between his bare feet. “It has been a long time since I could roam the west. I don’t know how my brethren on the other side have fared, but given the rumors, they haven’t been well. Be mindful, then, of where you step.”
Torin hadn’t felt this nervous in a while, and his reflex was to reach for a sword at his side. There was none there, of course. His blades hadn’t survived the passage between realms. All he had were his hands, which were empty, and his feet, which needed to tread carefully.