“You could renounce swordplay altogether,” Wayland suggested lightly. “Perhaps the remnants of the Sky-Sword could be reforged into a passable plow.”
A glint of mischief lurked in Irian’s storm-gray eyes. It was a look Wayland had not seen him wear in a long time, and it brought back memories of fonder times—a boyhood running riot over the cliffs of Emain Ablach with a foster brother in tow.
“It is funny you should mention that,” Irian said, with a bemused smile. “For lately I find myself with the strangest urge to grow a garden.”
Wayland’s blood ran cold, pooling dread in his stomach. His hands on the table clenched, and he rose to face Irian.
He had not known how to broach all that Irian had forgotten. He still did not know. Did he tell his foster brother of the great,earth-shattering, legendary love he had lost, knowing it would be little more than a story to him? Did he tell him of the woman he’d carried in his arms across half a realm? The woman he’d adored and protected, only to fundamentally lose her in the end?
It was too big. It was too terrible. It was not his place. Instead, he said, “You should. You should fix up that drafty old fort with the creepy chandeliers and put a garden beside the lough, where you can watch the swans swim.”
“Oh, no,” Irian laughed. “I’ve had enough of swans for one lifetime. But perhaps the rest. A home and a garden. What more could a man want?”
His wife, Wayland longed to say. But he smothered the words.
“And you?” Irian asked. “What do you plan to do, now that you are a free man?”
Wayland thoughtfreewas a funny word to use.
“I have a mind to travel.” He patted Hog on her plump tail, which she flicked like a cat. “I have not seen much of Tír na nÓg, what with nasty fathers and tight collars. Perhaps I will see the sights before I decide where to hang my hat.”
Irian nodded. “I would offer to join you, but I have a feeling I would make a terrible tourist.”
“No,” Wayland agreed. “You should stay where you belong.”
What he meant wasYou should stay where she can find you.
Fia was alive. Wayland had to believe she had survived her confrontation with Eala. Surely he wouldn’t be able to miss someone this much if they were dead.
“Perhaps you will visit, Way.” Irian returned his eyes to the mediocre sword. “From time to time. I have been remembering lately—of when we were boys.”
“Perhaps,” Wayland agreed. “Let us not leave it another thirteen years, Ree.”
He clapped Irian on the shoulder, then climbed the broad boughs beyond the apartments, hooking his knee over a branch and watching the sun set over the gilded plains of the Summerlands. Laoise’s,Chandi’s, and Sinéad’s distant mounts were outlined in gold upon the horizon. Wayland watched until they disappeared against the purple backdrop of the foothills beyond.
“Perhaps it would not be so bad to be alone again,” he mused, out loud. “Not forever. But perhaps for a while. Maybe it would do me some good.”
Hog slapped him across the cheek with one clawed paw, spitting a shower of sparks.
“Alone,” Wayland amended, “withyou.”
He had found love once. He had been forced to sacrifice it for balance. But in time, he thought, maybe—just maybe—he might be able to find it again.
Someday, he would be whole.
After
Gort—Ivy
Autumn
My hope and my love, we will go for a while into the wood, scattering the dew, where we will see the trout, we will see the blackbird on its nest; the deer and the buck calling, the little bird that is sweetest singing on the branches; the cuckoo on the top of the fresh green; and death will never come near us for ever in the sweet wood.
—“The Heart of the Wood,” translated by
Lady Gregory
The kiss of Dún Darragh’s shadow tasted like winter. A keen chill swept the evening as I urged Finan toward the sunset-smeared fort, my cloak streaming out behind me.
