Queen of Blood and Vengeance (Secrets of the Faerie Crown #4)

88. Guinevere

88

GUINEVERE

“The white hart is supposed to be harbinger of good fortune.”

“And she…”

“She ripped it apart. Right there, in the middle of the throne room of the goldstone palace. I have lived there for a hundred years, and I’ve never heard it so quiet.”

Deep, throaty laughter joined in with a lighter, melodious chorus. Two females.

Well, at least the Ancestors had gotten that right about the after realm.

But Gwen suspected that the pain in her side meant she was not actually dead. Though from the way that pain radiated through her abdomen, across her back, and down into her thigh, she could also guess that it had been a near thing.

“She is remarkable,” Sylva said. Wood creaked beneath her, as if the woman had shifted in her seat.

“More than,” the second voice agreed. So familiar. Tired, very tired. The words rasped out of her throat, changing the tenor of her voice just enough— “And so damned stubborn,” Lyrena added.

The elderly woman laughed again.

Sylva was alive. Lyrena too. Gwen supposed the least she could do was crack open her eyes.

“This isn’t my bed,” Gwen managed, her own voice disturbingly weak.

A hand pressed a cup into her hand. Water—she sipped at it carefully, knowing that if she drank too much, too fast, she’d see it all again in a few minutes.

“We felt a wound this dire deserved an actual bedroom. I moved his Exaltedness from Ferndale down into the pantry,” Sylva explained, settling back into her seat.

Gwen did not even try to lift her head. But they’d propped her up on a few pillows, and that was enough to allow her to look around the room. They’d dragged the wingback chair and its wooden counterpart over from the window. She opened her mouth to scold Lyrena for lettering the elderly human sit in the latter, until she actually saw Lyrena.

She looked as terrible as Gwen felt.

The entire left side of her body was burned, an angry, raw red that turned Gwen’s stomach. Even her perfect golden hair had been seared away on that side, leaving behind a lopsided braid. What parts of her body weren’t covered in burns were coated in blood and black bile from the succubus she’d battled.

Gwen’s voice shook. “You need a healer.”

Lyrena tilted her head to the side. Deep purple bruises marred the skin beneath her eyes, but those were the least terrible of her injuries. “Isolde is focusing on healing humans. Once she healed us to the point where she no longer feared we’d drop dead on the spot, she ran off.”

“Good,” Gwen managed. Good for her, at least. Good that the humans were getting treatment. The fae might be in pain, but barring the loss of a head or too much blood, most of them would heal eventually. But Lyrena… Ancestors, she must be in so much pain.

Which reminded Gwen of her own. She needed a poultice, or some tea, or even some of the aural the elementals loved so much.

Maybe it would be more manageable in her dark lioness—

“I can’t shift.” She shot upright—couldn’t, fell back down. Sylva was at her side in a second, the speed of her movements belying the gray in her hair and crinkles around her eyes.

“Only you would try such a thing,” Lyrena groused. “We just stopped that knife wound in your back from bleeding.”

From the state of Lyrena, Gwen knew she hadn’t been doing anything other than sitting in that chair. But she understood the implication. She didn’t try again.

“Give it time,” Sylva advised. “Time is the only medicine that remains the same, no matter what realm you’re in.”

Lyrena snorted. “Yes, because Lady Guinevere is known for her patience.”

She was known for her patience. And composure. And she was going to argue with Lyrena about it—when she was less tired, and in less pain.

Sleep, that was how she’d escape both the pain and the two females determined to drive her to distraction.

Gwen closed her eyes—but not in time to miss Lyrena’s wink or the flash of her golden smile.