Reyna’s heart thumped. A part of her wanted nothing more than to throw her face into the stream and gulp down the magic, letting it fill her body with its immortality and strength. But she’d made that mistake before. And it had cost her everything.
“What’s the catch?” she asked, taking a step back.
“There is not catch. It’s yours to drink if you want it. Nothing bad will happen to you if you do.”
“The last time I was given Seelie’s power, I had to strike a bargain.”
Queen Morgan cocked her head. “Where was this?”
“Inishfall.”
“Ah.” She nodded sagely. “You journeyed to the birthplace of the gods where Seelie and Unseelie are stuck in an eternal war. Unseelie was likely playing a game of power over you. Nothing could be gained there, not without a loss.”
Her words shot an uneasy chill across the back of Reyna’s neck. “How is that any different from here?”
“Dadga brought his Fomorian power here. It was a gift. He imbued the lands with it. The six sources scattered throughout Tir Na Nog hold a concentration of that power. You can drink it here, freely. That is a far different thing than going to the gods and asking them for help.”
Reyna gazed at the stream. So much light, so much shimmering silver. There was no darkness here. The deep, terrible thing she’d felt in the depths of the pit had been engraved into her mind forever. And she didn’t feel that from the stream. Some of that darkness had been felt before they’d stepped through the curtain of rain. She wondered if it was meant as a warning. A way to keep curious intruders away.
“What exactly happens if I drink it?” Reyna asked.
“Seelie’s magic will spread through you. For a time.”
“So, it’s temporary. The same as Inishfall.”
“This is the realm of the fallen fae now,” Queen Morgan said sadly. “Magic, outside of these walls, will only ever be temporary until after the Cleaving of the World.”
Reyna’s head jerked up. She’d only heard that term once or twice before, and it was always in her dreams. “How do you know about that? When does it happen? What does that mean?”
Alarm flashed across Queen Morgan’s face. “How doyouknow about it?”
Her heart pounded. Queen Morgan’s gaze sharpened to a painful point. “Things are beginning to make terrible sense, and I daresay I have not felt this kind of fear in well over a century. Tell me, Reyna Darragh. Have you ever heard of the Namhaid?”
Reyna’s breath whistled in through her nose as she took a large inhale.
“I see.” Queen Morgan took a step back. “You need to drink the stream, Reyna Darragh, and you need to drink it now.”
Her head pounded. Her vision seemed to blur.
She swallowed hard. “What’s going on, Queen Morgan?”
“The Cleaving of the World is upon us. The time has come to protect this world against Unseelie. Which means you need to drink the magic now. If you are who I think you are, this power will remain in your veins for a good long while. Long enough for you to stop the curse from spreading.”
Reyna didn’t hesitate any longer. There was something in the Queen’s voice that shook her very soul. Even her bones felt like ash, and her blood turned to iron, thick and hot and wrong. She dropped to her knees and leaned over the waters that gurgled down the dirt mound and toward the hidden village at the center of the world.
The scent of it flooded her senses. It was everything and nothing at the same time. Fire and ice. Wind and rain. Salt and mud. And shadows. She reached in, her fingers skimming along the surface of it. Magic danced along her skin. Light filled her soul. With a deep breath, she plunged her face into the cool flowing river. The soft waves splashed into her eyes, and the waters drenched the edges of her hair that dipped into it. Her lips parted, and a sweet, thick liquid coated her tongue. She drank it deeply.
Life bloomed inside of her like a million flowers on the first day of spring. Magic filled her mind. Power stormed through her veins. She took one last gulp and then pulled herself away, gasping at the pure electricity of it.
“Wow,” a voice whispered from behind her.
Reyna turned. Her sister’s wet hair hung around her shoulders, clinging to her silken dress. Eyes wild, she stood, shaking. Water dripped down her chin, splashing onto her neck.
“Glencora,” Reyna said slowly, a sense of dread chasing away the newfound hope. “Please tell me you didn’t just drink from this stream.”
“Of course I did,” she said, her eyes as wide and luminous as the moons. “There is power here. I heard the Queen say so herself. Shouldn’t we all drink this stream? What if it’s the only way to stop this Cleaving of the World you’re both talking about.”
The rush of wings snatched her attention away from her sister. An owl spun through the village, but the feathers were orange, not white. Wingallock still sat with the others. He perched quietly on Nollaig’s shoulder.
