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.