“Duly noted, colleen.” His smile was lightning—a blinding flash of white in the dim. “I shall seek to heed your warnings as dutifully as you have always heeded mine.”
“Touché.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “Oh, and, Sky-Sword?”
“Yes?”
I mounted Finan briskly, wheeling the stallion in a circle before galloping out into the driving rain. “Kiss my bloody arse.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Wayland
Wayland had never had the opportunity to travel much beyond Emain Ablach. He’d certainly made the odd journey—like the diplomatic mission his father had sent him on the winter he’d met Fia—but such excursions were always on Gavida’s whim and at his bidding. Wayland had been like a homing pigeon—he’d use an enchanted looking glass that allowed him to cross vast distances in the blink of an eye, cluck out a pointed message to whomever Gavida was trying to manipulate (usually something along the lines ofGive me this magical artifact you’re hiding before I smite you and everyone you hold dear), then hurry back home before anyone broke the rules of hospitality by slitting his throat. He’d attended revels and feasts, sampling local delicacies and local beauties alike, but rarely saw much at all of the environs he was sent to.
Tír na nÓg, for all its varied landscapes, was a foreign land to him. And it was becoming painfully obvious the same was true for Idris.
Since they’d started walking late that morning, the younger man had been torn between staring over the mountainous horizon with wonder verging on fear and poring over the makeshift map Laoisehad drawn for him like his life depended on it. Which Wayland prayed to any gods who were listening that it didn’t. Because Idris wasn’t particularly good at reading it.
In contrast, Hog was aglow with cheeky excitement, running her claws over Idris’s sleek red hair and murmuring.
Wayland experienced a burst of affection tempered by rising guilt. There had been an awful moment that morning when he had been utterly certain that no one would choose him as a traveling partner. That he would not be second choice or even last choice, but no choice at all. That he would be left alone once more by the only people in his life he had ever given himself the opportunity to care about. Then Idrishad—choosing Wayland over his own sister, no less.
Having Idris by his side was an undeniable comfort. But the thought of leading him into the heart of danger twisted a thick, impenetrable knot in Wayland’s gut. Gratitude warred with unease, and he made a silent, fervent wish that this wouldn’t be a journey either of them would regret.
“Laoise said after we leave the Barrens, it should be a few days’ hike through Tír na Sámhachta,” Idris was saying as they made their way through a narrow gully edged in glittering black rock.
“The Land of Tranquility?” Wayland shrugged. “Sounds boring.”
“No—these symbols are trees, not mountains.” Idris frowned, flipping the scrap of dried-leaf parchment scrawled with Laoise’s harried lines of charcoal. “In which case we’re headed straight for Tír Fhiáin.”
“The Wild Lands?” Wayland whistled. “Less boring. The maidens there are said to be utterly insatiable.”
Idris colored, staring even harder at the map. Hog, draped leisurely over his shoulder, blew speculatively on the leaf paper and flicked her tail in glee when it warped from the heat of her breath. Idris jerked it away from the draigling.
“Hog! Don’t,” he scolded, even as Wayland reached out and plucked the map from his surprised fingers.
“That’s enough of that.” Wayland folded the map—if one could even call it that—and tucked it into his trousers before smiling broadly. “We are in the mountains. Murias is westward, beside the sea. We follow the sun, and if that doesn’t work, we follow the water. And ifthatdoesn’t work, I can sense where we need to go.” He gestured to Fáilsceim, sheathed upon his back. “Perhaps we’ll even get lucky and find a few folkways to help us on our journey.”
“Folkways?” Idris gave him the same aggrieved look Wayland had received from every single boyhood tutor forced to school him. “Everyone knows they can’t be mapped.”
“My point exactly.” Though most folkways were somewhat reliable and remained open for years, creating safe shortcuts for Folk across the realm, the ficklest could open and close in mere moments. “If you’ve got your nose shoved into that crude map, you’ll never learn how to spot them.”
“Howdoyou spot them?”
Wayland hesitated. In truth, he had traveled through precious few—Gavida’s forged mirrors were more precise and less capricious. The only folkway Wayland had ever interacted with at length was one that had opened for about a month on Emain Ablach when he and Irian were boys. It had been a useless one—its exit two feet behind its entrance. He and Irian had, of course, made a game out of it—if you dashed through fast enough, you could sometimes smack yourself in the back of the head or kick yourself in your own rump.
“I believe there’s a shimmer to them?” He hemmed. “Or maybe a strange shadow—”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about, do you?” Idris accused.
On his shoulder, Hog hissed a mewling laugh, repeating, “Do you? Do you?”
“Give me back my map,” Idris demanded.
“Shan’t.”
“Now, Wayland!” Idris’s expression turned caustic. “I refuse to be led through lands unknown by someone without common sense.”
“Common sense is for common people.” Wayland made his tone arch. “And I, my darling man, am one of a kind.”
