His fingers found a place on the strings. He began to play, and the notes emerged strange and wild, as if they had come from embers. They were tinny and sharp, cutting through the air with a haunting sound, and Jack opened his eyes again to watch the river flow.

This music was spontaneous, passing through him like breath. He began to sing to the spirits of the forest, to the spirits of the river. To the grass and the loam and the wildflowers. To Orenna.

Bring them back to me.

Jack could hear a beat in his mind. He played to it, his notes coming faster, faster with his urgency, knowing Moray Breccan might already be in the west. Jack offered his faith to the spirits around him, weaving a command into the notes.

Bring them back to me.

He waited, his vision bent upon the distant sun-speckled rapids and arching branches. He gave his words to the essence of a red flower with gold-laced petals that grew on dry, heartsick land. He sang to the power that had once invigorated him, when his eyes had been opened to see beyond his world.

Bring them back to me.

Jack could feel his strength ebbing. His hands were aching, his head throbbing. A trickle of blood emerged from his nose, coating his lips. He pushed himself to keep strumming, to keep singing, even though he feared he had nearly reached the end of himself and his abilities.

His nails were splitting, the quicks bright with blood. But he pressed on through the pain and was rewarded with a glimmer of movement.

Moray Breccan was returning, his face furrowed in confusion until he saw Jack singing on the hill. His bewilderment gave way to anger, but the power that had granted Moray the ability to move with speed and prowess was now dragging him to Jack.

Jack didn’t care to look at Moray’s face. He looked at Frae, who was still fighting to get free. She was blindfolded, but Jack could see the gleam of her teeth as she kicked and clawed.

He was moved by both pride and grief.

He continued to play, his voice a raspy offering. The notes were slowing, like the final aspirations before death, but Moray was still tethered to the music. Even as it faded, he was beholden to its creator.

The Breccan heir walked Frae up the hill. He was moving more and more slowly the closer he came to Jack, as if he were wading through honey. When he at last came to a stop at Jack’s feet, the magic held him completely still. Only then did Jack rise. Mirin was beside him—he realized she had been beside him the entire time—and he met Moray’s defiant gaze with a cold, deadly stare of his own.

“Release my sister,” he said.

Moray loosened his hold on Frae. She was weeping now, hearing Jack’s voice.