Page 153 of Disillusioned (A Lay of Ruinous Reign #2)

“I’ll reinforce it with my own protections, but that will deplete all of my arcana.

” Myrddin coughed into his smoking sleeve, and the witches hurried toward the main keep.

“It will take me a bit to recover from that, and I’m afraid I’ll prove useless to you and—” The warlock’s throat bobbed, and his eyes darted down at Lilac.

“You are never useless,” Garin said, his voice unintentionally rough. A pang of guilt hit him. “You’ve been an invaluable help, and friend.” He felt terrible for the next question he’d ask. “How long will that take? Your recovery.”

“For a spell that size? Three moon cycles.”

Just then, the cat spun and scratched Myrddin in the face; he swore and dropped it.

Bisousig— Duchess —pranced right past Morwenn’s waiting arms, over Lilac’s lifeless body, up the steps and into Father Guillaume’s arms. The warlock swiped the wound off his face, and the priest scooped him up, cooing.

“ Well .”Affronted, Morwenn put a hand to her chest and squinted, just noticing Lo?g munching on a piece of kelp she’d trailed in.

“What do you want?” Garin demanded. “What is your offer?”

“The Isle of Ys has risen again,” she said simply, smiling at the instant recognition that flashed across his face.

“The sea has given it back to me, my island kingdom—my drowned jewel lost to the abyss. I’ve been shackled to this plane for several decades, but Ys has been lost to the sea for far, far longer than that.

It was broken into pieces by my father’s hand; he stole them, scattering them far and wide across the kingdom in his attempt to flee his failures.

” Her suddenly glassy eyes drifted up to Bastion, then to Myrddin.

Then, back down—with dripping disdain—onto Lilac.

“I come not as an enemy, but as a petitioner. A hopeful ally to your cause. I need help exhuming my beloved kingdom, rebuilding from ruin and rubble.”

Garin blinked, warm tears forming, the rush of his slow heartbeat flooding his ears.

“I’ve already found a lovely clothier, but now I need to find someone to forge its bones. To hammer steel where coral grows. I seek a blacksmith.”

“I cannot help you. I’m the reigning Doyen of the Brocéliande Vampire Coven,” Garin replied coldly.

“Well, yes. I’ve heard so very much about you.” A slow, salacious grin curved her lips. “You and the queen have already met Me Maouezed-Dour —my Belles of the Deep. My teeth beneath the tides.”

At the mention of the Morgen, Garin’s face blanched, his mask of composure faltering.

“When I was finally torn free from the forty-odd years I’d spent trapped in the godforsaken prison of your mortal realm—really no better than nine-hundred or so years sealed under the sea—” she continued, her tone darkening, “they were the first to speak of you two. The vampire and his princess, scrambling through Brocéliande together. They’d tried to trap you for me, knowing my reckoning was near.

” She swallowed. “Before that? Only fragments. Glimpses. Memories snagged, just beyond the veil. But now I can rebuild.”

Garin said nothing, heard nothing she said. Finally, he brought himself to bend and brush his knuckles against Lilac’s hand.

It was cold. Garin began to tremble against the slow-burning ache that would consume him, the need to tear into something—someone. He’d do it if he didn’t soon hold her, feel her pulse hammering back to life.

But the sea witch kept talking. “I imagine you’re quite the bladesmith. You have a smithing station in your Sanguine Mine, don’t you?”

“I scarcely used it. My skills are rudimentary,” he lied.

But Morwenn gave him a knowing smile. “I should travel through the Argent, pay them a little visit. Find someone else willing.”

He bared his teeth, fear and disbelief striking him even deeper. The Isle of Ys was legendary—a folktale. A thing of legend.

Then again, so was he.

“Leave them be,” he snarled, straightening.

“My Duchess has kept me well-informed, you see.” Morwenn watched Garin pick up the dagger that had clattered near Lilac’s blood-soaked head.

“My dark creatures would relish working alongside an esteemed soldier such as yourself. A daywalking Strigoi ,” she commented, assessing, “stuck in his form because… I’m guessing his own thrall is a prude? ”

Garin slowed halfway up the steps. His nostrils flared. “She gives me everything and more.”

Morwenn’s brow rose.

“And I don’t care what you need.”

“You will. Francois might be dissuaded from advancing for the time being, at least from launching into full-fledged war now that he’ll see your Daemons are openly, publicly on Lilac’s side.

But what of Maximilian? With an empire that large, I doubt such frailties would not discourage him so easily from pursuing her hand. ”

His head was pounding, his hunger pulsing to life once more—not for her body, not even distinctly for her blood. Certainly not like the overwhelming tide of urges to end her life, as the opposing end of Kestrel’s deal had demanded .

He wanted her . Wanted her for himself.

And Morwenn was regrettably right. France would leave them alone for the time being, but someone would come knocking, or snooping eventually. Lilac would not be the one to answer.

“You’ve got nothing left here but ghosts.”

Slowly, tiredly—fondly—he hummed in disagreement. “I have her.”

Henri remained sitting in the middle of the floor, clutching his hip where he’d fallen. The others had remained, too terrified to move from their spots. He kneeled so they were face to face.

Then, Garin bowed reverently, his forehead nearly touching the floor. “I have to do this.”

Henri began to sputter, to tear up, to beg. His arm rose to cover his face.

“I have to. Your life given will save her. It will bring her back; I’ve seen it done before.

Your daughter is not lost. She is fierce and unyielding, willing to listen and learn.

To grow. Eleanor is meant to lead, with or without a crown.

She’ll make a great leader one day.” Garin swallowed, glancing back at the chapel ruins.

“Somewhere, for the kingdom wise enough to trust her. She will.”

Henri was quiet for a long moment. His eyes, heavy with grief, no longer wavered. Then, with surprising strength, he reached for Garin’s hand and folded his weathered palm over it.

“She already is,” the old king replied. He gave Garin’s hand a rough shake, the tremble in his beard betraying what his voice refused to. “Take care of my daughters. All of them.”

Garin’s only answer was the tightening of his grip, and the promise in his silence.

“You won’t come back from this, Your Grace,” warned Myrddin over Garin’s shoulder. The warlock’s fingers were moving feverishly, his eyes softly shut. “The dagger won’t bring you back if I exchange your soul for hers.”

Henri offered a small smile, but his gaze was fixed on Lilac. “I know.”

The old king’s nails dug into Garin’s hand as he skewered his heart.

It was instant, the life in his eyes fading immediately. Garin yanked the Dawnshard from him, and Henri slumped back onto the granite .

Marguerite turned away, into the organ. Piper watched with wide eyes while the twins held her, as if they knew what wasn’t yet spoken.

Myrddin whispered in an unknown language, and Garin watched, fascinated, as a ball of brilliant orange flame lifted from Henri’s chest. The warlock inhaled sharply.

“What?” Garin asked, panic rising. “What’s wrong?”

“This is the third time I’ve performed such a spell, and I’ve never seen a soul flame that color.” Myrddin guided the flame over the altar, down the steps, and over Lilac.

“A life taken for exchange is one thing,” said Morwenn dryly, rooted in her spot near Lilac’s feet. “A life willingly given is another entirely.”

“Holds a different type of weight. Magic,” Myrddin agreed.

The flame sank into her chest, and her entire body came alive in an outline of warm light before fading.

Garin rose, her dagger still dripping with the old king’s blood. “I will be your blacksmith, Morwenn.” Morwenn’s head popped up. “ With conditions.”

“As expected.”

Just then, there was a shifting behind him; Marguerite had climbed down from her perch. She strode past Henri’s still-warm body and went to Lilac, kneeling and scooping her daughter’s head into her lap despite the blood soaking the fine material of her gown.

Marguerite sobbed once, brushing her hair off her face.

“Lilac will—” He was cut short by an indistinguishable sound between a sob and gasp of pain.

The queen was upright.