Page 147 of Soulgazer

The water breaks around me, and just like that, the world is all noise and rough edges and fury again.

“She’salive—let me go! Damn you, Nessa—”

“Look at her, mate. You want to go as mad as her old man?”

I glance down and swallow a cry at the sight of my skin glowing like the goddess’s—or perhaps it’s just a reflection off the streams that disappear into the forest and climb the mountain like wingedcreatures of mist above. My right arm no longer bleeds, the wound closed and marked by a silver scar. A beautiful, macabre match for the woad wolf on my left. The ring—a relic I now know was carved from the goddess herself—wavers with light and shadow on my finger. Slowly, I stand and step free of the stream.

My legs buckle like a newborn foal’s, light leaving my body until I am a creature of earth again.

Faolan wastes no time breaking free of the others to haul me into his arms. His lips make quick passes across my brow, temple, cheeks. Then he curses and pushes me back, trembling fingers delving into my hair as he locks my gaze with his. “Saoirse, what happened?!”

My lips are numb, my tongue heavy and head thick. But there is one last thing I need to do before Muireal releases the moon. I lean into his chest, gently taking his hand. I feel his broken soul cry out.

“Love?”

I shake my head and twist in his arms, fumbling for the edge of the stream. I don’t know if there is some ritual I am meant to follow, a sacred song or gesture to complete. All I can manage is one whispered, desperate “Please” as I spread my hand across Faolan’s palm and lower them both into the water.

The humming returns, gentle at first, and then powerful enough to shake my bones. If I’d found it painful to bear the regrowth of flesh on my hand, it is nothing to the weight of knitting a broken soul back together. Agony laces down my spine and tears from my throat in a wretched sound that Faolan buries against his chest. His hold on me tightens in spite of the danger—in spite of whatever pain he must be feeling himself as the pieces of his bargain are stripped away, returned to their source.

It is endless, and it is a breath. And then it is over.

When I open my eyes, panting and barely able to hold on to him, I see it. The mark still wraps over his palm, gleaming with light, but the edges are black now. The colors fixed.

And its twin lies in a perfect reflection across my own palm.

“It’s done.” I bring his hand to my lips and kiss the very center. “You’re free.”

But his frown is fierce as he pulls me farther into the shield of his body, staring not at me, but at all those who just witnessed the awakening of the goddess once again.

“You released him.” Maccus’s voice splinters the calm, his face contorted by wariness and curiosity. “Youreleased a soul from a bargain.” He shakes his head, disbelief thick in his laugh. “No. No, it’s not possible—Kiara, stand down.”

Her grip tightens on the bowstring. “I don’t think I will. Not when you’re threatening the life of a king.”

Maccus rears back, then laughs well and truly, the sound full-bodied and razor-edged. “What are you playing at? Faolan’s no king—”

“He’s wed to a queen. Or have you forgotten the laws of the Daonnaí—the very ones that granted you a throne? We are all bound to follow them, are we not?”

Maccus’s entire demeanor shifts like a quaking of the earth, and I hold on to Faolan’s arm as it locks over my waist. Kiara smirks, then lowers her bow just a touch and turns her face to the side. She never removes her eyes from the Stone King. “Tavin. You are the seanchaí I assigned to Faolan’s ship, though my cousin does like to play the role of storyteller often enough. Tell us, how did the Daonnaí determine who was fit to rule? How does a rí or ríona claim their crown?”

The quartermaster emerges from the pack, his long hair loose around his shoulders, a cut bleeding on his brow. He staunchlyavoids Faolan’s gaze, which shifts from shocked to hostile in seconds. But I can’t understand why.

“Under the first light of rebellion, at the end of the godly age—”

“Tavin!” Faolan snaps. “Not one more word.”

Tavin stares at him, brow knotted and hands trembling. But it’s Kiara who responds.

“It’s the law, Faolan. He’s sworn to speak what’s true.”

“Hang the law—Tavin, we made you awolf.”

“I…” The quartermaster rubs at the spot where his tattoo lies. “I know. I’m sorry.” He turns his head. “Under the first light of rebellion, at the end of the godly age, the Daonnaí agreed that mortal rulers would take over the gods’ seats on their respective islands, guarding the lands and people within. Whoever best presented the traits of the isle, and the gifts bestowed by the god’s original form—the strength of a mountain, the brilliance of dawn—would prove worthy of their crown.”

“Turncoat!” Faolan swears. “Bloody turncoat. After ten years, you—”

“You knew all along he was mine,” Kiara says, glaring as she dismisses Tavin with a wave of her hand. “And would we not all agree this is a gods-touched isle?” She turns toward the mountain peak behind us, the blanket of newly grown trees, and then back to me. “And that this is a gods-touched girl.”

Their eyes rake over my flesh—I can feel them. I know they’re there, but my own gaze is steady on Faolan, watching a thousand stories play across his face.