If it had been up to him, he would have let both worlds burn.
It was not.
Irian was not a good man. But he thought he finally understood what it meant to love a good woman.
Carefully, deliberately, he disentangled himself from his brave, beautiful wife. Her hair uncurled from his cheeks. Her arms unlooped from his chest. Her fingers unhinged from his.
Gently, Irian let Fia go.
The stone on her finger audibly cracked, falling free from itscasing. All her starshine came rushing back, heat and light flooding the space between them. Irian fisted his hands, then forced himself to relax. He rose to his feet, draping his mantle around his nakedness. When Fia, too, moved to dress, he raised a forestalling hand.
“You should sleep,” he told her softly. “I will keep vigil.”
“Thank you.” Her eyes shone up at him like stars. “Nothing could ever make me forget tonight.”
“Come, mo chroí.” He summoned a smile. “You said we must not speak of goodbyes.”
He pulled on his boots and buckled his armor. By the time he was finished, Fia had fallen asleep nestled in her cloak, soothed by the violet scents of lavender and eglantine.
He crouched beside her, ghosting a hand above her rumpled hair and wishing he could savor her dreams. Did she dream of something sweet, as he so rarely did, like a cottage garden and the taste of blackberry wine? Or did she dream, as he so often did, of violence and death and regret?
He stood. The Sky-Sword murmured a little lullaby as he drew it from its scabbard—it knew as well as he that no blood would be spilled here tonight. Still, he held it before him as he stood watch, examining the glittering stars etched into its inky blackness.
As midnight turned toward dawn, Irian made a bargain with the night. He drew his thumb along the blade of his claíomh, then smeared silver along the bevel.
“Let her live.” The arcane metal swiftly drank his blood, leaving only darkness behind. “In return, I will endure any torments. Give me her pain so I may hurt; give me her death so I may die. I am strong enough to bear it. Only do not make me bear losing her again. Let herlive.”
The breeze picked up his words and carried them toward the horizon. Over the land, down the cliffs, across the sea. Into the dark, and the brightness beyond. Carried them so far he dared hope someone heard them.
Dawn came hard and leaden as battle metal. Fia stirred awaketo the distant sounds of war drums mingling with the bugling of carnyxes upon the lofting wind. She glanced up at him with a desperate, doleful question.
“I asked for a day. ” Irian smiled so he would not be tempted to weep. “One perfect day. And now it is done.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
Fia
Dusk on the Bealtaine moon came too soon, lowering like a dark blade over the throat of the world.
“My friends.” Sunset burned a warning through the windows as I stood in the center of our shared apartments and addressed my friends—my family. We were most of us dressed for war. I wore armor I’d commissioned from an armorer in the Underbrush—crafted from lightweight, flexible leather and dyed black as night, it was embossed all over with the same design as my tattoos—sharp thorns interspersed with sharper feathers. The pauldrons were spiked, fanning out from my shoulders like dark wings; the helmet I carried in the crook of my elbow bore lofting silver antlers. Beneath it, I wore the green dress from the council, yet again cut away above the knees for ease of movement. New skeans hung from my hips, heavier than I was used to, along with a pouch where I carried some of Wayland’s forgings. The Heart of the Forest rested atop my breastplate, green as moss.
Irian wore his customary black, with the Sky-Sword singing a melancholy dirge at his waist; Laoise, her red-gold scale mail.Wayland was naked to the waist but painted all over in blue, with Fáilsceim strapped to his back in leather bracers. Sinéad was fearsome in dark leather and darker kohl, her daggers already drawn. Only Chandi and Idris were not prepared for war—neither was a warrior, so they had been tasked with watching the draigs too young to join the battle. Hog hid beneath the divan, crying softly; Enfys and the twins curled in the window, watching their three eldest brethren soar above the massed armies of the Folk.
In the days since Irian and I had returned from our sojourn, I had spoken to each of my friends privately. I had shared the last of my plans with them, told them everything Marban had told me. It had not been easy; there had been tears and recriminations and anger. Yet here we all stood. None of us wanted to say goodbye to who we’d been. To who we were to one another. To who we might never be again.
And yet… no goodbye at all would be so much worse.
“My friends, you all know my plans. The plan I have told the bardaí… and the plan I have told you. Heed me well when I say, for the last time—although it may controvert everything you hold dear, let the bardaí lead their hosts in the vanguard.”
“It would be dishonorable for them to do otherwise,” Irian grumbled.
“They have no honor,” I reminded him. “Instead, we count on their pride. Even as you deny yours. You must stay to the back of the host. All of you. Protect the Willow Gate. And when midnight approaches—when the full moon is at its zenith—you must retreat to the Heartwood. Do you understand?”
They all hesitated, then nodded. Grimly, I returned the gesture.
“Good. Then it is time to go to war.”
“Just like that?” Wayland huffed a laugh. “Thorn Girl, we have got to work on your motivational speeches.”
