Page 72 of Soulgazer

He folds me into his chest like I’m a rag doll. The last of my strength ebbs away as an ugly sob rips from my throat. “I’m s-s-sorry—” I try to pull back, horrified by my lack of control, but his hand forms a cradle to guide my head to his shoulder.

“Calm yourself, Trouble. You’re safe now. The danger’s past.”

I gasp against his throat, tasting a pulse beating as frantically as my own. “You’re not dead. I thought I saw—”

Faolan buries his lips against my hair, crooning the one phrase that could break me.

“Legends don’t die.”

I cry like I haven’t in years, pressing my mouth hard to his shirt to stifle the harsh sounds as he pulls me closer. Some distant partof my mind screams at me that there is still an enemy inside, someone who could plant his sword in my back even as Faolan’s hand spreads over the exposed skin. But Nessa races past, her steps coming to an abrupt halt as she makes a choking noise.

“Eabha’s mercy. Faolan, you’ll want to see this.”

The gentle weight lifts from my head, and I squeeze my eyes shut. His warmth is the only thing distracting me from the pain in my hand—the terror of what’s next to come. But at Faolan’s sharp curses, I force myself to look.

Nessa and Lorcan hold the blond assailant by either arm. His skin hangs off his cheeks in tatters, the flesh beneath turned purple-black in places. Whatever is left of his eyes is no longer covered by lids. They’ve been burned away.

Iburned them away.

My knees crumple beneath me, dark spots crowding into my vision. Faolan has to catch my arm to keep me from falling, turning my face away from the sight. “Easy, love. You…”

His grip falters. Fingertips sweep across my bare shoulders where my shirt tore down the back.

Where two spirals of the reverse triskele curl in stark white lines beneath my skin.

“What— Feck, yourhand.”

His touch shifts from my elbow to my wrist, lifting my useless left palm. I fix my gaze on his face as a harsh chide passes between his lips. “You couldn’t have just stabbed the bastard?!”

His eyes have never been so dark. Not even when we kissed—gods, was that only a few hours ago? But despite the joke, not a hint of laughter remains. I don’t recognize this face. It’s brutal, cold, unforgiving, and for a split second I wonder if his fury is directed at me. I couldn’t blame him if it was.

I should have asked for fighting lessons ages ago or the second I boarded his ship, knowing the dangers ahead.

I should have told him about the caipín baís tattoo, instead of leaving myself blocked. Worthless.

I should have—

“Get him on deck with the rest. I want him alive.”

The words barely sound human. Nessa and Lorcan don’t hesitate to drag the blond upstairs, but Faolan already has an arm round my waist. “You’re coming with me.”

Twenty-Seven

We’ve barely made it through the doorway of his bedroom when my stammering begins. “Faolan, I am s-so sorry. I t-tried to stop him on my own, I swear, but—”

The words collapse on my tongue as Faolan sweeps a thumb beneath the tender mark left on my cheek by the attack. “Saoirse. I never want to hear such a thing from your lips again. All right?” His gaze travels down my body to my ruined hand, teeth grinding together. “You don’t have a damned thing to be sorry about. Just—sit here a minute. Actually, no, sitthere.”

He steers me to a tall trunk spilling over with cloaks from every isle and then returns to the bed. It takes one great heave to lift the mattress onto his shoulder, and then Faolan unhooks two of the ropes beneath to reveal a panel of wood notched in the center. With his teeth, he turns the smallest ring around on his pinky and fits its textured face into the hole. A single twist, and a compartment cracks open.

“Here we are.” Faolan lifts free one of the smallest bottles I’ve ever seen, made of what appears to be frost-cloaked glass. Wrapped partially in leather to keep it from damage and capped with cork, it seems plain enough until he passes it from one hand to theother, and the liquid inside swirls from milky white to a brilliant blue-green. My heart stops.

“No. How did you…? The spring’s been dried up for a century.”

“It’s been in the family about that long.” Faolan drops the mattress back into place and returns to my side, light emanating from the glass with every step. “My mother was one of the guardians of Leigheas. Or was supposed to be, anyway.”

Once, the Spring of Leigheas on the Isle of Frozen Hearth was welcome to anyone who could manage the climb, was able to cure near every ill so long as it was taken before death. Families with sick children or wives fearing the worst from labor would send relatives to fetch a vial of the gods’ blessing and bring it home. Failing that, they could hire someone like Faolan to do it for them.

But as one queen died and her greedy son took over, it became near impossible to obtain. Taxes on the waters tripled in the span of a year, and guards were posted along the perimeter. Within another growing season, even those few who lived upon the mountain itself dared not approach.