Aye, that it had. The castle had surpassed all of Drustan’s expectations. If ever a man had received proof of his brother’s love, it had been in the gift of their home. Then Dageus had topped even that gift by sacrificing himself to ensure Drustan would survive to live in it. But Dageus had always been like that: though not a man to whom soft words came readily, when he loved, he loved to a dangerous point. ’Tis both his greatest strength and weakness, Silvan had oft remarked, and truer words had never been uttered. He had the wild, true heart of a child, in the body of a jaded man. Intensely guarded, unless he chose to give it, yet once given, it was given completely. Without thought to his own survival.

“’Tis even more magnificent than I’d imagined when we worked on the plans,” Drustan said. “I can’t thank you enough, Dageus. Not for this. Not for anything.” How did one thank a brother for sacrificing his soul for one’s own happiness? My life for yours, his brother had chosen. Thanks weren’t possible.

Dageus shrugged. “You drew the sketches.”

Ah, so he will pretend I meant only the castle and evade deeper issues, Drustan thought. “You built it. Gwen loves it too. And we’ve nigh finished having electricity and plumbing installed.”

There was so much they needed to talk about, and naught of it would be easy to address. After a moment’s hesitation, Drustan decided to confront it directly, for he suspected Dageus would talk circles around it.

Crossing to the liquor cabinet, Drustan splashed Macallan into two glasses, and handed one to Dageus. Thirty-five-year-old single-malt scotch, only the finest for his brother’s return. “So, how bad is it?” he asked matter-of-factly.

Dageus flinched, a small, hastily contained reaction, but there. Then he tossed back the drink in one swallow and handed him the glass for a refill. Drustan complied, waiting.

His brother sipped more slowly at the second one. “Worse now that I’m back on Scottish soil,” he said finally.

“When did your eyes change?” It wasn’t only his eyes that had changed, Dageus moved differently. His most minute gestures were carefully executed, as if he could contain what was in him only by constant vigilance.

A tiny muscle leapt in Dageus’s jaw. “How dark are they?”

“They’re not gold anymore. A strange color, nigh like your drink.”

“They change when it starts to get bad. When I’ve used too much magic.”

“What are you using magic for?” Drustan asked carefully.

Dageus tossed back the rest of his drink, rose, and went to stand before the fire. “I was using it to obtain the texts I needed to see if there was a way to . . . get rid of them.”

“What is it like?”