Lorcan
Sand scratched his back as he rolled over and draped his arm over Reyna’s body. Her skin was hot, and sweat dripped down her neck. His heart pulsed as he drew her closer to him. The Ruin was wearing her down. Even Wingallock’s presence did not seem to soothe her the way it always did.
She was stronger than anyone he’d ever met, but she was not indestructible. If she was right, if she’d used up the last scraps of Seelie’s powers, eventually the Ruin would kill her. He did not think she had much longer.
All she seemed to care about was getting back inside Findius and killing the king. But none of that would matter if she was dead.
Reyna was not as selfish as he was. She cared about Tir Na Nog in a way that defied the truth of mortal condition. Over and over again, she had sacrificed everything to save her people. To save them all.
He did not think he had it within him to do the same.
Gently, he unwound himself from her body, stood, and collected her into his arms. She didn’t even stir. Pale purple lined her eyes, and there was a frailness to her he’d never seen before. Even Wingallock seemed exhausted. He had perched on a nearby rock, nodding off while the rush of the waves drowned out the world beyond.
He had ignored it all for awhile, but no more. He had to find a way to save her.
Lorcan carried her up to the tower and tucked her into the bed of his guest quarters, a magnificent room the lords had always kept available for kingly visits—back before the exile when that kind of thing happened frequently.
He left her to rest while he aimed his feet toward the tower library where he knew he’d find a druid willing to speak. On his way, he woke Nollaig. She might enjoy her secretive nature, but it was time she came clean. About everything.
The library was small and dark, lit only by a single candle. Cobwebs clung to the leather spines. He could not help but think Eislyn would hate how unkempt it all was.
“Right.” He crossed his arms. “I need to know everything you can tell me about the Ruin, the Namhaid, and Seelie’s magic.”
Nollaig shifted uneasily on her feet. “I see you’re done acting as though you think I’m normal.”
“We both know you’re not normal, Nollaig,” he said. “And you’ve made no attempt to hide it from me.”
“I’ve also made it clear I don’t wish to speak about my past with anyone.”
“I don’t give a single toss about your bloody past,” he said, his voice rising despite his intention to present a calm, kingly aura to everyone else. Inside, he was falling apart. With a sigh, he straightened his shoulders and tried again. “I know you have things to hide. You don’t have to share any of that with me. Just tell me what you know. It’s important, Nollaig. It might be the only way to save Reyna’s life.”
Silence whispered out from the depths of Nollaig’s cloak. She turned toward the other male in the room. “What’s the druid for?”
“Knowledge of the Dagda,” he muttered. “I thought he might be able to explain why Seelie’s powers are so destructive.”
Druid Annic frowned. He was a small, bowed fae, almost as hidden in his robes as Nollaig was. His voice was like the rustle of parchment in the wind. “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about Seelie. I didn’t even know there was a god with that name. It makes sense, of course. But all I know are the teachings of the Dagda, and none of those tomes mentions this.”
Lorcan scowled and turned back to his old friend. “That leaves you, Nollaig. What do you know?”
Sighing, she leaned back against the table. “I don’t know as much as you’re hoping. In my lifetime, I’ve heard many prophecies about the future of this world. Some of them are steeped in truth. Others seem to be nothing more than fantastical nonsense.”
“And this whole Namhaid business?” Lorcan asked with a raised brow.
“I never put much stock in it.” She shrugged. “It relies heavily on Motcha’s Axe, a weapon that has long been lost in the flames of the Fire Court. For someone to get their hands on it, they would have to go in search of it in those ruins. But there’s nothing there. The realm is flames and ash.”
Lorcan shifted on his feet, and the timber floorboards creaked. “So, you’re saying the Dagda was wrong? That he created this magical storm all for nothing?”
“I’m saying that I don’t necessarily believe everything a magical storm whispers into someone’s mind.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“It might not be helpful, but it’s the truth. Prophecies mean nothing. There’s the one from the Sea Court that speaks of the Ghaisgeach, the hero of the world, who rides in when the ice melts and the seas overflow. There’s the other from some old books I once read in the Wood Court. They speak of two sisters, one a hero, the other an enemy. None of this has yet to happen. Who’s to say any of it is true?”
“Forget the prophecies then,” Lorcan said, trying to ignore the knowledge that Nollaig had once wandered the entire continent. “What can we do to get this thing out of Reyna’s body?”
Nollaig was silent for a long while before answering. “You’re not going to want to hear this.”
“Just tell me.”
