Fire and Bone (Otherborn #1)(80)

I hold back tears, reaching out, but then I hesitate. I could hurt it more with my touch. It’s foolish to have grown so attached to a simple owl. But this is the only soul in this place that doesn’t make me wish for horrible things.

“It’s dead,” the king says, coming up on foot behind me. “A hunter’s shot. Perhaps it went for the intended prey.” He glances back at the trees, watching for the hunter.

The tears on my cheeks turn to steam and anger fills me, melting the snow beneath me. “Be silent,” I snap. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He kneels down beside me. “You feel so much for the creature?” he asks, his tone curious.

“Of course, he’s my friend.”

The king turns his attention to the bird. “So you have come to love my gift.”

I nod, my chest aching. It seems everything I care for turns to ashes.

The king shifts, then reaches out, pulling the arrow shaft from the flesh with a swift yank.

I choke out a sob at the violent movement, grabbing his arm. “Don’t touch him!” No doubt the beast would pull apart my bird right in front of me.

He grips my wrist, moving it away, then places his other palm over the owl’s body and closes his eyes, muttering under his breath in the ancient tongue: “Broken vessel, weave back into place, the thing that was taken . . .” His voice is a low hum.

I go still, listening in wonder, realizing what he’s doing. He’s calling the spirit back to the bird. A thin silver fog lifts from his arm and wraps around the owl, and I watch the tear in its breast fold back into place as he heals the flesh with his own ability to heal himself.

Several feathers regrow. The smell of rich earth and warmth fills the air, steam rising in a hiss from Fionn’s form. The snow melts around the bird.

Its wings twitch, its talons flex. And suddenly the bird is twisting back upright, flying up into the branches. I cover my mouth, saying through my fingers, “Holy Mother. What have you done?”

The king hunches over, obviously depleted. “I stopped death for you, my love.” And then he collapses into a heap in the snow.





THIRTY

FAELAN

It’s late into the morning and Sage hasn’t emerged from her cottage yet. Marius hasn’t come by to see how she’s doing yet either. Which is maybe a good thing. I feel like I need to talk to her first before I tell him my concerns about Kieran and the new torque. Before I confess what I’ve already kept from him, like the fire, and that kiss.

I knock on her cottage door around ten. No answer.

I sniff the air for smoke, but I don’t smell anything except the overcast day—the morning dampness of the plants, the crisp water from the lagoon pool. I search for her power, for the connection I should have with her after the ceremony last night, but I don’t sense anything. I’m not sure how to feel about that. I know it’s working to a point, since I felt her anxiety at the tribunal, but I still can’t tell how solid the connection is. It’s possible her power is rejecting it.

I turn the knob, and the door clicks open as I call into the entrance, “Sage?” I step inside, looking around. The dim sunlight gives a gray tone to the room. I walk toward her bedroom door, deciding I should just wake her. But as I move through the small living room, I hear her breathing.

She’s there, sitting on the floor, legs curled under her, head resting on the coffee table. Sound asleep.

I move closer and see she’s lying on top of the scroll that I gave her. Her hand is resting beside a half-full cup of coffee.

I crouch at her side and touch her shoulder. “Sage, wake up.”

She sighs but doesn’t open her eyes.

“Sage.” I brush her hair from her forehead and see she’s drooling on the ancient script. Good thing it’s protected by magic. I grip her shoulder and shake it gently. “Wake up, Sage.”

She gasps, “Lailoken!” and sits straight up, eyes wild. “I need your help, Lailoken, I . . .” She pauses her panicked words and blinks, looking around. “What happened?” Her eyes find me, and she squints, reaching up to wipe the drool from her lip. “Faelan?”

Shock fills me. How could she possibly know that name, Lailoken?

She covers her brow with her hand and moans. “What the hell?” She sits back against the couch. “That was nuts. I dreamed . . . I think I was dreaming—what was it?”

A dream about an old monk she’s never met? Could she have a memory of the other night when I took her to the Caledonian wood?

“Can you tell me anything about it?” I ask carefully.

She squints again. “I was . . . well, oh wow, I can’t remember. Damn. I was definitely freaked out, though. My heart’s racing.” She puts her palm to her chest and picks up the coffee, then cringes and sets it back down. “Ugh, I’m so tired. Whatever it was, it was probably because of everything I read in this scroll. I was up all night.” She yawns. “The part about her killing that guy and being put in the nunnery had me messed up in the head.”

“You don’t remember any of the dream? You said the name Lailoken.”

“Perfect. I’m making up gibberish names in my sleep?”

“He’s a monk.” A hidden monk that only certain people would know.