Page 10 of The Mortal Queen

“She’s yours,” Galad said, much to Aisling’s surprise. “Whatever you covet, my lord will give you.”

Aisling’s smile faded, averting her eyes and searching her surroundings for the fae king. She found him weaving in and out of the trees that bordered the field in which they rode. Stopping only to remove the gloves from his hands and press his palm against the bark of the pines. His mount danced nervously each time its hooves crossed into the shadows of the wood. The fae king peered into its depths nevertheless, his great axes strapped to his back as if they could and would be used at a moment’s notice.

Once the fae king was satisfied with whatever he’d been searching for, his attention redirected to the procession. But before his eyes could meet her own, Aisling quickly turnedaway, straightening her gaze up ahead.

He’d scarcely spoken a word to her since the evening prior. It seemed unlikely he wanted anything to do with her, married or not. Aisling wasn’t certain what she’d expected. To be eaten? To be tortured? Raped? Burned alive? But certainly not left alone. For this was no normal arrangement. They were not truly man and wife, or in this case, Aos Sí and wife. Especially since they hadn’t consummated the marriage. This was nothing more than a symbolic union, a matter of politics. The fae king owed her nothing. Wedding or no wedding, by blood, they were born to loathe one another.

Between two snowcapped mountains, their procession came to a stop. It took five knights to set up Aisling’s tent, an unexpected gesture she was most grateful for. As much as the prospect of sleeping beneath the stars titillated her curiosity, she doubted the hard ground or wet grass would be conducive to a good night’s rest.

Nevertheless, she found herself unable to sleep, glaring at the ceiling of her tent and fighting off tears shed for her family as well as dreams—nightmares––of being hunted, eaten alive, and cooked over the fire the Aos Sí sat around. There were no females in their procession any longer. It was only males that surrounded Aisling now, a variable that struck more fear in Aisling than she would’ve liked. The only men the mortal queen had ever been allowed to be alone with were her brothers, her father, certain members of the tuath, and at times Dagfin. Now, here, she was, surrounded by the enemies of her kind, great bestial males capable of grinding her bones between their teeth. Of transforming her into a mouse or roasting her over a spit.

Aisling wrenched her eyes shut, forcingherself to focus on the songs they sang just outside her tent, sitting around the flames. They sang lullabies, strange lullabies Aisling had never heard before. But they were sung with a particular enunciation, suggesting they were not merely fanciful or lyrical melodies but rather keepers of greater narratives. Tales from their ancient past.

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise to Aisling that these savages had also collected centuries of tradition, of culture, of folklore to spread and enjoy when the moon leaned closer to listen. Nevertheless, Aisling allowed her ears to drink in their beauty, every lilt of their male voices intoxicating and softening the rage in her belly. The sorrow.

When they weren’t singing, they laughed, startling Aisling with their boisterous guffaws, all of it foreign and incomprehensible. Another thick, impenetrable barrier that alienated her from her newfound subjects. Subjects that no doubt despised her as much as she despised them. Perhaps one day she’d learn to speak Fae, shrinking the vast void that lay between herself and these beings.

Without warning, the curtains peeled open, the flapping of the canvas against the valley’s wind echoing into the tent. Aisling bolted upright, peering through the darkness. A large shadow stood at the entrance. Immediately she identified him by his great height and smell—fresh pine, wet leaves, smoke from the fire outside.

“You must be hungry,” the fae king said, padding further into the tent, soundlessly. Aisling shivered at the rumble of his voice––smooth and deep and inexplicably lovely. “There’s food prepared outside.”

Aisling could smell it, the succulent scent of meat cooked over the flame, the musk of charred edges and smoke. Against her own volition, her stomach growled. She’d eaten nearly every hour since the morning she’d bid Tilren farewell, but never did it appear to slake her newfound appetite. Even when offered fae food.

Silence spread between them, Aisling appraising his outstretched hand. Even in the darkness, she saw how large his hands were, but to her surprise, they were elegant—long, slender fingers tattooed in an ancient language better left forgotten.

“My knights won’t hurt you,” he assured, interpreting her hesitation as fear. Nevertheless, he took a step nearer, approaching as if Aisling were a bird prepared to take flight.

Rationally, Aisling knew they wouldn’t harm her. Not if they were interested in tearing the peace treaty to shreds, and that seemed unlikely considering all they’d done to follow through with the union in the first place. The political tether between the mortals and the fair folk would keep her alive for as long as she was deemed a necessary symbol of their fragile unity. But fear was rarely rational.

“Unless you run,” he added.

Aisling swallowed, paralyzed in the darkness. Aisling had been prepared, groomed, and trained for the days leading up to their union, the union itself and the consummation to take place that night. But no one, not her handmaids, not her clann, not her mother, none had prepared her for the following day, the life that would follow that evening.

“My name is Lir.” His eyes twinkled, glowing like a wolf’s amidst the tent’s dark cavity.

Lir. She’d never heard the name before. She repeated it in her mind till she’d memorized it on her lips, wordlessly pronouncing it.

Names had power. Even mortals knew that.Ensorcellment, some called it. An ability of the fae to enslave those who’d freely given their names to the fair folk.

“Aisling,” the mortal queen replied, more confidently than she felt. For Aisling knew,ensorcellmentor not, she was already bound to this fae. “You may call me Aisling.”

One way or another she’d need to find the courage to walk amongst them. To not live her life in terror. Orat the very least, learn to cope with the terror. This was her purpose after all, her sacrifice to Tilren, and she wouldn’t disappoint her family.

Aisling ignored his outstretched hand, making sure to avoid his touch as she brushed past, conceding to the invitation. Behind those piercing eyes, he studied her every move. If he was aware of her efforts to distance herself, he said nothing. Only held up the curtained entrance to the tent, bathing Aisling in his scent.

“Think twice before you consider using that dagger.” Aisling jolted, startled by the heat of his breath as she passed.

How had he known? Ever since Iarbonel had entrusted Aisling with the blade, she’d done her best to conceal it. Had slipped it into her sleeve the instant the canvassed doors had opened moments before.

“Or any other time for that matter. And if you plan to run, we’ll hunt you down quicker than a wolf catches a wounded animal,” he added.

“It is because I thought twice that I carry the dagger with me at all,” Aisling blurted, perhaps foolishly. It was unwise to provoke an Aos Sí much less a fae king. Especially one who Aisling was to…live with? Perhaps they’d keep her as a prisoner unbeknownst to the mortal world. In some rancid dungeon accompanied only by the rats.

Nevertheless, perhaps more unwise than provoking an Aos Sí was walking amongst the enemy unarmed, union or not. She’d thought twice about the dagger as Iarbonel had slipped it between her fingers and realized it was the most sensible way to protect herself. The only way. An ember of hope that she’d survive amongst the fair folk. So, she steeled herself against Lir’s warnings, continuing out of the tent, undeterred. After all, it would be Lir who decided whether or not she need use the dagger.

The night was not as dark as she’d anticipated. Stars lit the endless seas of midnight blue with radiant, twinkling light.She’d never beheld stars so bright nor so many. Above her were rivers of starlight, bathing in the milk of galaxies. The lights in Tilren must have washed them away, dulling their luster before it met their mortal eyes, for Aisling had never beheld the night sky so.

In some ways, she understood why the wilderness and man were destined to stand at opposing ends. Why the wilds were so hostile against the mortals that carved their buildings, raised their cities, paved their roads on the skeletons of what was once an agrestal kingdom. Only appreciating nature when it fed them, sustained them, and burning it when it did not.

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