Dartinian?” Raywen’s sparkle is dim now, just a dusting of the glow she had earlier.
We sit around the dining table, though there’s no food on it. Silmaran is laid out, poultices all over her wounded body. She’s breathing. But she won’t wake.
“I’m sure. Like I told you, Phin frees slaves. Sort of like Silmaran. He makes a mockery of the Catcher every chance he gets.”
She presses her palms to her cheeks. “Oh, dear.”
“You sure you can’t reverse the spell?” I shoot a glance at Phin, his piggy tail bouncing jauntily as he paces back and forth between some of the injured slaves.
“I’ve never done that sort of magic. I mean, I’ve done glamours. Changed hair colors, granted beauty, things of that nature. But I’ve never transformed someone. Not like that.” She bites her lip. “What if I can’t change him back?”
“The spell will wear off.” Parnon uses his enormous mitt to gently wipe a bit of blood-crusted hair from Silmaran’s forehead. He’s almost as doting as Chastain. To make matters worse, Eldra and Nemar never returned from the fight. I silently send my pleas for their safety to the Ancestors.
“I don’t know if the spell will dissipate.” Raywen clenches her eyes shut. “Maybe that’s right. Maybe it’ll go away.”
“Is he ready yet?” Chastain hovers at Parnon’s elbow. The high fae hasn’t left Silmaran’s side. “She shouted down the streets, rallying everyone until she finally gave out.” He strokes her hair, pride in his eyes, but sadness, too. “My fighter. What have they done to you?”
I lean back and blink away the threatening tears, then scratch under Gareth’s chin. He purrs. I can’t tell if he can’t change back, or won’t. Maybe it’s easier to stay in his feral form. “I think Gareth used all he had to save me. I was almost gone. So it took a lot.” I hate to say it out loud. It sounds selfish.
Thunderous booms sound from somewhere nearby, and a wild cheer goes up into the falling night.
“If we don’t get her fixed up and out in the streets, we may not survive until tomorrow.” Parnon rocks back and forth on his feet. “They’re attacking the alchemist shops. Those explosions are just the beginning. If they unleash—”
“She’ll wake up.” Chastain’s voice cracks, but he clears his throat and continues, “She’s going to wake up. We need her. She knows how bad we need her, and she’s so much tougher than anyone else I know.”
“Is there no one else? No healers?” I survey the slaves tending to each other, several high fae children huddled in the back of the room—all of them feeling the same unease growing inside the city. So much anger and pain was bottled up for too long. Now the cork is gone.
“Everyone’s used up. The healers are spent.” Chastain waves at the injured slaves. “This is just a tiny fraction of those in need of help, and we don’t even have a count of the dead yet.”
“I can help her.” A trilling sibilant voice, one that might haunt my dreams, hisses through the room.
We all turn to the fountain.
“Yes, please.” Chastain steps forward.
“But I need something in return.” The sea fae blinks, her slit pupils narrowing, then popping wide again.
Parnon’s hands turn into fists as he stomps to her, water pouring along her silky hair and making her scales glisten. “Heal her now.”
Another creepy fish blink. “I will, if you will make me a promise.”
“Anything,” Chastain presses.
“Not you. Dry is your land. Dry is what you know.” She opens her mouth as if tasting the air, the rows of sharp teeth drawing a low growl from Gareth. “I need someone who has felt the rolling waters, the fresh streams, the salty tides, the stormy nights.” She turns her eyes on Raywen. “You, pixie. You will do. You smell of snow and night and frozen lakes full of delights. But you’ve also been on the sea, your body sparkling in the deep. Promise to me that you will return me to the Ocean of Storms, and I will heal Silmaran.”
“Me?” Raywen looks as surprised as I feel.
I puff out my chest. “I’ve been in the ocean, you know.” Okay, I’m a braggart. Everyone knows this.
“Almost food for a kelpie, you were.” She turns away, her gills opening and closing under the flashing water. “The pixie. That is who must return me to the sea.”
The pig—err, Phin—snorts and prances up. His hooves tip-tap on the tile in an adorable way.
The sea fae eyes him