“I do not wish to know, Fia.” His words were both blade and balm—the stinging cut its own sweet relief. “I remember the Ember Moon. I saw what Talah did to you on the Silver Isle. I heard your old teacher speak the beginnings of a prophecy. And I heard Marban’s cruel tale. This Bealtaine moon will exact a high price from all of us. I fear if I know what it is, I will find myself unwilling to pay.”
“You do know,” I said softly. “Our willing hearts.”
“You are my heart. And I have sworn never to let you go.” Despite his unwillingness to look at Cathair’s prophecy, the weight of his gaze made me think he had already intuited its contents. “Though I have not always understood it, I have come to admire how deeply you care for both the realm of your mother and the realm of your father. I believe that you will do what is right, no matter the cost. Even if I wished to, I cannot stop you. So I will simply ask of you what you asked of me, before the Longest Night: Find a way to live for us all, instead of trying to die for us. Live, and no matter where you go or what you do, my love will find you.”
I swallowed a sudden hot mass in my throat. “Is that a threat?”
His smile was slim and sharp as a trip wire. “It is a promise.”
I took a deep, shivering breath, then tucked the parchment back into my bodice. “What did you wish to ask me?”
“I wish for a day.”
The words didn’t make sense. “What?”
“I know you are busy. But I wish for one of your days. And, if you are generous, perhaps a night. Of the few we have left before we go to war.”
“A day you shall have.” I untied the noose of dread strangling my heart and forced a smile. “What shall we do? Where will we go?”
He dared to curl a fluttering strand of my short silver-threaded hair around one of his large calloused fingers. “Somewhere you promised to visit with me, when we were back on Emain Ablach. If you still have the inclination.”
“I do.” This time, my smile wasn’t forced. “We will leave with the dawn. Shall we fly?”
“No.” He smiled back, although the angle of his mouth held a twist of pain that unsettled me. “Let us ride. The weather will be pleasant. And I do not wish you to meet my mother with vomit on your shoes.”
We rode out with the aughiskies at dawn.
Irian was right—it was pleasant. Dew jeweled the waving grasses, and the air was cool and fragrant with loam and flowers. We cut through the heart of the Summerlands until we reached the shore, a glassy sea pounding black sand. We rode until the beach became bluffs, the bluffs became cliffs.
A strange apprehension gripped me as we dismounted—leaving Linn and Abyss to cavort in the warm, glassy shallows below the bluffs—and began to climb. The path was little better than a goat track, narrow and uneven and steep. Irian led the way, his steps sure as he set a brisk pace. How many times had he traversed these cliffs? How familiar were they to him still, after so many years away from his mother’s house?
Did he, too, grapple with unnameable dread as he made his way toward a home that could never be his again?
We paused atop the cliffs. Far below, the ocean clashed and clamored, flinging salt spray to kiss our faces. The wind ruffled Irian’s hair, longer now than I had ever seen it, fluffing it like an affectionate relative might a favorite nephew. It gave him a rumpled, boyish look that softened my inexplicable nerves.
“We are nearly there.” His eyes were as brilliant as the ocean, as golden as the sun. Eagerness spilled over his features, making me ache.
There was so little softness or gentleness to Irian. It was not his fault—such things had been forced out of him at a young age. He was steel sharpened to a killing point, marble carved flat and featureless. But not with me—not always. His unguarded expressionswere more precious to me than gold; his tenderness, a better balm than any tincture or healing salve.
Beyond a rocky bluff between the cliffs and the undulating moor, tucked within a fetching garden with a hawthorn fence edged in fruit trees, was a cottage. Smoke streamed from the chimney, although the day was warm. A few garden plots ridged the rocky yard. Bent over them, with a shawl over her hair and her hands covered in dirt, was Irian’s mother.
“Do you think she’ll like me?” I asked, with a touch of plaintiveness.
His smile was a ray of sunlight breaking from behind a cloud. “I know she will, mo chroí.”
If she did, I couldn’t tell.
She abandoned her gardening as we crossed the gorge, standing sentry over her garden gate. Despite her humble abode and isolated lifestyle, she was Folk Gentry—she had not been raised to shrink or simper. She stood nearly a head taller than me, her figure powerful. She wore no visible weapons, although I caught a glimpse of a dagger outlined beneath her kirtle. Her features were striking—she shared her son’s sharp cheekbones and questing, distinctive eyebrows. Her eyes were gray as a stormy sea, piercing and intelligent. Her hair was so black it gleamed blue in the glancing sunlight.
“M—Moira!” Irian called as we approached, me a wary half step behind. “Well met!”
Like her son, Moira did not appear to enjoy the presence of strangers, but her expression eased as she realized who had come to visit. She unlatched the gate and clasped Irian in a friendly but dispassionate embrace. I remembered with a pang what he had told me on Emain Ablach:She thinks of me only as a somewhat inconstant friend.
“Irian, my old friend. It has been too long.” Her voice was rich and warm as brewed tea. Her gaze scanned over me, curious. “Who is this?”
Irian ushered me forward, and I bobbed an awkward curtsy.
“My name is Fia.” Her eyes were too canny. I abruptly felt two feet tall and ugly as a rock. I wasn’t good with parents. “Madam.”
