They camped on a hillock situated high above the swamp, with a view of the ruined city of Murias, where the Sept of Fins had once ruled. Wayland could barely see the blighted wild magic, but hefeltit—a sickly pressure on his awareness, as if his ears were blocked. At least here, elevated slightly and upwind from it, he could almost ignore its insistent press.
Idris foraged a few twisted mushrooms from between the rocks, then roasted them over the fire until the air was thick with their earthy, bitter aroma. The two men ate in silence as Hog hunted for field mice beneath the rocky promontory shielding their backs from the wind.
After the last scraps of mushroom were finished, Wayland reached into his pocket and drew out the small flask of liquor he’d carried from the Cnoc. He jiggled it slightly to catch Idris’s eye.
Idris raised his eyebrows. “Trust you to escape a burning mountain with nothing but the shirt on your back and a flask of liquor.”
“Don’t forget a legendary weapon that doesn’t strictly belong to me,” Wayland said, gesturing to Fáilsceim. “I always carry booze, in case of emergencies. A multipurpose cure, you might say.”
Idris hesitated, then accepted the offering. He uncorked the bottle and took a tentative swig.
“That’s my deepwood sap wine,” he said, surprised but proud. “Except—”
Wayland grinned. “I made some improvements.”
In fact, he’d distilled it—wicking away the water content until the alcohol was more concentrated. It was an old trick he’d discovered in his hazy, misspent youth—before his father had collared his magic.
“It’s good,” Idris said, taking another swig before handing it back to Wayland. “And strong.”
“Synonyms, Red.” Wayland threw back his head and drank deep, reveling in the sharp, warm burn of the liquor in his chest.
They drank in silence for a while, gazing out over the darkened landscape. At last, Wayland said, “Would you like to talk about it?”
Idris stiffened. “About what?”
“Whatever made you weep like a babe in the middle of the swamp, I’d imagine.”
He’d meant the comment to be lighthearted, a joke to dispel the heavy, heart-wrenching reticence Idris had carried with him all day. It immediately had the opposite effect—Idris set down the flask, folded his arms over his knees, and curled in on himself. He could not have used words to speak more clearly than his body spoke without them.
Leave me alone.
Wayland cursed himself inwardly as he rose to his feet, skirtingthe fire. He knelt before the other man, close enough to touch but careful not to, and tilted his head, angling his face to peer beneath the screen of Idris’s hair.
“I’m sorry.” He meant it. “That was uncalled for. Utterly out of line. There is no shame in tears, no indignity in emotion. I laugh at myself so I am not tempted to cry as often as I would like. But that does not give me the right to laugh at you. Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?”
For an endless, aching time, Idris kept his eyes downcast. Hog waddled over and settled in his lap, glaring at Wayland as if to berate him.
Finally, Idris heaved a deep, wounded sigh. “Back there in the swamp… I saw my sister. She was beckoning me deeper between the trees. And I wanted to follow her more than I’ve wanted anything else in a long time.”
Wayland didn’t understand. “You saw Laoise?”
“No.” Idris finally lifted his eyes; they gleamed like gold coins in the fire-fretted dark. “My other sister. Elen. Who has been dead for twenty years.”
A chill swept over Wayland, cold as ice water dumped over his head.
“Laoise was the eldest,” Idris continued softly. “My parents’ heir. The omens blessed her birth—a blood-red dawn and a rain of sparks, or so the stories go. My father even claimed that on the eve of her name day, the Hollow of the Sun briefly erupted, spitting cinders into the sky like newborn stars.”
Such stories were common among the Folk—births of important children hallowed by portentous omens. According to Gavida, Wayland’s own birth had been blessed by high tides and schools of fish so plentiful they jumped into fishermen’s nets. Wayland had never understood exactly what flooded beaches and suicidal fish were supposed to portend, other than a supernatural taste for the fruits of the sea.
He did love seafood.
“My sister Elen came a year or two after.” Wayland raised his eyebrows—among the Folk Gentry, children were rare and nearly always purposeful. Breeding mates were carefully selected and considered; offspring spawned to shoulder destinies and carry bloodlines. Unlike sheeries, who hatched from seedpods like tufts of dandelion fluff, or darrigs, who planted cuttings of their own limbs in moonlit marshes, Folk Gentry grew their children inside them. Parenthood was considered a sacred but dangerous magic not all were prepared to wield. Most Gentry women carried but one child in their lifetime; those who birthed more spaced them out over decades or even centuries.
“It was a love match,” Idris said, by way of rueful explanation. “Laoise was their heir; Elen was the gift of their love. The two girls were close in age but wildly different. Laoise was fierce and willful, burning hot as an eternal flame. Elen was sweet and gracious, as softhearted as a lamb.”
“And you?” Wayland asked gently. “Who were you, in your family?”
“I was the baby,” Idris laughed, a little bitterly. “Laoise and Elen were eight and nine when I was born; by the time I was old enough to toddle after them and interrupt their games, they were too grown to want much to do with me.Play with your brother, Mother used to command them. Elen would sometimes oblige, scooping me into her arms and carrying me up to count the wyverns nesting on the cliffs. Laoise hated watching me—she’d usually plop me in my crib and leave me to cry my eyes out.”
