Laoise’s arsenal surpassed her library. There were massive double-headed battle-axes forged from bronze, with edges gleaming like molten gold and intricate knotwork spiraling around heavy shafts. A long, elegant silver-ash spear—light enough to wield with precision, yet powerful enough to pierce the thickest armor. Longbows crafted from yew heartwood, resting beside quivers of iron-tipped arrows fletched with raven feathers.
Beside Irian, Wayland whistled in appreciation. He inspected each weapon with interest, occasionally reaching out to graze the bevel of a blade or touch the tip of an arrow.
“But this—” Wonder brightened Wayland’s voice as he brushed the haft of a triple-pronged trident too large for any ordinary man to wield. “This is Fáilsceim. In the hands of a worthy bearer, it is said to part seas and split mountains.”
“Wielded by Fiachar of the Sept of Scales in the massacre ofGeata Ruish, during the Gate War,” Irian growled, by way of agreement. “Laoise must have looted it from Findias in the wake of the bardaí’s uprising.”
“Better her than them.” Wayland slid a fingertip over the polished cabochon of blue amber inlaid where the long prongs diverged. “Once, it was said to belong to the Sept of Fins. They called it Scepter of the Flood for the way it sliced through water.”
Irian inclined his head. “Pick it up.”
“Me?” Wayland jerked his greedy hand from Fáilsceim’s haft. “I think not. One legendary, enchanted weapon between us is enough.” Wayland’s mouth twisted into a broad wry smile. “Besides, the stories say when in the hands of anunworthybearer, the trident taints your shadow and whispers vile notions in your ear. I would hate to accidentally murder you in the grip of a warp-spasm, Brother.”
The idea of Wayland besting him, even in the throes of a battle rage, made Irian’s jaw clench. He watched his foster brother move away from Fáilsceim to select a simple, blunt practice sword, and said, simply, “Why would you think you are not worthy?”
Wayland hefted the practice blade, testing its balance. “Why would I think I am?”
He gave the claíomh a few experimental swings, moving through the basic forms both men had learned a lifetime ago. Step, step, swing, parry. Sidestep, feint, thrust. Then Wayland flipped his grip on the hilt, lunged sideways, and attacked Irian without warning.
Instinct alone shoved Irian from the path of the blade, curving his spine to one side as his back foot pivoted. He heard the whine of blunt metal an inch from his face, felt the whistle of wind shadowing its path. The Sky-Sword sang free from its scabbard with an eager note, meeting Wayland’s return swing with a clang. Impact vibrated Irian’s arm to his elbow as steel on steel echoed through the cavern.
“What was that?” Irian parried Wayland’s blows with ease, now that he knew to expect them. To any other opponent, Waylandwould be formidable. To Irian, he was predictable. They had sparred so many times as boys that Irian knew every cascade of movement, every feint and slash and riposte. Fighting Wayland was like fighting himself. “I thought you said you didnotwant to murder me in a warp-spasm of rage.”
“Just checking you haven’t gotten slow with age.” Wayland’s deep blue eyes locked onto Irian’s face, a flicker of some emotion glinting like metal in dark water. “Little brother.”
Irian answered with a more forceful swing than the casual rhythm of good-natured sparring required, his knuckles white around the hilt of his blade.
“If anyone has gotten slow,olderbrother,” Irian said, “I would imagine it has to be you. All that wine. All those women.”
“And men!” Wayland grinned as he rained a flurry of short, fast blows around Irian’s head. “Time was, you might have joined me. Sharing bedroom partners, bottles of wine, and ensuing headaches alike.”
Irian feinted high, then slashed low. “We were little more than boys then. Maturity has brought me an appreciation for quality over quantity.”
“Indeed—you have become a one-woman man,” Wayland mused as he danced back. His eyes sparked suddenly with a wild humor Irian remembered. A wiliness he mistrusted. “Although the woman in question is not, perhaps, strictly a one-man woman.”
His words struck Irian like lightning. Deep in his chest, the cold fury he had harbored since the Longest Night roared to life in a tempest of jealousy, heartache, and anger. His breath rasped as he lunged at Wayland once more, the Sky-Sword bellowing the thunder of his rage.
“There he is.” Wayland’s smile twisted with bitter humor as he met the strike with his ill-forged practice blade. “There’s the wild, wrathful boy I remember.”
Irian bared his teeth, his strikes growing ever more savage. In Wayland’s hands, the practice sword chipped, its softer metalsplintering beneath the enchanted steel of the Sky-Sword. “I. Am. Not.Angry.”
“Learning to talk about your feelings is a valuable skill, Brother,” Wayland chided between swift breaths. “If you won’t tell me why you’re so mad at me, I’ll have to guess.”
“Or you could learn to shut up for once in your gods-cursed life,” Irian ground out.
Wayland sidestepped, ducking under Irian’s guard before driving his elbow sharply into his ribs. The unexpected feint sent Irian staggering back. Wayland pressed his advantage, forcing Irian to cede all the ground he’d gained.
“It’s not just that I kissed her, is it?” Wayland’s words were sharper than either sword, shredding the remnants of Irian’s careful composure. “It’s not even that you know she must have enjoyed it. I am, after all, renowned for my tongue.”
Irian roared, cleaving the Sky-Sword down. The practice sword shattered in Wayland’s grip, shards of metal scattering to the stone as the blade sheared away at the hilt. Wayland staggered back in surprise, struggling to keep his balance. The black blade met his sternum before Irian could reconsider, pinning Wayland to the wall. Knives and hanging shields clattered down from the impact. Irian jerked the Sky-Sword up to aim where Wayland’s collar had once rested. Irian’s breath rasped in his throat; his blood rang in his ears; the sword sang out a bloodthirsty little threnody.
“You are angry.” Wayland tilted his jaw away from the blade, but his gaze held no fear. Only a careful kind of consideration—as if he were measuring Irian, weighing him, assessing him.Seeinghim. In a way Irian did not wish to be seen. “You’re angry because you know, deep down, that had the timing been a little different—had the stars aligned differently—thatit would have been me. Me, by her side. Me, in her bed. Me, in her heart.”
Irian’s knuckles ached from the force of his grip on the Sky-Sword, which trembled in his hand.
Not the sword.Hewas trembling.
He did not trust himself to move a muscle.
