Wayland held out an arm. “Shall we?”
The chubby little dragan gave three jolting lollops of her stubby wings to get herself airborne before landing on his shoulder with a thump. He shrugged to redistribute her weight, then opened the door and strode out into the Cnoc.
Only to collide squarely with the person standing directly outside his door.
Wayland cursed, jerking back even as his stumbling steps tangled his legs with the stranger’s. He caught a glimpse of fire-red hair and warm brown skin. Laoise? But Laoise barely reached his chest—this figure easily cleared his shoulders. Wayland lost his balance completely, staggering forward and toppling against the other person. They swayed precipitously in the moment before he caught them both with his hands splayed on the wall.
“Gods alive!” Wayland spat out. “Couldn’t you have knocked?”
He looked down.
The young man caged between his braced arms was breathing unevenly, his lips parted in surprise. The eyes he lifted to Wayland’s face were brown as bark, shot through with filaments of gold from the torchlight and framed in lush auburn lashes. Half his head was shaven; the other half sported sleek scarlet hair spilling over one side of his face. He was a few inches shorter than Wayland, and sparer—his sleeveless mantle displayed the sinewed cut of arms ribboned with lean muscle. He huffed an awkward laugh, and Wayland tasted the other man’s breath on his own lips—their near fall had brought them mere inches apart.
“I was about to.” His voice was deeper than Wayland had expected it to be. His dark eyes drifted from Wayland’s face to his bare chest, then back up.
“Oh.” Wayland pushed back from the wall, putting distance between himself and the stranger. He fought the urge to cross his arms over his naked chest, feeling strangely exposed. “Dare I ask why?”
“Someone,” the red-haired man said pointedly as he lifted a leather-gauntleted fist toward Wayland’s shoulder, “isn’t supposed to go sneaking around bothering strangers.”
Hog mewled, then launched herself off Wayland’s shoulder onto the newcomer’s raised hand.
“Kiss?” The draigling did not so much ask as demand, thrusting her fang-rimmed mouth at the man’s jaw. The motion ruffled his length of crimson hair, and he readjusted the locks back in place over his cheekbone, the gesture self-conscious but practiced.
“We haven’t been introduced,” he said as he submitted to Hog’s kisses. “I’m Idris.”
Of course. Laoise’s brother. They did look like siblings—the same smooth brown skin, the same soft, sculpted features. Their eyes were different—Laoise’s a supernatural amber, like embers cooling in a grate, while Idris’s were opaque brown. So, too, was their hair—Laoise kept her springy curls cropped close to her head, while Idris wore his length of scarlet hair assiduously curved over one eyebrow and cheek, kissing around his jawline before pooling over his chest.
“And I’m Wayland.” He fought the urge to reach out and slip the other man’s hair behind his ear. The phantom slide of those glossy tresses between his fingertips made Wayland shiver. He shoved his hand in his pocket. “It was no intrusion.”
Idris grinned, a sideways flash of humor that was gone almost before it appeared. “Is that why you’re not wearing a shirt?”
Wayland flushed, an unexpected flare of heat climbing from his collarbone toward his jaw. He barked a laugh, half in surprise and half in awe.
When was the last time someone had made him blush? He had no earthly idea.
“I meant the draig. She’s sweet… when she’s not trying to rip my scalp off.” Wayland’s mouth stretched with the beginnings of a smile. He had never been one to let flirtation go ignored—historically he could give just as good as he got. “But if you enjoyed this chance encounter, I will happily answer my door half naked and pin you against the nearest wall anytime you stop by.”
Idris did not blush so much as set himself on fire. Red burned his throat, blazed across his cheeks, and rouged the tip of his visible ear. He ducked his head, his glossy tresses falling farther over his face. When he looked back up, he had composed himself—only the slightest hint of red lurked above the collar of his tunic.
“I came to fetch you,” he said with all the gravity he could muster. “Everyone else is awake. And they’ve all begun to plan.”
As different as the caverns were from Emain Ablach—the silver-hued, wave-strewn, blue-sky island where he’d spent the entirety of his life—Wayland did not dislike them. Their glossy curves and muted kaleidoscope glow reminded him a little of the Year’s prison beneath the Silver Isle. But there was something dislocating about being underground—as though he was cut off from some vital part of himself. He had felt the same loss when they traveled inland from the coast—no crash of waves or cries of gulls or salt on the air.
He had never expected to mourn the winter sea. But nor had he expected many of the events he had recently undergone.
The caverns undulated downward. Hog careened ahead of Idris and Wayland, illuminating the caves with sparks of red fire until sunspots danced across Wayland’s vision. Soon, he heard the sound of rushing water somewhere nearby. The coursing sensation curling around his bones as his innate magic awoke was both homecoming and affliction. Instinctively, his fingers grazed his throat, where for so many years a thick, heavy collar had choked him. But it was, of course, gone—Wayland had finally taken his power back from the man who had stolen it.
His king. His bane.
His father.
Set me free.Wayland inhaled deeply, remembering the last words he had spoken to the man who had helped create him. Gavida had shuddered, in those final moments, even as his precious isle slid away into the hungry sea.Let me go, as myself.
The smith-king’s eyes, where they rested upon his only son and heir, had been full of fear. Not of the sword point resting over his ancient, anguished heart, but of an older, greater horror. He had not, in the end, been afraid of his own death. Only feared the method by which he would be dispatched.
“Where are you taking me?” Wayland asked Idris, forcing away his jumbled memories of the Longest Night.
Idris glanced over his shoulder, Hog’s patchwork flames turning his eyes molten. “Scared, Wayland?”
