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“Then why haven’t you healed her yet?”
The scent of Lyrena’s blood wasn’t as overpowering as it had been in the first minutes after we’d slid down into the caves. It had clotted and there was a thick cloth tied around her thigh to stem the flow. Isolde had done something. But Veyka wasn’t in the mood.
“You are not in battle, Majesty. We have the time to tend to her carefully.”
“What do you know of battle? I do not intend to linger here.”
But Isolde merely smiled at Veyka. “Has Taliya given you leave already?”
Veyka gnashed her teeth. She may lack the elongated terrestrial canines, but I had no doubt she could rip the faerie’s throat out with her teeth if she wanted to.
My feral, vicious mate.
Need stirred. It had been a few days.
Ancestors, why weren’t there doors on those adjoining chambers? Veyka would never let me fuck her with a thousand faeries listening in—
“Heal her.” A command from a queen.
Isolde’s smile grew, but she inclined her head. “Of course, Majesty.”
She handed Veyka the earthenware pot she’d been holding. Veyka was fast—if she hadn’t been, the contents would have sloshed all down her front.
But Isolde wasn’t even looking at Veyka. All of her attention was on Lyrena. She lifted her tiny, childlike hands—except for those lethal claws—and skimmed them over Lyrena’s wound.
Lyrena arched back, clearly in pain.
But just as suddenly, her body sagged. Relief washed over her face. Then her eyes widened.
A collective gasp.
Isolde wasn’t manipulating wind to hold the skin in place as she stitched it, or fire to cauterize the wound. Her hands were glowing—bright white.
Isolde of the White Hands.
Not because of her white skin, but because of the glowing white magic. Healing magic.
I hadn’t realized such a thing existed—it was impossible. It wasn’t elemental or terrestrial magic. It wasn’t even Void or Ethereal. Those were supposed to be legends, but at least we’d heard of them.
This was entirely different.
And completely in keeping with what Taliya had said.
The Faeries of the Fen may be some version of fae, like the elementals and terrestrials. But their magic was totally different—ungoverned by the laws of nature we’d simply learned to accept somewhere over the last seven thousand years.
As quickly as the glowing had come, it winked away. Isolde removed her hands, revealing an expanse of slightly pink skin. But whole, knitted together. Not even a scar.
She held her hands out to Veyka.
“Taliya is my cousin,” Isolde said as white flames sprang from her fingertips, heating the little pot to boiling before I could count to ten. “Our families have… differences of opinion about loyalty.”
“She called you a young fool,” Veyka said.
“She is my elder by a few hundred years.”
“Are you a fool?”
The faerie turned to face Veyka, tilting her head to the side. Then she looked at me, gave me the same perusal. “I hope not.”
