Page 103 of The Mortal Queen

At the mention of such an Unseelie, Dagfin cursed, the volume of his vulgarity and the rumble of his chest startling Aisling.

“Is this how you protect your queen? How do you defend the treaty between our kinds? You’re familiar with the bloodlust of the Unseelie so it is either ignorance or spite that she was so near to them at all.”

“It was necessary,” Galad replied calmly. “We needed an audience with the Unseelie and so we managed it.”

“And since then?” Nemed asked, studying Aisling through narrowed eyes. His form loomed over her, shadowing Aisling from the candlelight. “When else has she used it?”

“Scarcely but when needed.”

Cautiously, Nemed took one of her hands, turning it over so it faced palm up. And at the gesture everybody in the room tensed, eyes pinned to the flesh that had nearly cooked them all alive.

“Are there other mortals like her, Father?” Iarbonel asked. “Others who can use magic?”

“No,” Annind answered for the fire hand, “it’s not possible. Unheard of. A violation of the original curse.”

“Fascinating,” Nemed whispered, eyes still glazed with tears. Swimming with something Aisling had never encountered from her father, a man who was always calm. Collected. Even in the face of great horrors. But now, something stirred within him, slipping through the pores in his face till she could nearly smell it.

“What has become of you, my raven?” Her father asked just as Aisling fixed her eyes upon him. “You’ve stolen something that isn’t yours, haven’t you?” He smiled, his voice that of a father’s reading bedtime tales. Gentle, warm, indescribably tender, a tone Aisling would’ve wrapped herself in as a child if she’d ever heard it.

“It wasn’t stolen,” Aisling managed, pulling herself up so Dagfin needn’t hold her straight. “It was given.”

To her surprise, Nemed laughed a laugh so gleeful it disturbed even his sons. Especially his sons. Aisling’s lips parted, baffled. Desperately trying to make sense of her father’s broad smile, brighter than any flames she conjured.

“You find this funny?” Aisling asked, tearing herself from the Roktan prince. But Dagfin’s grip lingered on her arm.

“No, not at all,” Nemed replied, tears near slipping from his eyes and down his large scar. “I find it remarkable. I find youremarkable.”

Aisling searched for the words. “But magic, magic is a perversity of nature. An aberration?—”

“Because it was hoarded by the Aos Sí. Withheld, taken,stolenfrom the mortals because of the crimes of a single, foolish queen. That’s why it’s wrong. Because the Aos Sí and their gods—for parents always have their favorites—have twisted it, bent it to suit themselves and be used against mankind.” Nemed flushed with a strange sort of elation, the pitch in his voice rising the longer he spoke. And at his words, Galad ground his teeth, the desire to behead him and each of his sons swimming amidst the abhorrent sheen of his sapphire eyes, the grip on his sword, the curses he bid them beneath his breath.

“Yet you condemn the Forbidden Lore and all that is the Aos Sí?—”

“Aye, aye I do. As should you. As I hope you still do. As our clann should always.”

“I don’t understand,” Aisling confessed, meeting her brothers’ distressed expressions. Heads recoiling as their eyes widened at the spectacle of their fatheroverjoyed. Opening their mouths to speak but unable to find the words. Galad who stiffened each time Nemed neared Aisling, warily glancing at Dagfin, who never let Aisling out of his sight.

“Magicisdiabolical at its core. A crooked, unnatural source of power. But with practice, with discipline, order, structure, you can learn to control it. To make it bend to your will. With control, you can use a very wicked thing, Aisling, for good.”

“There is no such thing as good or evil. Only power.”

Nemed’s expression brightened, the stillness of the room framing the frenzy potent in each of his jubilant steps, the wave of his arms, his trembling fingers.

“You’re wrong, my daughter.” Nemed cupped her face. “This magic was never given to you. You stole it,” he said, eyes cutting into her center and prying her open. “You stole it back.”

CHAPTER XXXII

Einri, Cathan, Rian, and Gilrel surrounded Aisling as she approached the tent. Designed to serve as a great hall, the canvas bastion was enormous, festively showered and lined with fae and mortal sentinels alike. Guards who eyed the armored bears and boards as much as they did the opposing races flooding into the tent for dinner.

Aisling, full on nearly a gallon of Leshy’s tears, inhaled deeply, glancing at both Rian and Gilrel over her shoulder. Shortly after Galad had returned her to her tents, he’d fled in search of Lir and Filverel, leaving Aisling behind with Einri, Cathan, Rian, and Gilrel. The marten nodded her head encouragingly, her armor gleaming beneath the firelight. Equally as impressive as the red-haired knight beside her, dressed in such sleek armor from head to toe.

So, the mortal queen returned her attention to the tent’s entrance. The panels of canvas spread apart by the mortal sentinels on either side, widening the maw of the chamber. Within, music roared; fae music, Aisling identified immediately. There would be no mistaking its rhythm, its pace, the sultry melodies that heated the flesh.

Chatter matched the volume of the music, both fae and mortal tongues whispering, gossiping, arguing over oneanother on their respective sides. For indeed, the fair folk and the mortals divided themselves down the center of the tent, scowling at the other, spitting at one another’s feet, cursing one another’s names if they met eyes from across the expanse. Even the food was split, meals made by mortal hands spilled over the lengthy tables on the right and those made by fae hands on the left. A precaution, Aisling knew, for despite the treaty, no trust dwelled between their races and poisons were common enough to access in either fae or mortal circles.

But unlike the great hall in Annwyn, no one danced in the air here. No wings flapped softly. Flowers didn’t hang from the ceilings, nor did birds nor bats lace the edges of the room. No petals carpeted the floor nor did lightning bugs drift aimlessly like lanterns. Instead, guards stood every five or so paces from one another, iron chandeliers hung on thick chains, dripping wax down their candles’ necks. The only enchantment alive in this so-called celebration was the music, the revelry of the fair folk.

So, Aisling wove through the dancers, Einri, Cathan, Rian, and Gilrel following distantly behind, smelling the familiar opiate she’d tasted at theSnaidhm. That beguiling, seductive spell, spinning her body through the ballooning gowns of the females, the sweat indecently glistening off the males, the stars lowering to join their capering and bathe their bodies in otherworldly light. Wishing to partake herself, to indulge in their merrymaking as would the fair folk themselves. As they did despite the presence of humans, dulling the corners of the room, attempting and failing to extinguish their frenzy.

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