“The Treasures are composed of three components. The sourceof the magic—the Bright One, an elemental entity.” I grabbed a nearby mushroom and placed it on the ground before me. “The conduit—a resonant object forged by Gavida.” I plucked a blade of grass and placed it near the mushroom. “And the vessel—a tánaiste. A living heir powerful enough to channel the magic.” I placed a rock next to the grass and the mushroom, creating a triangle. “For a thousand years, the source and the conduit were fixed, while the vessel was tithed anew every twelve or thirteen years.” I plucked up the rock and replaced it with one of approximately the same size. Then I swiped the blade of grass, leaving only the rock and the mushroom. “Now we have two warped sources. Two willing, powerful vessels. But no conduits.”
Wayland stared at my little diorama, his eyes narrowed. Laoise looked like she was restraining an eye roll.
“Resonance exists between the source and the vessel, because of the innate power they wield. I glimpsed Ínne, my Treasure’s Bright One, long before I bound myself to the Heart of the Forest.” I drew a line between the stone and the mushroom, then extended another at a perpendicular angle. “If we could harness the existing resonance between source and vessel, could we notcreatea conduit—completing the natural circuit?” I returned the blade of grass, forming the missing point of the triangle.
“Create? No.” Wayland stood, manic light dancing in his eyes. He looked briefly—and terrifyingly—like Gavida. A shiver of fear, laced with excitement, coursed through me. “Echo? Yes.” He plucked up another mushroom, another blade of grass, another stone. Placed them directly atop mine. “Nature is a great mimic, is it not? Tides rise and fall so precisely, so regularly, that they can be tracked and predicted.”
Irian’s silver eyes gleamed. “Migratory birds follow ancient inherited routes, journeying across vast distances they have never seen yet somehow know.”
“Trees root and leaf in the same fractal sequences, although they cannot see what their neighbors are doing,” I added.
“Yes,yes. The fucking pattern!” Laoise threw up her hands. “Buthow?”
“We have everything we need.” Wayland was alight with excitement. “We just need to arrange it in the right order. Irian, Fia—your Treasures.”
The Sky-Sword hummed an eager chord as Irian drew it. I pulled the chain holding the Heart of the Forest over my head.
“Just hold on to them,” Wayland said. “Now, Laoise.” Wayland faced the redheaded Gentry maiden, who seemed perilously close to exhausting her patience. “Is there anything physical—an object or keepsake—that matters a great deal to youandmight somehow connect to the element of fire?”
“In case you weren’t paying attention,” Laoise said acidly, “my home of the past decade just burnt to the ground. So no, I don’t have any keepsakes.”
“Actually.” Idris—who, like Sinéad and Balor, had been silent during the past few minutes of increasingly impenetrable dialogue—leaned back. We all glanced at him in surprise as he fished in his pockets, then drew out a craggy jewel. It glinted in the firelight, ruby red and opaque as spilled blood.
Laoise blinked. “Is that—”
“Part of Blodwen’s egg.” Idris flushed, pink blooming on his brown cheeks. “I kept fragments from all the draiglings’ eggs, over the years. But this piece always stays with me. It’s become something of a… talisman.”
“The fucking pattern,” Laoise repeated, but this time there was a note of wonder in her tone. “But, Idris—that’s yours.”
“It was always yours.” He slid the draig egg fragment into Laoise’s hand. “I was just keeping it for you.”
Laoise gazed at it before bowing her head and clasping it to her chest.
“And you, Way?” Irian asked, his voice low but curious. “You, too, have been divested of your home and most of your belongings. What is your emblem?”
Slowly, Wayland drew the weapon I’d glimpsed earlier, poking above the collar of his cloak. A massive trident slid free from its binding on his back, carving an arc in the air that gleamed with iridescence—like the shifting hues of an iris or a rainbow. I gasped. Irian raised an eyebrow. Confused recognition flickered in Idris’s eyes while fresh anger darkened Laoise’s.
“That’s—that’sFáilsceim!” she hissed, enraged. “Did youtakethat from the Armory?”
“Should I have left it to melt?” Wayland returned. “I found I could not leave it as I fled the flames.”
“But it’s not yours,” Laoise protested.
“Whose is it, then?” Irian’s cutting voice was its own weapon. “Fáilsceim was said to be forged so hot its metal could only be quenched in the deepest, darkest seas. It was wielded by Mannanán Mac Lir, first chieftain of the Sept of Fins, until he was betrayed by his kin and it fell into the hands of the Sept of Scales. The trident already chose Wayland. He simply was not ready to accept it.”
Laoise blinked but subsided. Wayland could not hide a flush of pride.
“Then it is decided,” Irian said. “It appears one enchanted weapon between us wasnotenough.”
“I have never been known for my moderation, Ree.” Wayland smiled, then sharpened his focus back onto our group. “I have handled both the Sky-Sword and the Heart of the Forest—one was like touching a storm, the other like being kissed by a forest. Although my innate magic is tied to the element of water, I could sense the elements Irian and Fia wield—high winds and distant skies; damp earth and twisted roots. The conduits must be constantly channeling the energy of the source, even when the heir is not wielding it.
“What if we can layer the resonances of the existing Treasures atop these new objects?” Wayland continued. “Showthem how to connect to our sources?”
“What’s the worst that can happen?” I was fairly certain thatwas what I’d said before inviting Talah inside me, but now didn’t seem the best time to bring up that particular mistake. “Let’s try.”
Wayland set Fáilsceim gently onto the ground at the center of the circle and motioned for Irian to set the Sky-Sword parallel to the other weapon. I lowered the Heart of the Forest between them so that the smooth blue-green stone touched both the haft of Fáilsceim and the cutting edge of the Sky-Sword. Laoise lowered her shard of draig egg opposite the Heart of the Forest.
The Sky-Sword began to keen, a wordless melody of exultation… lamentation. A flurry of emotions blew across Irian’s usually stoic expression. Surprise… scorn… heartache.
