Smolder (Crown of Fae #3) - Sharon Ashwood Page 0,14
Lost. Lost.
Shade rot. Leena’s knowledge of the infection was sketchy, but she knew the spreading mark mirrored a gradual corruption of mind and soul. No wonder he was acting strangely.
She couldn’t force her imagination to go further than those bare facts. Without thinking, she reversed direction and ran home, tears obscuring her sight. By the time she pounded up the stairs to her room, she was gasping for breath.
Fionn had been right about one thing—Morran had been a mighty general. While the Kelthian tribes held the southern mountains, Morran had defended the lands east of the Serpent River. Songs were sung of his deeds throughout Faery, recounting his armies' ferocity and the deadly elegance of his magic—magic strong enough to defeat the Shades. Between the Kelthians and the Phoenix Prince, the Shades had been caught in a tactical vice, and Morran had squeezed them without mercy.
Then something had happened, and Morran had vanished.
Her people had lost everything.
Leena closed the door of her room, then leaned her back against it. She was shaking now, the storm of her grief and rage finally finding a physical outlet. She slowly sank to the floor, legs refusing to hold her up any longer.
Fionn.
There was one other thing she knew about the rot. Whatever she’d told her brother, there was no cure, no medicine, nor any spell that left the patient alive. She’d seen the Mother treat such patients. Prayer and isolation could slow the disease, but life as a desert hermit was the best Fionn could hope for. Isolation would kill him as surely as the corruption.
Another wave of terror struck her, but this time her training took over. She stilled her mind, concentrating on the sounds of Eldaban’s streets. Music. Voices. The clip-clop of horses as they passed. Slowly, her heartbeat returned to normal. Panic was the enemy of thought.
The temple—at least the temple in Eldaban—had no answers. There had to be a path forward, something she could try. Other experts. More power. A miracle.
She had to fix this.
Her brother had called Morran one of the greatest sorcerers and warlords of all time. Maybe he had been before he’d begun smashing tables and roaring like a wounded tiger. All the same, the Great Temple was loyal to the Lord of Tymeera. If anyone could command a cure, it was the Phoenix Prince. His royal blood carried exceptional magic.
Or it had.
Now Morran was a madman. A dead man if the Mother’s prophecy came true.
A lost cause—and yet she’d seen a flash of who he’d been, called forth by the Flame. Could she summon that spark long enough to save her brother?
Leena closed her eyes, willing her tears to stop. She wanted nothing to do with the fate of princes, but what if Morran held Fionn’s future in his hands?
Was the Phoenix Prince a possibility—and a peril—she couldn’t ignore?
5
“Lord Dorth is agitated,” Juradoc observed as he leaned back against a pile of richly embroidered cushions. “You broke his high table.”
“Do we care?” Morran asked.
They were no longer in the palace, but in an encampment outside Eldaban, among the fields of stunted grass. Juradoc’s tent was the largest, appointed with the best of everything—from wine to Pomandine silks to silver dishes plundered from every corner of Faery. The slaves kneeling in the shadows were forest fae from Celador—small and pale green, with vines tangled in their long dark hair.
The carpet beneath their feet was worth a bag of gold—enough to buy a village—but the general thought nothing of tossing it on the bare dirt. With all those black robes, Morran mused, the Shades must have a horror of dust.
“We do not care about Dorth,” Juradoc said. “However, it is expedient not to upset our allies more than necessary.”
Morran’s mind had wandered, and it took a moment to remember what they were talking about. The lord of Eldaban had wept over the destruction of his feast. Morran tried to feel sorry, but the fat little slug had sided with the enemy.
So what am I? Morran wondered, but, for once, he knew where he stood. He was a prisoner, for all that he was free of literal shackles. The chains that bound him were magic, not iron. But was he supposed to know that?
Anxiety stung like needles of ice piercing his mind, but he kept his features still. Juradoc was studying him, the violet glow of his eyes bright beneath his hood.
“It was a shame about the roast lamb,” Morran said, feigning a casual shrug.