I plucked the pipe from his hands and smacked it on the table.
“Keep your voice down,” I hissed, “and listen to me. Not only is Eala already at Rath na Mara, but—”
But Irian was reaching for one of the foaming flagons of ale I’d carried over from the bar. He took a tentative sip, then drained the tankard—nearly as big as his head—in three massive gulps. He wiped his mouth on the back of his gloved hand.
“Why, this, too, is absolutely disgusting! It’s sweet and bitter and smells of piss, and it bubbles all along my throat.” He beamed at me. “Yet already I yearn for another taste.”
He reached for my untouched flagon. I supposed not even Folk men were immune to the charms of fresh farm-brewed ale. But I clamped my hands over the tankard, forcing Irian to meet my eyes. “Irian. Eala already sits the high throne, and—”
“Fia.” Irian folded his gauntleted palms over my own fists, the layers of leather enough to protect him from the radiance humming inside me. “Wherever Eala sits, she shall sit there until tomorrow. With the storm blowing north, I think it unlikely she will march upon this tiny village, where she has no reason to believe we rest, in the middle of the night. Agreed?”
I grumbled an assent.
“Good.” He jerked the tankard from my grip. “Now let me get drunk on human swill in peace. Or better yet, join me. For I am of a mind to dance tonight.”
I watched in burgeoning horror as Irian drained his second tankard, rose to his full height, then stalked toward the center of the silent, staring tavern. His muddied boots on the floorboards were loud as thunder; his head nearly brushed the ceiling. His voice,when he spoke, rang as uncannily as the Morrigan’s hounds baying over a fell moor.
“O ancient one,” he intoned to the fiddler, who, had he not a hardy constitution, might have dropped dead on the spot. “I desire a tune. We shall pay you more nuggets of metal if you play us your music.”
The old man, eyes so huge in his face I thought they might pop, wordlessly settled his fiddle beneath his chin.
“And, barkeep!” Irian boomed. The boy startled backward into a rack of drying cups, sending them clattering onto the floorboards. “Two more thimblefuls of hogwash!”
As the music swelled, Irian glanced back at me with his eyebrows raised and his hand outstretched. I glowered back, folding my arms over my chest. He shrugged, slurped another flagon of ale, then began dancing by himself, a sinuous, graceful, and outrageously inhuman series of steps and arm movements that had several patrons at the bar rubbing vigorously at their eyes and staring skeptically at their cups.
I gave up. I stood in a rush, marching across the room and grabbing for Irian’s arms before he got us both killed. But he sidestepped me neatly, even as he slid a hand around my waist and spun me against him. His other hand cupped the back of my head, tilting my face gently toward his. I tensed, but between his leather gloves and my hooded cloak, my skin barely sparked. I relaxed, reveling in the rare, precious contact, armored though it was by layers of clothing. Irian’s perfect smile was designed just for me, a keen blade sharpened with breathtaking beauty and polished with affection. His silver eyes, when they collided with mine, were my own private moonrise.
“Dance with me, colleen,” he murmured, too low for anyone else to hear.
Horrified but laughing, I realized my Folk husband had tricked me into giving him exactly what he wanted.
“Fine,” I relented. “But if you keep dancing like that, these townsfolkwillbe running for their pitchforks and torches.”
I taught him one of the simplest ceilidh dances as the fiddler sawed out an only slightly off-tune jig.Step, step, clap. Stomp, stomp, spin.I was not surprised to find Irian a swift study—his otherworldly grace and effortless poise soon had him stepping and stomping and whirling me around the room by the elbow as I fought not to dissolve in giggles at the utter ridiculousness of the spectacle. Before long, the mood of the whole tavern had eased. One of the men at the bar pulled out a whistle and harmonized with the fiddler. Another elderly fellow—nearly falling down drunk—joined in the jig, and soon the ruddy barkeep was dancing, too, until the whole tavern came alive with firelight and music and merriment.
A few reels—and countless tankards of ale—later, the sturdy innkeeper at last approached me with the key to our room and a meaningful glance at Irian swaying dangerously close to the hearth. I wedged a shoulder beneath his armpit and steered him toward the stairs, navigating around stools and tables.
“Up,” I ordered.
“’M not drunk,” Irian insisted.
I patted his rump as we climbed toward the second floor. “Nobody said you were.”
The last door on the right led into a neat, modest bedroom with a bed, a window, and a basin for washing. Irian flopped face-first onto the narrow straw mattress, which looked like a child’s cot beneath his imposing bulk. His feet hung fully off the end; I unlaced his still-damp boots and set them to dry before the fire.
“I never understood before t’night how humans could be so simpleminded,” Irian slurred. “But a few more of these and I’d be in danger of forgetting everything.”
“Even me?” I asked lightly, as I moved to tug off his cloak. But he caught me by the wrist and dragged me to face level.
Even stinking of ale and tipsy as a cart with three wheels, Irian was flawless. His glazed eyes were like polished moonstones, his expression unreasonably soft. I wasn’t sure I had ever seen him smile as much as he had tonight.
“Never you,” he whispered unevenly. “You are my whole world. Without you I am nothing. I love—loveyou.”
The words furled my spine like thorned roses, sweet yet stinging. “Irian—”
“By you I am ravaged. Undone. And remade.” He caught a hanging tendril of my short damp hair and wound it carefully around his forefinger. “Beautiful. You are so fucking beautiful.”
“Irian,” I said gently. “Youaredrunk.”
