“Afraid?” The fisherman’s humor broke like an old rope. “I don’t know where you’ve been the last decade or two, but the clans of the isle are territorial, and they don’t take kindly to any visitors. If you are fool enough to go and visit, you’ll need to send a request with a raven. And then you’ll need to wait for the crossing to be approved by whichever laird you’re seeking to bother. And since the lairds of the isle are on their own time frame . . . expect to wait a while. Or even better—you can wait for the autumnal equinox, when the next trade happens. In fact, I would recommend you wait until then.”

Wordlessly, Jack withdrew a sheet of folded parchment from his cloak pocket. He handed the letter to the fisherman, who frowned as he glanced over it by lantern light.

Jack had the message memorized. He had read it countless times since it arrived the previous week, interrupting his life in the most profound of ways.

Your presence is required at once for urgent business. Please return to Cadence with your harp upon receipt.

Beneath the languid handwriting was his laird’s signature, and beneath it was the press of Alastair Tamerlaine’s signet ring in wine-dark ink, turning this request into an order.

After a decade with hardly any contact with his clan, Jack had been summoned home.

“A Tamerlaine, are you?” the fisherman said, handing the letter back. Jack belatedly realized the man probably was illiterate but had recognized the crest.

Jack nodded, and the fisherman studied him intently.

He endured the scrutiny, knowing there was nothing extraordinary about his appearance. He was tall and thin, as if he had been underfed for years, built from sharp angles and unyielding pride. His eyes were dark, his hair was brown. His skin was pallid and pale, from all the hours he spent indoors, instructing and composing music. He was dressed in his customary gray shirt and trousers, raiment now stained from greasy tavern meals.

“You look like one of us,” the fisherman said.

Jack didn’t know if he should be pleased or offended.

“What’s that on your back?” the fisherman persisted, staring at the one bag Jack was carrying.

“My harp,” Jack replied tersely.

“That explains it then. You came here to be schooled?”

“Indeed. I’m a bard. I was educated at the university in Faldare. Now, will you carry me to the isle?”

“For a price.”

“How much?”

“I don’t want your money. I want a Cadence-forged dirk,” the fisherman said. “I would like a dagger to cut through anything: ropes, nets, scales . . . my rival’s good fortune.”

Jack wasn’t surprised by his request for an enchanted blade. Such things could only be forged on Cadence, but they were created with a steep price.