Chapter Sixteen Irian #2
The blade screamed, furious and atonal. Energy crackled around the length of metal; the pressure of the air abruptly shifted, popping Irian’s ears.
Wind whipped the blankets off the bed and lifted the hair off the nape of his neck.
Hog dived under the bed with a shriek. Wayland’s eyes fluttered shut, his hand reflexively curling even tighter around the Sky-Sword.
Then, with what appeared to be preternatural effort, he unhinged his fingers and dropped the blade to clatter onto the flagstones.
The Sky-Sword went silent as death. The air in the room abruptly returned to normal, popping Irian’s ears again.
He bent, palming his Treasure as it hummed a self-satisfied chord, then slowly rose to his full height.
He had only a few inches on Wayland; he grappled with a decidedly mean instinct to lord them all over the other man.
Perhaps it was because he had spent so long being younger, shorter, and weaker than Wayland. Or perhaps it was some other reason.
“Well?” Irian canted his head to one side, well aware of how intimidating the gesture was. “Did you discover aught of interest?”
“Yes.” Wayland’s eyes were downcast, focused on the powerful shard of metal dazzling from Irian’s grasp. He rubbed absently at his wrist. “Fight me.”
Irian’s head jerked back, his surprise like a slap to the face. “What?”
“You’re angry.” Wayland’s cobalt gaze slashed up, darkening with hesitation, then something like hurt. “At the world, mostly. But also with me.”
Irian’s lips thinned. “I am not.”
“You’re a bad liar, Ree. Always were.” Wayland gestured toward the Sky-Sword. “It’s worse. I could feel your rage. All of it, like a storm painted over a blackening sky. And I—I am one of the clouds. So come and fight me.”
“I am not going to fight you, Wayland.”
Wayland folded his heavy arms over his chest. “Then I’m afraid we’ll have to kiss instead.”
“You disgust me.” The faintest breath of mirth coiled in the corner of Irian’s mouth. He stood. “A fight it shall be.”
Irian’s and Wayland’s shadows stretched long in the light of the torches as they entered the Armory.
Carven from black rock and striated with pulsating threads of garnet and malachite, the chamber was indistinguishable from the many other rooms honeycombing the Cnoc.
Save, of course, for the array of weaponry displayed against the far wall.
Laoise’s arsenal surpassed her library. There were massive double-headed battle-axes forged from bronze, with edges gleaming like molten gold and intricate knotwork spiraling around heavy shafts.
A long, elegant silver-ash spear—light enough to wield with precision, yet powerful enough to pierce the thickest armor.
Longbows crafted from yew heartwood, resting beside quivers of iron-tipped arrows fletched with raven feathers.
Beside Irian, Wayland whistled in appreciation. He inspected each weapon with interest, occasionally reaching out to graze the bevel of a blade or touch the tip of an arrow.
“But this—” Wonder brightened Wayland’s voice as he brushed the haft of a triple-pronged trident too large for any ordinary man to wield. “This is Fáilsceim. In the hands of a worthy bearer, it is said to part seas and split mountains.”
“Wielded by Fiachar of the Sept of Scales in the massacre of Geata Ruish, during the Gate War,” Irian growled, by way of agreement. “Laoise must have looted it from Findias in the wake of the bardaí’s uprising.”
“Better her than them.” Wayland slid a fingertip over the polished cabochon of blue amber inlaid where the long prongs diverged. “Once, it was said to belong to the Sept of Fins. They called it Scepter of the Flood for the way it sliced through water.”
Irian inclined his head. “Pick it up.”
“Me?” Wayland jerked his greedy hand from Fáilsceim’s haft.
“I think not. One legendary, enchanted weapon between us is enough.” Wayland’s mouth twisted into a broad wry smile.
“Besides, the stories say when in the hands of an unworthy bearer, the trident taints your shadow and whispers vile notions in your ear. I would hate to accidentally murder you in the grip of a warp-spasm, Brother.”
The idea of Wayland besting him, even in the throes of a battle rage, made Irian’s jaw clench. He watched his foster brother move away from Fáilsceim to select a simple, blunt practice sword, and said, simply, “Why would you think you are not worthy?”
Wayland hefted the practice blade, testing its balance. “Why would I think I am?”
He gave the claíomh a few experimental swings, moving through the basic forms both men had learned a lifetime ago. Step, step, swing, parry. Sidestep, feint, thrust. Then Wayland flipped his grip on the hilt, lunged sideways, and attacked Irian without warning.
Instinct alone shoved Irian from the path of the blade, curving his spine to one side as his back foot pivoted.
He heard the whine of blunt metal an inch from his face, felt the whistle of wind shadowing its path.
The Sky-Sword sang free from its scabbard with an eager note, meeting Wayland’s return swing with a clang.
Impact vibrated Irian’s arm to his elbow as steel on steel echoed through the cavern.
“What was that?” Irian parried Wayland’s blows with ease, now that he knew to expect them.
To any other opponent, Wayland would be formidable.
To Irian, he was predictable. They had sparred so many times as boys that Irian knew every cascade of movement, every feint and slash and riposte.
Fighting Wayland was like fighting himself.
“I thought you said you did not want to murder me in a warp-spasm of rage.”
“Just checking you haven’t gotten slow with age.” Wayland’s deep blue eyes locked onto Irian’s face, a flicker of some emotion glinting like metal in dark water. “Little brother.”
Irian answered with a more forceful swing than the casual rhythm of good-natured sparring required, his knuckles white around the hilt of his blade.
“If anyone has gotten slow, older brother,” Irian said, “I would imagine it has to be you. All that wine. All those women.”
“And men!” Wayland grinned as he rained a flurry of short, fast blows around Irian’s head. “Time was, you might have joined me. Sharing bedroom partners, bottles of wine, and ensuing headaches alike.”
Irian feinted high, then slashed low. “We were little more than boys then. Maturity has brought me an appreciation for quality over quantity.”
“Indeed—you have become a one-woman man,” Wayland mused as he danced back. His eyes sparked suddenly with a wild humor Irian remembered. A wiliness he mistrusted. “Although the woman in question is not, perhaps, strictly a one-man woman.”
His words struck Irian like lightning. Deep in his chest, the cold fury he had harbored since the Longest Night roared to life in a tempest of jealousy, heartache, and anger. His breath rasped as he lunged at Wayland once more, the Sky-Sword bellowing the thunder of his rage.
“There he is.” Wayland’s smile twisted with bitter humor as he met the strike with his ill-forged practice blade. “There’s the wild, wrathful boy I remember.”
Irian bared his teeth, his strikes growing ever more savage. In Wayland’s hands, the practice sword chipped, its softer metal splintering beneath the enchanted steel of the Sky-Sword. “I. Am. Not. Angry.”
“Learning to talk about your feelings is a valuable skill, Brother,” Wayland chided between swift breaths. “If you won’t tell me why you’re so mad at me, I’ll have to guess.”
“Or you could learn to shut up for once in your gods-cursed life,” Irian ground out.
Wayland sidestepped, ducking under Irian’s guard before driving his elbow sharply into his ribs. The unexpected feint sent Irian staggering back. Wayland pressed his advantage, forcing Irian to cede all the ground he’d gained.
“It’s not just that I kissed her, is it?” Wayland’s words were sharper than either sword, shredding the remnants of Irian’s careful composure. “It’s not even that you know she must have enjoyed it. I am, after all, renowned for my tongue.”
Irian roared, cleaving the Sky-Sword down.
The practice sword shattered in Wayland’s grip, shards of metal scattering to the stone as the blade sheared away at the hilt.
Wayland staggered back in surprise, struggling to keep his balance.
The black blade met his sternum before Irian could reconsider, pinning Wayland to the wall.
Knives and hanging shields clattered down from the impact.
Irian jerked the Sky-Sword up to aim where Wayland’s collar had once rested.
Irian’s breath rasped in his throat; his blood rang in his ears; the sword sang out a bloodthirsty little threnody.
“You are angry.” Wayland tilted his jaw away from the blade, but his gaze held no fear.
Only a careful kind of consideration—as if he were measuring Irian, weighing him, assessing him.
Seeing him. In a way Irian did not wish to be seen.
“You’re angry because you know, deep down, that had the timing been a little different—had the stars aligned differently—that it would have been me.
Me, by her side. Me, in her bed. Me, in her heart. ”
Irian’s knuckles ached from the force of his grip on the Sky-Sword, which trembled in his hand.
Not the sword. He was trembling.
He did not trust himself to move a muscle.
“But I’m not.” Wayland’s voice rasped raw. “I never was. I never will be. Do you know why?”
Still, Irian could not speak. Could not move. Could barely think.
“Because she chose you, Ree. Even with the magic of Tír na nóg twining us together—the magic of a kiss owed—she chose you. With a thousand flirtations falling from my tongue, she chose you. With my hands on her waist and my lips on hers—” Irian flinched.
Wayland laughed, but the sound was hoarse, hollow.
“Yes, even then—she chose you. There may be patterns—destinies—etched between the stars, Brother. But our choices are more powerful than any fate. When it comes to Fia… Irian, you know I never stood a chance. You don’t have to trust me. But you can trust in that.”
“You think that is why I am angry?” Irian demanded, terse.
“I know Fia chose me. She has never betrayed me. She made mistakes—near fatal errors—because she did not know the customs of our people. But she never betrayed me. You, however.” He inhaled, as though a full breath might make the words easier to speak.
“When Gavida forced me from Emain Ablach, I thought I would never see you again. I mourned you and foolishly believed you mourned me too. For a long time I did not know who I was without you. But when I returned to the Silver Isle, it was like I meant nothing to you. Like you had cast me off to the fates thirteen years ago and never spared me a second thought. And when you began pursuing her…” Irian spat the words between his teeth.
“You keep calling me Brother. But you have acted like anything but family.”
Wayland’s eyes lightened, from fathomless blue to indigo shallows.
“You believed you were the castoff?” His nostrils flared, all that challenging humor leaking from his expression.
“You abandoned me. You left Emain Ablach flush with mythic power while I stayed behind, alone. With a collar around my neck. I heard the tales of your empire of desolation, your fortress of vengeance. All that magic and you could not find a way to send word? To visit me?” Wayland’s throat bobbed beneath the scrape of Irian’s sword.
“When I saw her, I knew. Whatever space I’d once occupied in your heart had been filled.
And you had no need for me anymore. Brother. ”
Irian forced in a slow, controlled breath. His hand suddenly went limp, and the Sky-Sword dropped from Wayland’s throat to clatter on the stone floor.
“For many years, you were the only person who bothered to love me,” Irian said, simply. “A brother cannot be replaced. Do not forget that again.”
He turned away from Wayland. Then pivoted back on his heel and slammed his closed fist into Wayland’s face.
Cartilage crunched beneath his knuckles as Wayland’s head snapped back against the wall; blinding pain shot up Irian’s wrist to his shoulder.
Hot dark liquid burst from Wayland’s nose, spattering Irian’s skin.
“Fuck me!” Wayland cursed, clutching at his newly rearranged face with both hands. Skeins of blue-black blood dripped over his mouth and stained both his palms. “What was that for?”
“For kissing my wife,” Irian growled, forcefully. “And for baiting me. I could have killed you.”
Wayland choked out a laugh. “I suppose a broken nose is my consolation prize?”
“Maybe next time you will think twice before provoking the Sky-Sword with nothing more than a practice blade.” Irian turned away, leaving Wayland breathless, battered, but inexplicably grinning. “Idiot.”
“You needed a scapegoat,” Wayland called after his retreating back. “And I’ve never been one to refuse a good consensual whipping!”
Irian glanced back, incredulous.
Wayland smiled wider, his gleaming teeth rendered gruesome by the deep blue blood oozing steadily from his bruised nose. “Although next time, I’ll thank you to buy me dinner first.”