It felt as if he had waited an hour before he saw a firefly of lantern light approaching. The fisherman walked hunched against the wind, a waxed overmantle shielding him, his face trapped in a scowl.

“You had better be good to your word, bard,” he said. “I want two Cadence dirks for all of this trouble.”

“Yes, well, you know where to find me if I’m not,” Jack said, brusquely.

The fisherman glared at him, one eye bigger than the other. Then, conceding, he nodded at his boat, saying, “Climb aboard.”

And Jack took his first step off the mainland.

The ocean was rough at first.

Jack gripped the boat’s gunwale, his stomach churning as the vessel rose and fell in a precarious dance. The waves rolled, but the brawny fisherman cut through them, rowing the two of them farther out to sea. He followed the trail of moonlight as Jack suggested, and soon the ocean became gentler. The wind continued to howl, but it was still the wind of the mainland, carrying nothing but cold salt in its breath.

Jack glanced over his shoulder, watching the lanterns of Woe turn to tiny flecks of light, his eyes smarting, and he knew they were about to enter the isle’s waters. He could sense it as if Cadence had a gaze, finding him in the darkness, fixating on him.

“A body washed to shore a month ago,” the fisherman said, breaking Jack’s reverie. “Gave us all a bit of fright in Woe.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“A Breccan, by the woad tattoos on his bloated skin. His blue plaid arrived shortly after him.” The man paused in his speech, but he continued to row, the paddles dipping into the water in a mesmerizing rhythm. “A slit throat. I suppose it was the work of one of your clansmen, who then dumped the misfortunate soul in the ocean. To let us clean up the mess when the tides brought the corpse to our shores.”

Jack was silent as he stared at the fisherman, but a shiver chased his bones. Even after all these years away, the sound of his enemy’s name sent a spear of dread through him.

“Perhaps one of his own did it to him,” Jack said. “The Breccans are known for their bloodthirsty ways.”

The fisherman chuckled. “Should I dare to believe a Tamerlaine is unbiased?”

Jack could have told him stories of raids. How the Breccans often crossed the clan line and stole from the Tamerlaines during the winter months. They plundered and wounded; they pillaged without remorse, and Jack felt his hatred rise like smoke as he remembered being a young boy riddled by the fear of them.

“How did the feud begin, bard?” the fisherman pressed on. “Do any of you even remember why you hate each other, or do you simply follow the path your ancestors set for you?”