I stilled, curiosity mingling with my alarm. The radiance inside me flared, as if seeking an outlet for its sizzling, searing power. But with the layer of gauzy fabric separating our skin, my touch was muffled—Irian did not flinch away from me, nor did his palms burn.
“Do you know,” he murmured as he trailed his hand—still coddled by silk—up my bare arm, “silk is deceptively strong? A single strand rivals metal in fortitude.”
His touch slid over my shoulder to cup my cheek. I longed to lean into his touch, but the radiance inside me pummeled the inside of my skin.
“I doubt it is particularly resistant to heat,” I murmured, rueful. “Irian—”
“Humor me.” A brisk, sudden breeze blew up, catching the curtains like sails and billowing them between us. Dust motes scattered as Irian was transformed to a specter, his form little more than a pale shadow. Amid the sifting clouds of fabric, his hand caught my waist. His other hand curled around my neck, tilting my head back. He kissed me, his touch whisper soft behind the sifting, sighing silk. The fabric glided over my skin, slid over my lips, caressed my cheeks.
“Whether tallow or beeswax, linen or silk, I wish to know your past.” His breath tasted of promised things—warmer mornings and longer days and happier times. “Wherever you have been, I wish to visit. Wherever you are, I wish to be. And wherever you go, I wish to follow. Remember that, mo chroí.”
He pulled away. The breeze died out. The curtains settled.
And as the sun slid away behind the distant line of trees, a brisk knock came at the door.
I gathered my towel around my suddenly chilled body and slid off the casement.
“An hour until dinner,” I said. “We’d better get dressed.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Laoise
Laoise heaved a sigh as she watched her brother leave the valley in the company of the least serious and most dissolute man she had ever met. Although Idris was more than capable of making his own decisions, Laoise couldn’t help but feel a fierce, protective warmth toward him—a need to shield him from every hurt the world might throw in his direction. She had never seen much of herself in his wide, wondering eyes; his trusting nature infuriated her, even as it filled her with pride and tenderness. Although he could drive her to the edge of her patience, all she truly wanted was to see Idris safe, happy, and unburdened.
She did not wish to see him ravished, then discarded by the hedonist prionsa of the Silver Isle.
“He’ll be all right,” Sinéad said, over her shoulder.
Laoise sighed again. “I’m not so sure about that.”
“Wayland’s not so bad,” she added, clearly intuiting Laoise’s reservations about the libertine heir. “Once you get to know him.”
“I’m also not so sure aboutthat,” Laoise said dryly. “And thegetting to know himis exactly what I’m worried about.”
She slid her eyes over the valley she had destroyed, then helped renew. There was no reason to stay, now everyone else was gone. But something made her want to linger—a quiet, stubborn reluctance rooting her to the spot. She was not a fearful woman—she had faced greater dangers. Yet the hollow ache of possibility filled her chest, tearing her between the safety of the familiar and the uneasy thrill of stepping toward a future that would change her indelibly.
It did not feel like destiny. It felt like erasure.
So she told Sinéad, “Let’s rest one more night. I want the draiglings at their full strength. We fly to Findias in the morning.”
Laoise knew the route to Findias well—she had flown back several times since rescuing Idris from its smoldering ruins. The sight of the city she had once called home never failed to elicit a complicated mix of feelings: a bittersweet, burning ache—old painful memories coddled like burning embers in her heart—and the sharp pang of remembering all she had outgrown. Findias was a city burdened by ghosts—of people, of violence. Yet it was haunted mostly by Laoise herself—her past cobbled into the streets and mortared into the walls and thatched upon the roofs.
Nestled deep within a jagged mountain crevasse, Findias caught the late afternoon sunlight, glowing like a living coal in shades of orange and crimson. Sinuous towers of blackened obsidian had once been crowned with ever-burning flames that crackled and danced in the mountain winds. Aqueducts carved from volcanic glass arched over the streets—long ago, rivers of magma had spat and sparked as they were carried toward the city’s great forges, wreathed in swarms of tiny red emberfolk. In the heart of the city, a vast plaza sat, dominated by a fountain that had once spilled liquid flames but now only spurted ugly, warped shadows. The corrupted wild magic gathered at the back of the city like a crouching beast ready to pounce.
Above it, the volcano hunched, its crater like two hands cupped around a bowl of fire. It gave a speculative growl as Laoise flew closer, spitting an arc of magma through the darkening sky. Laoise suppressed a shudder of nerves. Before the purge, the volcano had been considered holy—the Sept of Scales had called it Cuas na Gréine.The Hollow of the Sun.Elen used to recite a nursery rhyme to frighten Laoise before bed:In the Hollow of the Sun, where old fire flares bright, the flames cast no warmth, only shadows and fright.
Laoise alighted on a plateau halfway up the rise—she did not wish to get too close to the flaming crater with Sinéad and the draiglings, but neither did she want to leave Sinéad in the abandoned city.
“It’s cold.” Sinéad hunched deeper into her mantle as a high wind whipped through the gorge, whistling between the high stone needles and making Laoise’s scales quiver. “Is there nowhere else to camp? Surely somewhere in the city—”
“We’re not camping.” A sliver of guilt pierced Laoise’s heart. She should not have let Sinéad come with her—she should have sent her with Balor, where she would have been far safer and likely more comfortable. Selfishly, she had wanted a friend for this journey. And now that friend was suffering. “More dangerous things than ghosts roam Findias after dark. It is a lawless, fell place.”
Sinéad frowned. “Then what are we doing here?”
“I know where my Bright One’s nemeton is,” Laoise said, matter-of-factly. Neither Irian, Wayland, nor Fia had had the upbringing of a tánaiste, which was for the best—they had all survived the purge, while few others had. But the omens of Laoise’s birth had been clear, and she had been raised on the sacred lore of her Sept—all the knowledge and training of the Treasure she was sure to inherit. Her education had not been finished—she had been sent away to Dún Scaith before she came of age. But she had learned enough. “It is inside the volcano.”
Sinéad blanched, her wind-whipped complexion going gray in the fading light. “Insideit?”
