“Did you use a poisoned blade?” His mouth tastedof violence.
“West . . .”
“Did you?!”
“She was going to kill you,” Noren insisted with a hard swallow.
A guttural roar burst from Westley’s chest as he lunged at Noren, tackling him to the ground. Noren barely had time to right himself before Westley pummelled him again.
Rage and helplessness drove him past seeing any reason.
The two Fae fought like animals, Westley’s ferocity overcoming any twin pain he felt as Solveig lay dying. With Noren rolling on the ground trying to recover, helplessness overcame him as he felt the lifeforce seep out of her.
His soul began to ache.
Conalle turned his attention from the tousling males to Solveig and began to clean and wrap her wounds. Helle loomed over him as if expecting him to be able to do something for her rider.
Rolling Solveig onto her side, Conalle assessed the injury fully. The gasp he tried to hold back hissed through his teeth at the sight, his stomach roiling.
“Hang in there, Sol,” he whispered when her eyes fluttered.
“Helle ...” she muttered. The horse nudged Solveig’s outstretched hand with her nose before turning her wordless stare on Conalle.
“I’m not a healer, what am I supposed to do?”
Helle snorted and continued to stare.
“If you have any bright ideas, please share.”
The horse jerked her head and let out a small whinny.
“I don’t want her to die either, but the poison is spreading quickly.”
Helle leaned her head closer to Solveig, smelling her. She whinnied again at Conalle, who stared blankly at the animal, the sounds of Noren and Westley’s fight escalating in the background.
“I don’t speak horse!” Conalle cursed under his breath.
Helle huffed, nudging Solveig and then the grass in an obvious attempt to get him to understand. Conalle looked between the witch and the ground, puzzling out what the horse was trying to tell him.
“Talking to a horse ...” he muttered. His head snapped up to meet Helle’s stare. “Mortals use healing plants!” Helle gave a jerk of her head.
“West!” Conalle yelled. But the prince didn’t look up from where he had Noren pinned on the ground, his hands battered and bruised, matching the discolouration forming on Noren’s face.
“Westley Erikson, Solveig will die if you do not get your perfect ass over here right now,” Conalle ordered. That made Westley turn, earning him a punch to the jaw from Noren. The prince scrambled to his feet, dropping Noren in the mud in his rush to get to her.
“Can you save her?” he asked, out of breath.
“Youcan save her.”
When Westley didn’t respond, Conalle glared down at him. “If you stop fooling around and pay attention. It’s been much longer since I took a healing class, and I cannot remember. What plants do mortals use to heal themselves with?”
The answer came automatically, hidden knowledge he didn’t realize he still had. “Watercress and chervil.”
“Okay, good. Now, please, kindly scrape Noren off the ground and go find me some of those. And hurry.”
Westley leaned over Solveig, stroking the back of his hand down the side of her face. His heart clenched when no current, no shock of magic, came from her cold, clammy skin. The absence was chilling.
“Hang on, Solveig. Please.”
