Chapter Nineteen
Laoise
Laoise felt spring in the cool air as she soared over the Barrens. The sun lofted higher and brighter over the glittering fangs of the mountain ranges separating Tír na nÓg from Annwyn. The faint scents of turned earth and new leaves wafted from the south. She performed a showy barrel roll for the thrill of it, reveling in the warmth of the sun glossing her scales and the vertiginous rush as the world kaleidoscoped around her.
At last Laoise spotted Gwyr and Anwyll sunning themselves on the lip of the sinkhole, nearly camouflaged against the mineral gleam of the rock. She tucked her wings along her back and dived, her neck stretching long as her tail streamed sinuously. Both draiglings rose to greet her, chirping and spiraling alongside her.
She caught her descent at the last possible moment, her fanning wings buffeting the scrawny trees and shrubs clinging to the walls of the sinkhole. A few rockjays lofted from their nests, cawing with irritation. Enfys chased them toward the lip of the cavern, eyeing their nests for eggs to steal. Only the vast fire-lit trees of the nemeton did not move—they stood in their eternal ring,glowing fitfully as threads of darkness slowly climbed their twisted trunks.
Laoise shifted into her Gentry form, her boots striking the ground as her arms shrank, her body became more compact, and her scales molded softer until they became skin and curling hair. There was always a moment of disquiet after Laoise relinquished her draig form—a terrible heaviness combined with parched longing for something left behind. She knew some other shapeshifting Gentry felt the same—an anam cló was, after all, the form of one’s soul. But it never failed to strike her as strange that her truest shape was not the one she had been born into.
She strolled toward the caverns leading into the Cnoc. Only to nearly collide with Irian, ducking out into the indirect morning light filtering in from above.
“Oh!” Laoise stepped out of his path. “I didn’t see you.”
“Nor I you.” Irian rocked to a halt, lifting his hand to shield his cavern-dim eyes from the harsh natural light. Upon his skin, he bore evidence of his nightly struggles with his transformed bride—livid scratches scouring his cheeks and throat; a bruised eye purpling the already sleepless hollows of his sculpted face. Laoise knew that by noon, his Treasure would heal him without any scars to speak of. But for now, he looked battered. Exhausted. Halfway to broken. “My apologies.”
He cut her an exquisite little bow, then swerved to move past her. Laoise hesitated. Irian was a man of few words at the best of times. In the past few months, he had grown downright taciturn. Laoise did not particularly mind—she had little she desired to discuss with the tánaiste who for years she had known only through violent rumors. Anytime she ventured from her self-imposed exile into Tír na nÓg—for supplies or books or a brief respite from the noisy chaos of seven draiglings—she had encountered whispers of the shadow heir, the vicious Irian, who had cursed twelve innocent human girls to the forms of swans only to dangle them over the heads of the bardaí. Beautiful, deadly, deceitful. She had heardmany dark tales she was now inclined to disbelieve—stories where he hanged enemies by their own hair, tricked maidens into his bed by wearing the faces of their old lovers, slaughtered innocents for the pleasure of their screams.
Laoise had never witnessed Irian be needlessly cruel. But she had watched him bloody his own wife in the interest of saving her life. She had seen the broken nose he’d inflicted on his own foster brother. She had felt the menace of his unflinching regard. She had witnessed him walk the edges of his own control, like a brewing storm that could break at any moment. Carefully passionate, violently calculated. For months he had lived beneath her roof, and she still did not know where his limits were.
“Irian.” Her voice reached out and stopped his progress.
He tilted his head like a bird of prey. “Laoise?”
She hesitated. “You know we are all doing what we can to protect and revive Fia.”
Irian blinked. “If I have not expressed it sufficiently, then let me extend my gratitude for all your hospitality. Without this haven, we would not have survived this trial.”
Gods alive, but the man spoke as if he were reciting a historic epic from the times of legends.
“The forge is nearly complete. But though the boys have spent a great deal of time in the library—”
Irian grumbled something under his breath that Laoise gathered had to do with at least one of Wayland’s errant extremities.
“We have discovered little about the process of forging Treasures,” Laoise finished. “Spring rises on the wind. Despite Eala’s threats before quitting Tír na nÓg, Fia has not awoken.”
Irian’s shoulders bunched. “Your point?”
“Whatever arcane struggle is playing out upon her bones cannot last forever,” Laoise said, as gently as she could. Irian was no fool. But thinking a thing and hearing it spoken aloud were two different things. “Soon she must either triumph over Talah… or Talah will triumph over her. Soon Fia will either awaken… or she will die.”
Irian stiffened, his hands fisting at his sides. His black hair fanned out over his stark brows as he stared at the stone beneath their feet. “Do not mince words on my account.”
“We are tánaistí,” Laoise said. “We were not raised to soften our blows. Nor expect them softened for us.”
Irian was deathly silent.
“I need to know what you will do,” Laoise said. “I know you bear our group no great love. So if the unthinkable happens, and Fia is gone, I deserve to know what you will do.”
Irian released all his tension on an exhale. “What do you mean?”
“Come, Irian.” Laoise shrugged. “You are loyal to us because Fia chose us—each of us, in one way or another. And you are promised to her. But what are we to you? Sinéad is like a younger sister you barely know. Balor is a mystifying if occasionally helpful stranger. I am an ally you never wanted. And Wayland—sometimes I think you’d rather punt Wayland off a cliff than spend another moment in a room with him.”
“I knew you did not think much of me, No-Oath Laoise.” Irian’s eyes flashed, brilliant as the trees flaming behind him. “But I did not realize you thought so little.”
“I do not mean this as an insult,” Laoise clarified. It was probably true. “There are worse things than being bound by the love of a woman. I cannot fault you your commitment to Fia these past months. But I also cannot help but wonder what happens to you when—if—she dies.” Laoise hesitated. Words had a way of bringing reality to life. Blessings and curses could be spoken in mere whispers and still carry to the ears of the gods. “What will your grief make of you? Who will bear the brunt of your vengeance? Will I be forced to stand as the shield to your sword?”
When at last Irian spoke, his voice was fraught as a distant rumble of thunder.
