“This wedding is unusual for the Gentry.” I turned toward Irian’s low voice. The motion only brought me closer to him—my hip jutting against his thigh, my face angling up to his. He wasn’t looking at the happy couple below us. He was looking at me. “It is a love match.”
I swallowed. “Do your people not marry for love?”
“Marriage is usually a practical connection. It unites dynasties and breeds strong children. Love is—” He broke off, considered his words. “We Fair Folk tend to be careful with our hearts.”
Below, the bride and groom clasped hands. A ribbon of white was looped around their wrists, then a ribbon of green. Purposeful words drifted across the glen toward us, recited in the ancient tongue. Irian intuited I wasn’t fluent—he leaned even closer, whispering a translation. The words in juxtaposition—unfamiliar yet familiar, communal yet intimate—clamored secrets against my ribs and conjured promises in my veins.
Blood of my blood
And bone of my bone,
I shall not permit thee
To wander alone.
Give me your heart
And let it be known
That then, now, and after
You are my home.
I shivered. “Do the vows have a meaning?”
“They say there was once a Gentry lady so beautiful none could withstand her charms.” Irian’s hand flexed minutely against my back. “Against all odds, she fell in love with a handsome mortal warrior. But she could not trust the human loved her for anything but her looks. So she requested he spill his own blood upon the earth to prove his devotion. This he did, gladly. But she was not satisfied. She asked for one of his bones as a token. He happily cut off his little finger and strung it upon a necklace for her to wear at her throat. But still she was not satisfied. She demanded he give her his heart. He willingly tore his still-beating heart from his chest and placed it in her hands. And as he lay dying on the ground, the lady finally knew that he had loved her true.”
Leaning my weight on one elbow, I faced Irian fully. The motion rocked me even closer to him—the bodice of my gown flush against his ceremonial armor. His hand rested at the dip of my waist. Shadows brushed my cheeks and collarbones. Our faces were inches apart.
“Was that the ending you promised me?” My voice came out disconsolate. “Did my warrior truly reunite with his ladylove, only to die at her feet?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” Irian’s low laugh vibrated along my skin. “It is but a story, colleen. One that has been told for hundreds of years among my people. And a story, once told, exists beyond the truth of the thing that inspired it. Perhaps it did not happen the way it is told. Or perhapsyour warriorwas happy to die for love. Who are we to say?”
His twisted words still thrilled through me. “Is that why you are so careful with your hearts? Because the things—people—you love can be a weapon used against you?”
“A heart is powerful magic.” Irian’s eyes pierced me. “Love can create or destroy. It can be a beginning… or it can be an ending.”
I fought for something clever to say, but his closeness consumed me. My gaze dropped to his deliciously full mouth, lips parted in veiled amusement. His hand tensed at my waist. My breath hitched. He leaned down—
The expectant hush below exploded into raucous noise. I startled away from Irian and looked down at the couple, who—now wedded—were locked in a passionate embrace. The assembled Gentry clapped and cheered and sang. By the long banquet tables, oaken casks of mead were tapped with ashen spigots, and tables were piled with cool fruit and hot meat and bread slathered with sweet honey.
Beside me, Irian rose easily. He held out a hand to help me up, but I scrambled up on my own. The hand fell.
“Come, colleen.” If I had glimpsed any gentleness in him moments before, it was gone now—replaced by a brutal kind of determination that made me nervous. “It is time I made my point.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
We descended from the Heartwood, then stepped onto the grassy sward where the Folk host had begun to revel in earnest. As before, guests blatantly avoided Irian, stepping out of his path and giving him as wide a berth as possible. Within a matter of moments, a path had cleared between us and the newly married couple merrily accepting well-wishers beneath the wedding bower.
Irian hammered out the softness of his mouth to metal and malice, gathered his shadows around him like armor. Without even glancing down, he held out his arm for me. I accepted, even as tension climbed my spine and clutched at my throat. I considered trying to voice some dissuasion or diversion from the dire intrigue he seemingly had planned. But whatever point Irian intended to make, I was already wrapped up in it. It was too late for me to walk away.
He prowled forward, a blight of shadow among the pastel flowers and sparkling lanterns and brightly clad Gentry. Silence and strain heralded his arrival to the bride and her groom, who looked up from the throng offering them gifts and congratulations. Alarm swirled their gazes—a brisk tempest of hurried conversation passedbetween them and their wedding party. A young fénnid with scarlet hair who strongly resembled the bride reached for the ceremonial weapon belted at his waist; a golden-skinned, hawk-nosed Gentry who could only be the groom’s father swiftly forestalled him with a broad arm across his chest. After a moment, the groom stepped forward, angling himself slightly in front of his new wife, whose lovely face was suddenly troubled.
“I wish I could say we are well met, tánaiste.” The groom’s voice was carefully flat, his tone just shy of unfriendly. “But I cannot fathom how you have come to be here tonight, on the occasion of my wedding.”
“Thehowis rather boring.” Irian’s stance was easy; his voice, hard. “Thewhymay prove to be more interesting.”
The bride’s eyes glittered. Her hand convulsed against the bodice of her gown.
