Before I could react, Wayland reached out and gripped my lucent hand. Light flashed in the space between us, searing my vision.
“Wayland—!” I jerked away, and he released me, inspecting his palm with curiosity in the waning brilliance. I stared, horrified, then relieved when I saw no blackened skin, smelled no seared flesh. “You gods-cursed idiot! What were you thinking?”
“That you deserve to know how much others ought to fear you.” Wonder touched his voice as he continued to stare at his unblemished palm. “It… saw me. It tasted me. And it told me…soon.”
His words sent a shudder spiraling down my spine. “What doesthatmean?”
“What did she say to you?” Wayland’s eyes bored into mine, devouring as a midnight sea. “The Year. Did she tell you why she… cursed you with this?”
I closed my hands into fists. “She told me she was granting my wish from the Longest Night, when I asked to become whatever I needed to be to withstand her.The cost and the reward are the same, she said.Truly star touched.”
“Then you burned Irian.” Wayland once more reached for me, tentative. Though trepidation fluttered like moths between my ribs, I let him touch the tips of his fingers to my arm. Yet again, my glow flared but did not harm him.
“But not you.” I frowned. “What if it is because you are not yet a Treasure?”
Wayland cocked his head. “Go on.”
“The Solasóirí came from the stars. Their magic flows through the Treasures but is bound by Gavida’s geasa—the laws of the tithes.” The words came slowly, then faster as my theory grew. “If I am indeedtruly star touched, then maybe whatever power now flows through me is pure wild magic? Light, instead of dark. The counterpoint to the warped wild magic released from the destroyed Treasures.”
“And thispurestar magic wants to, what?” Wayland looked skeptical. “DestroyTreasures?”
“Or perhaps… just the vessels.” A thrill and a threat wended through me. “Ínne told me,Balance is not voluntary. Perhaps thepure wild magic was forcibly trying to set the magic of Irian’s Treasure free when it burned him.”
“But you’re a Treasure too,” Wayland pointed out. “Why isn’t it harming your…vessel?”
The radiance bathing my skin seemed suddenly perilous—less a benediction than a curse.A heart rended and a heart mended.“How do you know it’s not?”
The door creaked open. Wayland and I jumped nervously apart, although we had not been standing particularly close, nor discussing anything untoward. It took me a long moment to recognize the stranger in the doorway. But when the golden candlelight caught on his long auburn hair and glinted in his dark brown eyes, I remembered. Laoise’s brother. Idris. I wasn’t sure why he had come to the library in the middle of the night, but he was probably wondering the same thing about Wayland and me.
“Idris!” Wayland braced his miraculously uninjured hand on the table and gazed at the other man. “It’s late. What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing.” He hefted a lopsided tome bound in hairy leather by way of explanation. “This kept moaning at me while I was trying to sleep.”
Wayland grinned. “Are you sure you finished it properly?”
Idris didn’t smile in return, simply strode purposefully toward the shelves. His gaze flicked toward me as he passed, his dark eyes cold. I flinched, offended. Until I saw his eyes continue on past me to settle with confused concentration on Wayland.
Ah.
“Well!” I said brightly. “This has been anything but illuminating. My bed summons. Good night to you both!”
I fled the library. Listening to Irian snore would be far preferable to intruding on this brewing lover’s quarrel.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Wayland
Wayland watched Fia slide out the library door, her short hair fanning around her glowing shoulders, then turned hesitantly toward Idris.
The other man’s presence buzzed with waspish energy. He kept his back slanted toward Wayland as he reorganized the stacks to accommodate the thick, heavy tome he’d ostensibly brought from his room. Wayland sighed, trying to decide whether to lean in to the impending conflict… or lean well away from it.
“Moaning, you say?” He kicked a chair’s legs out from under the table and sat down heavily. Might as well get this over with. “It’s a sad day when hairy old books are getting more action than me.”
Idris picked up the book. Paused. Then slammed it back down, the huge volume shaking the shelves. A few lightweight scrolls bounced to roll away across the floor. Still, he did not turn to face Wayland, bracing his arms on the ledge and keeping his head bent.
“You should have told me you loved her,” he muttered after a long, tense moment.
Wayland straightened in his chair, the words curling around him like the lash of a whip. Memories puddled along the painful grooves left behind—memories of hopeful dreams and shared secrets and one impossible, unbearable kiss. Damp dark hair tangled between his fingers, the taste of her like moss and mint and new beginnings. He shoved the thoughts away. Kicked his legs out in front of him.
