Keeper of Storms (The Fallen Fae #3) - Jenna Wolfhart Page 0,129

the forest floor. A waterfall cascaded into a nearby pool, lush green leaves reflected off its crystalline surface. The castle was set up on a distant hill that overlooked the city. The only way to reach it was across a thin rope bridge that dangled between two looming cliffs.

Reyna trailed into the Tower of Thorns, home to the Wood Court throne, while Lorcan went to talk politics with the lords in one of the many empty halls. He would have to divvy up some land and make some promises. She did not envy him. Now that the war was over, the internal bickering would commence.

Court. Reyna rolled her eyes. She wanted nothing to do with it. Perhaps she would find some shadow fae who wanted to learn how to fight. She could teach them Shieldmaiden things, maybe even get them dodging arrows in time.

With a nod, she trailed through the abandoned tower. She liked that idea. Training others to be strong. She wouldn’t even have to leave Lorcan’s side to do it. There would be plenty of shadow fae who wanted to take up residence here, in the capitol. And if the wood fae had a problem with that, she had a feeling they wouldn’t for long. Lorcan held the Seat of Power now. He was their new High King. The Conquerer of Thorns.

The throne loomed before her as she made her way through the Great Hall. It reminded her of the Air Court throne, covered in gnarled vines and branches that twisted together and climbed up the wall. It had been built into an ancient tree, and the roots went deep. A carpet of grass stretched across the floor, dotted with blossoms of pink and gold.

The hall looked as though it hadn’t been used for quite some time. The tables were dusty, and dirty plates had been left behind. Frowning, she strode up to the throne. The wood king had pulled a table up beside it. It was covered in papers. And blood.

Scrunching up her nose, she picked up the top piece of parchment with the very tips of her fingers, careful not to touch the blood. Even now, she wanted nothing to do with it.

The words on the page were in a foreign language but one she recognized.

“Fomorian?” she murmured, her eyes catching on a few familiar words. Tuath, the word for north. Deigh, which meant ice. Most she didn’t understand.

She’d always wondered why the fae had inherited certain Fomorian speak. Only recently had she put the puzzle pieces together. The Dagda had brought his own customs and language along with him when he’d first walked these lands. Over time, it had transformed into what it was now.

But why would the king have a Fomorian book? How had he even gotten his hands on it?

With a frustrated sigh, she lowered it back onto the table. She couldn’t read it. Most of those words were nothing but gibberish to her. But one word had leapt off the page.

Namhaid.

Surely it didn’t mean anything. It was just a coincidence. Besides, maybe Ulaid Molt had found details about the Namhaid and had realized that was who he was. And now he was dead. There was no longer anything to fear.

The Namhaid was gone. The Ruin was gone. The war was over.

Everything was fine.

52

Lorcan

After his meeting with the lords, Lorcan found Reyna wandering through the Tower of Thorns. Her eyebrows were pinched together, and tension still clung to her shoulders. She’d carried it with her all the way from Findius. Her cheeks were flush with color, and her muscles had once again begun to flesh out. She was recovering well from her ordeal, but something still followed her around like a storm cloud.

It was as though the Ruin had not fully let go of her, even if she insisted it had.

“Reyna.” He edged up beside her and slung an arm around her shoulder. “Why are you staring at the throne like it might jump up and bite you on the face.”

“Maybe it will,” she muttered.

His lips twitched into a smile. “That seems unlikely.”

“I found some books the wood king left behind.” She pointed at a pile of scattered papers and books propped up on a table beside the throne. “One of them mentions the Namhaid. And something about a prophecy, but I can’t translate most of it.”

“You said you thought Ulaid Molt was the Namhaid. Maybe he figured that out, too.”

“Maybe.”

She didn’t sound convinced.

“Reyna.” He gently placed his hands on her shoulders and