Keeper of Storms (The Fallen Fae #3) - Jenna Wolfhart Page 0,25
right. The High King is with his sea fae family. No doubt he plans to use their ships to return to his court. He has his own battle to wage, I’m afraid.”
“And Reyna is with him.”
Druid Aric and Segonax exchanged a weighted glance. Aric cleared his throat. “Reyna might decide not to go with the Air Court’s king. She could come to our aid.”
Lorcan’s hands fisted. “I bloody well hope not. She could get shot out of the sky.”
And Seelie would find a way to stop her. That bloody pact would keep them apart, even if the hidden wood fae ships did not.
“I don’t think we should count on Princess Reyna flying in to save us,” Priest Tighe argued, echoing Lorcan’s own thoughts. “The low fae of this city are starving. Hoping for a miracle rescue will not feed them. If she does come, then we have an incredible ally. But if she does not…we are doomed.”
Lorcan twisted toward Priest Tighe. “And what would you recommend?”
“Surrender,” he whispered.
A shiver went down Lorcan’s spine. Surrendering to the wood king was not an option he wanted to consider, but he could not pretend it wasn’t an option at all.
Segonax huffed, glaring at the priest. “Careful there, Tighe. You’re only saying that because the wood king serves your god and our king does not. Your words could be considered treason.”
Tighe closed his eyes and clutched his book to his chest. “That has nothing to do with it. I fear for the citizens of this realm. All I want is what is best for them.”
Nollaig growled and stalked toward him. “And your own king’s death is what you think is best for them, eh?”
“Nollaig,” Lorcan warned. “He’s free to speak his mind. To save this city, we need to hear every option we have.”
Nollaig whirled toward him, her cloak whipping around her feet. “Surrendering means handing this city, this realm, and this throne over to the worst king I have ever seen during my lifetime. There is no telling what he will do with that kind of power, but I do know one thing. He will kill you, Your Highness. He will not let you live. The wood king wants to sit on that damn throne, and he can’t, not so long as you breathe. He’d stab you in the chest the moment he laid eyes on you.”
“You truly believe he’d kill me himself? And risk being cursed?”
“Trust me,” she muttered with a bitter laugh. “The threat of a curse will not stop someone who truly wants a king off a throne.”
Lorcan shot her a dark look. She had been the one to kill High King Bolg Rothach. No one quite knew what would come next for her. It had taken years for the curse on Thane’s father—after he had killed the Dalais king—to fully come to roost. He hoped, for Nollaig’s sake, that it would not come sooner than that for her.
The doors to the throne room creaked open, and Heremon, the former king’s financial advisor, poked in his head. Lorcan had allowed the skinny male to continue his role in the court, partly because he seemed to have little loyalty toward anyone but himself and partly because there was no one else to do his job.
“The farmers have returned from the Misty Wastes, Your Grace,” Heremon said in his high-pitched, nasally voice.
Hope lifted Lorcan’s chest. “Send them in.”
Heremon pushed the door wider, and in strode three shadow fae swallowed by grey rags that matched the tint of their skin. Their cheeks were hollow; their eyes were haunted. Lorcan’s stomach twisted around itself, squeezing into knots. They all wore downcast expressions, shoulders sagging beneath the weight of their hunger.
These did not look like the triumphant males who had found scores upon scores of potatoes in the abandoned fields.
They shuffled up to the edge of the dais and knelt before him, their bony knees digging into the hard stone floor.
“Rise.” Lorcan shifted uncomfortably on the throne. “Tell me what you’ve found.”
They rose in unison on wobbly legs. The male on the left cleared his throat, swatting a mass of dark, curly hair out of his eyes. “We found some potatoes, Your Grace. It took us all night to dig through the dust, but we found some.”
He held up his hands. Dirt and char clung to his skin.
“That’s music to my ears,” Lorcan said with a smile. “How many potatoes did you find?”
The farmers exchanged uneasy glances, and Lorcan’s stomach flipped once more. Ah, here