Page 88 of The Lure of Wolves and Whispers

“Not like this.”

There’s a shudder of remorse across Cashel’s smooth features. The tight set of his jaw that follows, though… that’s pure resignation. His mind is made up.

He looks at me intently. “Ever since my mother died, he’s gone too far.”

Does he mean with banishing the Martyr? Banning magic? Or with how the High King handled the uprising? I don’t dare ask.

Cashel’s voice drops, and there’s a rough hunger in his eyesthat straddles the line of hope. “Eireann had a golden age once. We could bring that back.” His hand finds mine, just barely brushing the soft skin at the base of my wrist. “A better king could make things right,” he vows. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

Is it?

I want the magic that’s ours by right. I want what my mother was willing to risk everything for.

I want a life withhope.

I want our people to build something better than what we have now.

Old Ones, I want it so badly, I can taste it.

I swallow hard, wrestling with the twist of fear. There’s one thing I need to know from him before I risk saying anything more. “And Cymrea?”

Two words. They’re nothing yet everything at the same time. Any possibility of what could be hinges on his answer.

If he sees a place for Cymrea in the new Eireann he wants to build, there’s no hope for us.

A volatile shadow twists behind his eyes. “Cymrea,” Cashel says in a deadly soft voice, “can getfucked.”

Relief surges deep in my chest. Old Ones, I think I might understand now why the Whisperers want the High King dead and would accept Cashel in his place.

He isn’t perfect—far from it.

No king ever could be.

But if there’s a chance he would be better than his father, that he would protect our right as an isle to decide our own future—then maybe the Whisperers can save whatever magic might be left in the Seven Wells while he keeps the Cymreans from annexingus. Maybe we can convince Cashel to let us use whatever magic is left in the Seven Wells when the famine comes.

An uneasy silence settles in the scant space separating us. Not a truce—we’re a million miles from anything resembling that. But something shifts. Between the traitorous words we’ve offered one another and what information he’s managed to piece together about me, we each hold the power to tear the other’s world down to the ground.

My stomach picks that exact moment to growl loudly.

Blood flushes my cheeks, and a small smile softens the hard edges of his mouth.

“To be fair, you have been unconscious for three days. You must be starving.”

“A little,” I admit. “And I think I need…”

“Bathing chamber’s through there.” He nods toward a door in the far side of the room. “I’ll get you some food. While I’m gone… just promise you’ll think about what I said?”

I promise him nothing.

A promise to a prince would be a dangerous game.

But I don’t look away when his navy eyes hold mine, even when he brings his hand to the curve of my cheek.

I draw in a shaking breath—but the touch doesn’t come.

Cashel pulls his hand back, brow furrowing again as he clears his throat. “I’ll be right back.”

“Wait.” I don’t know why I need to know right now, but I do. “The others in the test…”