Chapter Thirty-Two Wayland #2
The scent of the overgrown flowers was intoxicating, but beneath it lurked something darker—a coppery tang, like blood.
They did not linger, hastening their pace as the wind whispered tantalizing secrets.
That night, they camped on a hill overlooking the rose field, their fire flicking low.
They had nothing to eat or drink, and for the first time, Idris sat closer to Wayland than was strictly proper—their shoulders brushing and their boots touching.
Wayland held his breath and tried not to look at the other man head-on—as if he were a wild animal who might spook.
His fingers twitched with the urge to reach out and touch Idris, but he twined them together and thought of what he’d said the night Idris had fixed his nose.
I’ll wait.
The folkway saved them a week of walking.
Soon, Wayland noticed evidence of the corrupted wild magic billowing dark and damaging above the ruined city of Murias.
It hummed, tense and terrible and tempting, slicking along his limbs and whispering in his ears.
He wrapped his hand around Fáilsceim’s haft, but that only made things worse—the hum became a shout, throbbing feverishly through his mind and expanding and contracting with the force of his breathing.
They passed through a swamp where the trees wept tears of amber sap and the mud underfoot was black and fetid, sticking to their boots like tar.
Strange lights floated above the water—wisps of sickly green and mutilated violet—beckoning them deeper between the trees.
Idris followed them. When Wayland caught him by the arm and spun him away, his gaze was wide and slack with wonder.
Wayland shook him, hard, his panic fading when the other man’s eyes slowly cleared.
But instead of showing relief, Idris’s expression warped with disappointment…
fury… overwhelming sadness. Tears welled in his eyes, stained yellow and black by the strange lights flickering and flitting through the swamp.
“What is it?” Wayland asked, alarmed. Hog leapt from his shoulder to Idris’s, wrapping her chubby limbs around his neck and laving the tears from his cheek with her forked tongue. “What’s wrong?”
But Idris swiped angrily at his eyes, settled the sheet of his hair carefully over his face, and trudged onward through the swamp.
“Nothing,” he ground out. “Let’s get out of this place.”
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 he felt it—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, skirting the 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. ”
“I’m sorry.” Wayland knew a little of what it meant to be ignored and passed over by family who were meant to care about you.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Idris said, with a shrug.
“My parents had no right to expect their elder children to assume their parenting duties. And their shortcomings did not end there. I was too young to understand at the time, but Laoise and Elen were fighting a constant battle, too, one not of their own making. And I was one of many weapons deployed in the war.”
Wayland frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Perhaps it is with good reason most Gentry families limit themselves to one child at a time.” Idris ducked his head.
“Even at the tender age of four, I knew my parents did not treat my sisters the same. Elen was praised for her obedience, while in the same breath, Laoise was criticized for her willfulness. They expected Laoise to lead, burdening her with duties and responsibilities, while Elen, despite her obedience, was shielded from the harder tasks. Whether my parents did it knowingly or not, they constantly pitted my sisters against each other.”
Idris passed a hand over his forehead, smoothing his length of hair. His dark eyes were shiny—whether with tears or memory, Wayland didn’t know. His fingers twitched with the urge to comfort Idris. He curled his hand into a loose fist.