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.
Silvan frowned at that. "Tell me, lad, did Drustan check beneath the slab?"
"Beneath the slab in the tower? The one on which he slumbered?"
"Aye," Silvan said. "Though to date I've put but two texts there, I've been planning to find aught I could that may be of help and seal them away beneath it. In anticipation of that, I left clear instructions for Drustan to look there."
Dageus dosed his eyes and shook his head. Had this trip been unnecessary? Might he have avoided all of it? Probably. In a few more years, it was quite likely that Silvan would have gathered up every tome he'd been searching for and tucked them beneath the slab. They'd been there in the twenty-first century the whole time.
"Where were the instructions? In the letter you left for him?"
"Aye."
"The same letter in which you told him what I'd done?"
Silvan nodded again.
"Did you spell it out, or say something cryptic, Da?" Knowing his father, it had been cryptic.
Silvan scowled. "I said, 'I left some things for you beneath the slab,' " he replied peevishly. "How much clearer must a man be?"
"Much more, because apparently Drustan never looked. 'Tis my guess he was so distraught by the news your missive contained, that he crumpled the letter and threw it away. From the way you worded it, like as not, he thought you'd left mementos or some such trifles."
Silvan looked sheepish. "I hadn't thought of that."
"You said you've been searching the tomes. Have you discovered anything yet?"
A wary expression flickered across his father's features. "Aye, I've been looking, but'tis slow work. The older texts are much more difficult to read. There was no uniformity of spelling, and ofttimes they had little grasp of the alphabet."
"What about—"
"Enough about the texts for now," Silvan cut him off. "There'll be time enough on the morrow. Tell me of your lass, son. I must confess, I was surprised to see you'd brought a wee woman with you."
Dageus's heartbeat quickened and his veins were filled with that peculiar icy heat. His lass. His.
"Though she seemed to be having a hard time fathoming your use of the stones as a bridge betwixt the centuries, I sensed a strong will and fiery mind. I suspect she'll come around without too much fuss," Silvan mused.
" 'Tis my belief as well."
"You haven't told her what's wrong with you, have you?"
"Nay. And doona be telling her. I'll tell her when the time is right." As if there would ever be a "right" time. Time was his enemy now as never before.
A silence fell then. An awkward, ponderous silence filled with questions but too few answers, rife with unspoken worries.