“I ken it, lad,” Silvan said, sounding suddenly weary. “You’ve changed since last I saw you.”

Dageus said nothing. He’d managed to avoid looking directly into his father’s gaze since the moment Chloe had fainted, taking only cursory glances. Betwixt the heightened awareness of the thirteen and the sexual storm that was raging hot and unsated inside him, he wasn’t about to look him in the eyes.

When he’d carried Chloe abovestairs to his bedchamber, tucked her into bed, and whispered a soft sleep spell over her so she would rest easy through the night, Silvan had followed him and Dageus had felt his measuring regard hammering at the back of his skull.

He’d nearly not been able to let go of her. And though he’d not look at his father, he’d been grateful for his presence, for it had made short work of the dark thoughts he’d been having about bringing her only partially awake and—

“Look at me, son,” Silvan said, his low voice implacable.

Dageus turned slowly, careful not to meet his gaze. He took measured breaths, one after another.

His father was standing in front of the hearth, his hands buried in the folds of his cobalt robe. In the soft light of dozens of tapers and oil globes, his white hair was a halo about his wrinkled face. Dageus knew the origin of each line. The grooves in his cheeks had appeared shortly after their mother had died, when he and Drustan had been lads of fifteen. The wide creases on his forehead had been worn into his skin by a constant raising of his brows as he pondered the mysteries of the world and the stars beyond it. The lines bracketing his mouth were from smiling or frowning, never weeping. Stoic bastard, Dageus thought suddenly. No one wept in Castle Keltar. No one knew how. Except mayhap Silvan’s second wife and Dageus’s next-mother, Nell.

The lines feathering Silvan’s deep brown eyes, winging upward at the outer edges, were from squinting in low light as he labored over his work. Silvan was a fine scribe, possessing an enviably steady hand, and had devoted himself to recopying, with exquisitely embellished carpet pages, the older tomes whose ink had faded o’er time.

When he’d been a lad, Dageus had thought his da had the wisest eyes he’d ever seen, full of special, secret knowledge. He realized he still thought that. His da had never been toppled from his pedestal.

His gut clenched. Mayhap Silvan had never fallen, but he certainly had. “Go ahead, Da,” he said tightly. “Roar at me. Tell me how I failed you. Tell me how I’ve been naught but a disappointment. Remind me of my oaths. Throw me out if you’re of a mind to, for I’ve no time to waste.”

Silvan’s head jerked in sharp negation.

“Tell me, Da. Tell me how Drustan never would have done such a thing. Tell me how—”

“You truly wish me to be telling you that your brother is less of a man than you?” Silvan cut him off, his voice low and carefully measured. “You need to be hearing me say that?”

Dageus stopped speaking, his mouth ajar. “What?” he hissed. “My brother is no’ less of a—”

“You gave your life for your brother, Dageus. And you ask your father to condemn you for that?” Silvan’s voice broke on the words.

Much to Dageus’s horror, his da crumpled. His shoulders bowed and his lean frame jerked. Suddenly his eyes were glistening with tears.

Och, Christ. Dageus cursed silently, bearing down hard on himself. He dare not weep. No cracks. Cracks could become crevices and crevices canyons. Canyons a man could get lost in.

“I thought I’d never see you again.” Silvan’s words echoed starkly in the stone hall.

“Da,” he said roughly, “yell at me. Berate me. For the love of Christ, scream at me.”

“I can’t.” Silvan’s wrinkled cheeks were wet with tears. He skirted the table and grabbed him, hugging him fiercely, pounding him on the back.

And weeping.

If Dageus lived to be a hundred, he never wanted to see his father weep again.

It was some time later, after Nell had appeared and the whole awful matter of tears had been repeated, after she’d bustled about preparing a light repast, after she’d retired again to check on his wee brothers, that the conversation turned to the grim purpose of why he’d returned.

Speaking in brisk, detached tones, Dageus updated Silvan on all that had transpired since last he’d seen him. He told him how he’d gone to America, and searched the texts, only to finally admit that he was going to have to ask Drustan for help. He told him of the strange attack on Chloe, and of the Draghar. He told him they’d discovered the texts about the Tuatha Dé Danaan had disappeared, and that it seemed intentional.