Chapter Twenty-Two Fia #2
He told me of all that had happened after the Longest Night.
Eala, standing on the beach as Emain Ablach crumbled.
Wayland removing my collar. My transformations.
Weeks of hard travel over harder land as Eala’s pursuit grew ever more terrifying.
The Barrens, the Cnoc, the draiglings. The group’s decision to reforge the Treasures that had been lost. The slow research and frustrating failures.
When he related the events of Laoise and Sinéad’s confrontation with Eala at the Hazel Gate, I sat up straight in the tub.
“She said what?” Although my eyes never strayed from Irian’s face, I knew without looking that my glow had intensified, turning the bathwater to quicksilver.
“Laoise or Sinéad should recount this,” Irian said, reluctance slowing his words. “But Eala threatened you. She swore that if you did not join her in the human realms in two months, the lives of those you loved would be forfeit.”
“I see.” My fingernails tightened on the edge of the bath, digging into the smooth stone. Fury lashed the inside of my skin, molten as Talah’s metal. “How long ago was that?”
“About six weeks.”
Panic joined my fear, whittling away my uncanny calm until I prickled with sharp thorns of agitation. I remembered my father’s words to me in the Deep-Dream, moments before he’d disappeared forever into the cottage thatched with birds’ wings.
Find your sister. You are her balance. Only you can bring her to the light.
I stared at my hands, glowing like stars beneath the frothing surface of the bath. Then I curled them into fists.
I had just defeated one enemy. Surely I was owed a single afternoon with the man I loved before plotting to defeat another.
I lifted my hands to a hank of my sopping hair, forced my tone easy, and said, “And how in Donn’s hell did this happen?”
Irian took one look at the damp, ragged tress of burnt hair I was holding and threw his head back. Before I knew it, I was giggling too, our joined laughter echoing through the bathroom.
“Draigs are apparently not as precise as they could be when it comes to mowing down legions of the undead with living fire,” Irian finally managed, rueful. “I did scold Laoise.”
“Good.” I crooked my finger at him. “Now go find me a sharp knife.”
He froze, all his humor evaporating. “Surely not—”
“Cut to it!”
He reluctantly obeyed, moving into the sleeping chamber. The Sky-Sword mewed a traitorous little complaint as Irian unsheathed it.
I stared, askance. “Are you cutting off my hair or my head?”
“I know no sharper blade.” He looked downcast. “May I speak in defense of your hair?”
“You may.” The water was starting to get cold. I quickly finished my bath, scrubbing my body and face and kneading my scalp with my fingertips. “But I may not listen.”
“I like your long hair.”
“So did I.” I stood, the air bracing after the relative warmth of the tub. Irian handed me a towel, which I used to gently dry my hair. I once more indicated the burnt patch, which stretched from one of my ears halfway down my back, a mess of crimped, blackened frizz. “I don’t like this. So go on.”
Irian’s distress was plain as I turned my back to him, hiding a smile.
The man could battle a ravening ollphéist or a dozen armed Gentry warriors but couldn’t bear the thought of cutting my hair?
He hesitated one long moment before gathering my hair in his fist, firmly but gently.
The Sky-Sword kissed the back of my neck, cold and humming.
In one swift jerk, Irian pulled the keen blade through the hair gathered at my nape.
The first sensation was one of perfect lightness—as if a thousand pounds had been lifted off my shoulders. I sighed at the short strands brushing my neck and falling along my jawline, then turned to Irian, who was holding the discarded ends of my hair like a wet animal carcass.
“Well?” Sudden shyness cast my gaze to the floor. “Has this made me unbearably loathly?”
Irian’s eyes grazed my face, my hair, my collarbones. He twitched his finger, and a concentrated burst of air swirled around my head, ruffling my hair until it settled dry above my shoulders.
“Quite the opposite. I fear it is unexpectedly fetching.” Simmering anguish glinted deep in his dazzling eyes. He hid it once more beneath humor. “Do I have your permission to keep these cast-off strands?”
“Why?” I narrowed my eyes at him. “Is it not unwise to gift the Folk even a single strand of your hair? A whole handful must be downright dangerous.”
“You are correct,” he mused. “I could command you to dance reels until dawn. Or sing out all your deepest secrets.”
“You’ve heard my singing voice.” I raised my eyebrows. “That would be a punishment for us both.”
“But worth it. For all the delicious secrets.” He plucked out a hair and held it to the light, considering. “What shall I ask you first?”
“Oy!” I swiped for the tresses, but Irian jerked them out of my reach. “Give it back!”
As I chased him briefly around a room carved from black rock glinting with silver and gemstones, I allowed myself to forget, for a few moments, that I could not touch the man I loved.
It was harder to forget that somewhere—far beyond these walls, these lands, this realm—my sister was going to war.