A River Enchanted: A Novel (Elements of Cadence Book 1)

When Jack arrived at the castle the following morning, harp in hand, Adaira knew he was ready to play. As she expected, they had a quick argument about the spirits.

“You think we can trust them?” Jack questioned. He sounded irritated, as if something was bothering him.

“We’ve trusted all the others,” Adaira replied, studying his frown. He looked tired, and she wondered if he had been restless last night.

“Yes, Adaira. We nearly drowned the first time, and the second? I was one breath away from being immortalized as grass.”

“None of the folk are safe,” she said, feeling her anger rise. “There is always the danger of them harming or deceiving us, although what do you expect when you dance with something wild, Jack?”

He didn’t reply, and Adaira’s temper began to wane.

“Do you really want to play for the wind, old menace? If not … I understand.”

He sagged, the fight leaving him. “Yes, of course I want to play for them.”

Then what is wrong? she wanted to ask. The words were ready on her tongue when he spoke first.

“You’re right. I’m just tired. Let’s go while we still have plenty of daylight.”

Adaira led Jack to the slopes of Tilting Thom, the highest peak on the isle. The way up was narrow and steep, but she could think of no better place for Jack to sing wholeheartedly for the wind, even with the hint of peril. He followed close behind her on the path, but she could hear his labored breaths and turned to see the fear marring his countenance, how he clung to the rock face with each step. She realized only then that he was afraid of heights.

“Is this a wise choice?” he asked, ragged. “The wind could blow us off the cliff.”

“It could,” she said. “But I have faith that it won’t.”

He scowled at her, his face alarmingly pale.

“Come,” she beckoned, and reached for his hand. “You will soon understand why I have chosen this place.”

Jack threaded his fingers with hers and let her lead him onward, but he added, “You do know, Adaira, that the air tastes different on a mountain, and it might affect my voice.”

She hadn’t thought of that, but she wouldn’t admit it now. She took a deep breath—the air was sharp and thin and cold, tasting like woodsmoke and juniper and salt from the sea. She only smiled at him, guiding him farther up the path. She had been here many times before, often alone, sometimes with Torin when she was younger.

Halfway up Tilting Thom, they arrived at the perch—a wide ledge perfect for sitting and enjoying the view. Behind it was a small cave cut into the mountain’s craggy face. The shadows gathered within it, and Jack’s fingers slipped from hers as he came to a halt close to the cave’s maw, as far away from the edge as he could manage.

But Adaira stood on the sun-warmed rock of the ledge and said to him, “Look, Jack. What do you see?”

He reluctantly joined her, standing close at her back. She felt his warmth as he shared the same view with her. Through low swaths of clouds, the isle spread before them with verdant patches of green and brown and dark pools of lochs, with silver threads of rivers and stone walls of paddocks, with clusters of cottages and woods and rocks. The sight of it never failed to humble Adaira, to stir her blood.

And then Jack realized why she wanted to summon the spirits here. “A glimpse of the west,” he said.

They could both see it—a fleeting view of the western half of the isle. The clouds hung low and thick over it like a shield, but a few patches of green and brown were sneaking through the weak points of gray. Adaira felt her heart skip, apprehensive as she imagined Annabel, Catriona, and Maisie in those small breaks of sunlight.

“Let us summon the spirits with our faces to the west,” she said. “Are you ready to play?”

He nodded, but she saw the doubt and worry in him. She knew he was more than worthy to play his own composition for the powers of the isle, and she hoped he would sing through those feelings of inadequacy. For Adaira had come to love the deep timber of his voice when he sang, the deftness of his hands when he played the strings.

“This is your moment, Jack,” she said. “You are worthy of the music you sing, and the spirits know it and are eager to gather at your feet.”

Jack nodded, and the doubt relinquished him. He found a safe place to sit with the cave at his back; the sun danced on his face and the wind tousled his hair as he unpacked his harp.

Adaira settled beside him. She watched as he found the glass vial in his harp case. His hands trembled, but he opened the cork.

“I hope this works,” he mumbled. “Because I don’t want to make this climb again.”

“If it proves otherwise, I’ll let you choose where to play next time,” she promised.

He glanced at her, but her face was inscrutable. Jack had no idea that her heart was pounding as he swallowed the western flower.

He felt no different at first. But when Jack propped his harp against his left shoulder and began to strum, he felt the power in his hands. He could see his notes in the air like rings of gold, spreading wide around him.

The height no longer frightened him. He felt the depth of the mountain beneath him, aware of everything living within the summit—on its craggy slopes and deep in its heart, where caves ran crooked like veins. He could sense Adaira—her presence like a dancing flame beside him—and he turned to look at her.

She was watching him intently; he could see his music, illumined in her eyes.

“How do you feel, Jack?”

He almost laughed. “I’ve never felt better.” His hands no longer ached. His fingers felt as if he could play for an endless era.

He gave himself another moment to adjust to how effortless it was to pluck the strings, watching the music caress the breeze. Eventually, he felt an overwhelming urge to meld his voice with the notes, and he began to play his ballad for the wind.

Jack sang his verses, his fingers strumming with confidence. He sang to the southern wind with its promise of harvest. He sang to the eastern wind with its promise of strength in battle. He sang to the western wind with its promise of healing. He sang to the northern wind with its promise of vindication.

The notes rose and fell, undulating like the hills far beneath him. But while the wind carried his music and his voice, the folk of the air didn’t answer.

What if they refuse to come? Jack wondered, with a pulse of worry. From the corner of his eye, he watched as Adaira rose to her feet.

The wind seemed to be waiting for her to move. To stand and meet it. She stood planted on the rock as Jack continued to play, shielded by the Orenna’s essence. Twice, he had played for the spirits and had nearly forgotten he was a man, that he was not a part of them. But this time he held firmly to himself as he watched the folk answer.

The southern wind manifested first. They arrived with a sigh and formed themselves from the gust, individualizing into men and women with hair like fire—red and amber with a trace of blue. Great feathered wings bloomed from their backs like those of a bird, and each beat of their pinions emitted a wash of warmth and longing. Jack could taste the nostalgia they offered; he drank it like a bittersweet wine, like the memories of a summer long ago.

The east wind was the next to arrive. They manifested in a flurry of leaves, their hair like molten gold. Their wings were fashioned like those of a bat, long and pronged and the shade of dusk. They carried the fragrance of rain in their wings.

The west wind spun themselves out of whispers, with hair the shade of midnight, long and jeweled with stars. Their wings were like those of a moth, patterned with moons, beating softly and evoking both beauty and dread as Jack beheld them. The air shimmered at their edges like a dream, as if they might melt at any moment, and their skin smelled of smoke and cloves as they hovered in place, unable to depart as Jack’s music captivated them.

Half of the spirits watched him, entranced by his ballad. But half of them watched Adaira, their eyes wide and brimming with light.

“It’s her,” some of them whispered.

Jack missed a note. He quickly regained his place, pushing his concern aside. It felt like his nails were creating sparks on the brass strings.

He sang the verse for the northern wind again.

The sky darkened. Thunder rumbled in the distance as the north reluctantly answered Jack’s summoning. The air plunged cold and bitter as the strongest of the winds manifested from wisps of clouds and stinging gales. It answered the music, fragmenting into men and women with flaxen hair, dressed in leather and links of silver webs. Their wings were translucent and veined, reminiscent of a dragonfly’s, boasting every color found beneath the sun.

They came reluctantly, defiantly. Their eyes bore into him like needles.

Jack was alarmed by their reaction to him. Some of them hissed through their sharp teeth, while others cowered as if awaiting a death blow.

His ballad came to its end, and the absence of his voice and music sharpened the terror of the moment. Adaira continued to stand before an audience of manifested spirits, and Jack was stunned by the sight of them. To know that they had rushed alongside him as he walked the east. That he had felt their fingers in his hair, felt them kiss his mouth and steal words from his lips, carrying his voice in their hands.

And his music had just summoned them. His voice and song now held them captive, beholden to him.

He studied the horde. Some of the spirits looked amused, others shocked. Some were afraid, and some were angry.

Just as Adaira was taking a step forward to beseech the spirits, their gathering parted to make way for one of their own to come forward. Jack saw the threads of gold in the air; he felt the rock tremble beneath him. He watched as the south, the east, and the west drew in their wings, watched the spirits quiver and bow to the one who was coming to meet Adaira.

He was taller, greater than the others. His skin was pale, as if he had forged himself from the clouds, his wings were the shade of blood, veined with silver, and his hair was long, the color of the moon. His face was beautiful, terrifying to look upon, and his eyes smoldered. A lance was in his hand; its arrowhead flickered with tendrils of lightning. A chain of stars crowned him, and the longer he stood, held by Jack’s music, the stormier the sky churned and the deeper the mountain quaked.

It was Bane, the king of the northern wind. A name that Jack had only heard whispered in children’s stories, in old legends that flowed with fear and reverence. Bane brought storms, death, famine. He was a wind one wanted to evade. And yet Jack knew the answers they sought were held in his hands; he had been the one to seal the mouths of the other spirits, to keep the truth concealed from them.

Bane motioned for Adaira to approach him, and Jack’s heart blazed with fear.

“Come, mortal woman. You have been clever, tricking this bard into summoning me. Come and speak to me, for I have long awaited this moment.”

Adaira stopped a few steps away from him. Jack noticed how close she was to the edge. If she fell, would the wind catch her? Or would it watch her break on the rocks far below?

Jack slowly lowered his harp, wrapping his fingers around the frame.

“My name is Adaira Tamerlaine,” she said. “I am the Heiress of the East.”

“I know who you are,” Bane replied, his voice deep and cold as a valley loch. “Do not waste your words, Adaira. The bard’s music will tether me only so long.”

Adaira began to speak of the missing girls. As the words spilled out of her, Jack noticed the eastern and southern winds began to stir. They glanced at each other with amused faces. The western wind remained guarded, but their sorrow was nearly tangible as they watched her speak.

Quietly, Jack rose to his feet. He was struck by the thought that this was nothing more than a game driven by bored spirits, and he and Adaira were pawns who had just played into Bane’s elaborate scheme.

“Are the Breccans to blame for the disappearances?” Adaira asked. She stood tall and proud, but her voice was brittle. “Have they been stealing the lasses?”

Bane smiled. “A bold question, but one that I will honor.” He paused, as if he wanted Adaira to further grovel. When she didn’t, his eyes narrowed as he said, “Yes, the Breccans are the ones who have been stealing the lasses.”

It was the confirmation they needed. Jack didn’t know how to feel. His emotions burned through him like fire and ice. Relief and dread, excitement and fear.

“Then I must ask you for the location of the lasses,” Adaira said calmly. “You roam the east and the west. You wander the south and the north, and you see beyond that which I see. You watched as the Breccans stole the girls from my lands. Where can I find them?”

“What would you do if I told you where the lasses are, Adaira?” Bane asked. “Would you wage war? Would you seek retaliation?”

“I think you already know my plans.”

The northern wind smiled at her. His teeth gleamed like a scythe. “Why do you care for these three lasses? They are not your flesh and blood.”

“They are under my protection all the same,” Adaira replied.

“And what if they would prefer to live in the west? What if they are happier with the Breccans?”

Adaira was astounded. Jack sensed that she didn’t know how to reply, and her temper flared. “They will be happiest with their families at home, where they belong. And so I will ask you again, majesty. Where are the Breccans hiding the Tamerlaine lasses?”

“The mortal lasses are alive and have been well looked after,” Bane replied. “But you did not have to go through the trouble of summoning me to locate them. One of your very own knows where to find the children you seek.”

Jack took a step closer to Adaira, channeling the Orenna’s power to avoid drawing the attention of the spirits. His pulse was pounding in his ears. He could feel the beat of a hundred wings upon his skin.

Adaira held out her hands. “Who?” she demanded. “Who among my clan has betrayed me?”

Bane leaned on his lance, exhaling his stormy breath upon her face. But then his lambent eyes found Jack.

Jack froze, pierced by the intensity of the northern wind. He could see the threads of gold surrounding Bane’s body, all the many paths the spirit could take in the air. His unsung power. The other spirits were dull in comparison. “A dark-eyed weaver who lives on the edge of the east. She knows where the lasses are.”

Jack felt the blood drain from his face.

“You seek to fool us?” Adaira countered, emotion in her voice. She didn’t want to believe it, and Jack felt a pinch of relief that she would be bold enough to defend his mother. “What evidence can you give to support such a claim, when you yourself have seen fit to bind the mouths of the other spirits?”

“Can the spirits lie, mortal woman?” he countered. “That is why I bound the tongues of my subjects, to keep them from speaking the truth before its time had come.”

Adaira was silent. She knew as well as Jack did that the folk couldn’t lie. They could carry the gossip and lies that mortal mouths had already spoken, but they couldn’t inspire their own in words. Even as they often played games of deceit.

Bane’s full attention returned to her. The king reached out to touch Adaira’s face, and she didn’t resist it. She stood quiet and fixed, a glimmer of light in his great shadow.

“Do you want to come with me?” Bane asked, and his fingers tangled in her hair with a painful jerk. “I will carry you in my arms and take you to the lasses now, but only if your courage can be found.”

Jack’s horror deepened when he realized Adaira was considering his offer. He could see the edges of her beginning to fade, as if she were about to melt into wind, and his fury carved through his fear.

He closed the distance between them, harp cradled against his chest. He reached out and grasped her arm. Is this how she had felt when she had beheld him turning into the earth? A mix of panic, indignation, and bone-aching possession?

“Adaira!” Jack’s voice rent the air.

He was relieved when Adaira glanced over her shoulder, meeting his stare. She took a step back when he tugged, and he realized the Orenna was granting him the strength to draw her away from Bane’s icy hold.

The northern king looked at him again. The other spirits took flight in a rush of wings, dissolving into their natural state. Jack’s heart drummed as he watched them flee. But their king remained, standing firm. Bane’s cloying fingers fell away from Adaira’s hair as his eyes continued to bore into Jack.

Jack’s mortality shivered through him. He felt a vibration in his teeth. The wind from Bane’s wings blew, holding the sting of an axe, seeking to divide him and Adaira. Her hair tangled across her face when she looked at him again, and he saw she was also frozen. Her teeth were bared, her eyes wide.

“I have let you play once, mortal bard, but do not test my mercy. Do not dare to play again,” Bane said as he pointed his lance at Jack, the lightning dancing from it. Even then, Jack didn’t let go of Adaira.

The northern king shot a bolt of white heat at Jack’s harp. The light met his chest like the lash of a whip, hurling him up and away. He slammed into the mountain beside the cave’s mouth and slumped to the ground. The pain echoed through his veins as he struggled to breathe, to see. He could hear his harp’s last metallic note as it died, scorched and ruined.

“Jack!”

Adaira sounded far away, but he felt her hands touch him, desperate to rouse him.

“Adaira,” he whispered in a broken voice. “Stay with me.”

Speaking took the last of his strength. He remembered her cold fingers, lacing with his burning ones, holding him close.

Then he slipped away, deep into the darkness where not even the wind could reach.