Chapter Twenty-Eight #2
“The earrings and necklaces, scarves and coats—”
“I know.”
“It’s so…sad.”
I collapse into her chest, and another laugh bursts free of it—wet at the end, like tears are chasing it down. “Faolan—”
“It’s feckin’ depressing is what it is. A selfish lad pilfers shite that doesn’t belong to him and gets his parents thrown onto the rocks because of his misdeeds? What kind of legend is that?”
“An honest one.” A weight slides down the back of my neck, her hand stroking my hair. She’s quiet a moment as I settle onto her lap, pressing my cheek into one of those perfect plump thighs. “You said on the ship, once, that your mother gave you your name. The Wolf?”
“Little Wolf. Faolan.”
“Oh.”
I nod, and a twinge of gratitude sweeps through me at the hitch in her breath when my beard scrapes over her skin. “I didn’t realize she’d named me until she died. She kept screaming it when the storm closed in—and my father’s. He called out to her right as he went under.”
Saoirse goes quiet, and I go still.
“I wish you’d told me. So much about you…it would have made sense if I’d known.”
My eyes burn as I press them to her skin, waiting for the hand in my hair. The scrape of her nails on my skin. When it comes, all the breath rushes out of me in one massive swell.
“I was scared to. Confused by it. I—gods, Saoirse, I don’t know how to live without the grand story. Even around the crew. Even with you.”
I stare up at her. At those eyes so beautiful I could form a thousand different songs about them before we both die.
“You were right, love. I’m a feckin’ mask.”
Saoirse’s quiet another moment, fingers trailing through my hair, then says, “Well…you were right too.”
“What?”
“To call me a martyr.”
I push against the ground to sit up, but she flattens a hand over my chest. Shakes her head.
“It’s fine—I know you didn’t mean it like you said it, but…
it doesn’t mean there’s not a grain of truth to it.
I spent my whole life sacrificing myself until now—my wants and needs—and it’s a hard habit to break.
An impossible one, with the way the soulstones… ”
“Right.” I roll onto my side and catch her hand, turning it over to study that mark again as she stares, vacantly, at a spot over my head. “I’ve been thinking about that.”
“Soulstones?”
“Aye—and the cracked one Lorcan scouted. There’s a song the Gan Ainm used to sing: ‘Drink the bones dry, oh, drink the bones dry.’ ”
“ ‘ ’Til the world cries out in madness, ’til the ceasing of the tide’—I remember.” She frowns. “But there’s something I saw in that vision. I-I think it was the Knowing Sea.”
I stop my playing. “What?”
“The Knowing Sea.” Saoirse curls her fingers tight over mine. “I was lying in the cave, examining Muireal’s ring and thinking about the relics and soulstones and where all our magic comes from, when a vision crept over me, and I saw—” She blinks. “I don’t know exactly what I saw.”
A shaky laugh tumbles free from me as I push onto my knees. “Well, don’t just sit there. Give it your best go.”
Saoirse gives me a funny look, like she’s not even sure of the words coming out of her own mouth.
But then she spills out a tale of some other world made of nebulous water—the Knowing Sea, she calls it, after the seventh goddess’s words about her own communions with the thing.
Her description of the stars’ pantomime nearly has me laughing for the sheer absurdity of it, but for the awe on her face and the thread of truth in her words.
“I left before I could see the rest, but—”
“You don’t think that was plenty on its own? Feck’s sake, Saoirse, you met the Knowing bloody Sea!”
Immediately, Saoirse buries her face in her hands with a groan. “It sounds absolutely mad when you say it like that.”
“All of this would if we were anyone else, love, but we are the Magpie and the Wolf. The Martyr and the Mask. The—”
I burst out laughing as Saoirse shoves me back into the sand, her face bright red. “I’m being serious!”
“I know, Trouble.” Rolling back to my feet, I start to walk circles around the sand. “Right. Okay. You met the Knowing Sea, and watched a play about—all right, I’m done funnin’, I swear it.” I rub at the place her heel hit my chest. “You watched…what? The gods becoming gods?”
“I think so.” Saoirse climbs to her feet as well. “All of them offered their objects and picked them up with a surge of light, but Muireal was the one who…summoned it? By cutting off her finger. And then she was given the ring and soulstone in return.”
Some of my humor fades. “So the gods’ lineage is magic, as we knew, channeling power into the relics. This still does absolutely feck all to shed light on the fact that Maccus wielded Eamon’s hammer when he hasn’t a drop of gods’ blood in his veins.”
“I know.” Saoirse groans, scooping her hair over one shoulder to form it into a braid.
A nervous habit.
I stop my pacing. “What is it?”
She stops, fingers tangled in a dark web of hair. “Nothing.”
“Saoirse.”
“I just—I have a plan. Brona and Callen are going to help me.”
“Help you what?”
Chewing her cheek, Saoirse finally lets her half-woven hair fall. “Sneak into Maccus’s tent to try and get to the hammer before—”
“Absolutely not.” My arms go liquid, falling flat to my sides. “Winds of fury—”
“It’s fine, we’ve worked it out. Callen will cause a distraction at the building site, and Brona will delay Etain from leaving the island—”
“While you go into that bastard’s tent?”
“It’s the only way we could think of to give me access to Eamon’s hammer without him breathing down my neck.” Saoirse reaches for me, touching my cheek—my chin. “If he catches me, I’ll just go along with the original plan.”
“Which is cutting yourself open. Bleeding for him.”
“Yes.” Her eyes dart between mine, blues and greens swirling into a wounded gray. “I thought…I thought you’d be proud of me.”
“I am, it’s just—”
I stop, seeing the hurt bloom across her face.
Biting back another swear, I scoop her hands up to my mouth and lay kisses along her knuckles until some of that worry and disappointment leaves her brow.
“I’m sorry, love. You’re right. I am proud of you, and I trust you.
It’s just…” Truth telling is harder than it looks, but with effort, I force out the words.
“I hate that I’m not there to help you, and hate that you’re taking this on alone. ”
“I know.” Saoirse twists her hand gently until it’s wrapped tight around mine. “And I wouldn’t risk it if Maccus weren’t suspicious now, or if Etain wasn’t trying to leave, but we have a plan together and a decent excuse if I get caught.”
I groan. “Please tell me it won’t be that you’re there to seduce—”
Saoirse shoves me away. “Why does everyone think that? I’d just tell him I was there to apologize and make amends—gods have mercy on your and Callen’s perverse minds.”
My sides ache from laughing and, stars, does it feel good. Before Saoirse can get far, I snatch her close by the waist and bury my face in her throat. “I’m sorry.”
She pushes against my chest, glaring up at me though there’s some relief blended in. “How sorry?”
“Desperately sorry.” I kiss the fragrant dip behind her ear. “So sorry, I could spend hours making it up to you.”
Saoirse laughs, soft, as she clutches my back. But the way she holds me isn’t playful, and even I’d have to admit my hands have begun to shake. So instead of pressing it, I just hold her tighter—until some of the horror and panic of the night bleeds away.
“You’re going to the Merrow, then?” Saoirse whispers after a long moment, winding her arms around my neck.
“Aye. And you’re going to the Stone King’s den.”
“Why does my option feel safer?”
“I’ve gone to this tavern plenty of times before—and Rian’s not much of a threat, if you can recall.” My smile fades when I feel Saoirse’s dropping, arms hooking low at the dip of her waist. “It’ll be fine.”
“I know, just—remember your promise.”
“Darling, I’ve made so many of those, you’d have to—”
“Come back to me.” Saoirse draws back enough that I can look into her eyes, see how she means it even as her waist expands and shrinks with a long, trembling breath.
I tuck her against my chest, nestling my chin into her hair.
“I will. I swear it.”