Page 104 of The Mortal Queen

Without warning, male hands grabbed Aisling. Twirled her to the beat of the music, quickening to the pace of her pulse. Aisling spun and met familiar, pearly eyes.

Filverel.

He grinned, flashing his fangs unapologetically as he moved with her to the rhythm of the cords. Joy bubbled into the air with every string they plucked, every flute they blew,every drum they beat. She didn’t know how to sway, to step, to match the energy as did the fair folk but it mattered little when such melodies lowered her inhibitions.

“I overheard there was an accidental fire in the high king’s private chambers,” the advisor purred, bringing her nearer until they were chest to chest. “One of his candles tipped over onto a pile of parchment. Tragic. Could’ve ended his life right then and there. How”—Filverel licked his teeth—“poetic.”

Aisling stifled her annoyance.

“Careful what you speak,” Aisling bit, “lest you manifest a similar fire in your own chambers tonight.” For despite the anger she harbored towards her father, her tuath, her family, she wouldn’t tolerate others speaking ill of him or wishing his demise. He was still her father. Once her high king.

“Is that a threat,mo Lúra?” he asked, eyes glittering with amusement.

“If you have to ask, it most likely is,” Aisling quipped. She copied the movement of the fae females around her, studying the way they moved their hips, swung their arms, tossed their shimmering manes. Their every graceful, effortless movement was unique and dream-like.

Filverel laughed. “Fearlies mern es na tu eas tresle hangus lao.”

Aisling’s brows drew together. “What does that mean?”

“In that gown, you look as lethal as a nightmare and as feral as the dreams that follow.” The advisor’s moonstone eyes flashed wildly, studying her reaction.

“Is that a compliment?” Aisling asked and her voice bore the confidence she didn’t yet feel.

“If you have to ask, it most likely is.” He spun her three times, bringing her back towards himself at the song’s cue. “It must be the magic, rippling through you, torching every mortal bone of yours each time you summon thedraiochtor in your case, each time it summons you.” Filverel lifted her into the air, lowering her in time for the poundingof animal skins. “With every flame you craft, a bit of your mortal self dies, doesn’t it?”

Aisling recoiled, staring at the fae advisor in horror. That wasn’t true. No, it couldn’t be. He was punishing her for revealing her abilities to the fire hand. Torturing her in a way he knew every word would carve through her muscles and into her heart.

“In fact, we can only begin to guess Nemed’s next steps now that he’s aware his daughter is his fleets’ salvation. His very own child imbued with the essence of the enemy yet a wielder of his own hot poison.”

“Fear doesn’t become you, Filverel.”

“And here again you sound like a mortal. Fear is useful: keeps the prey alive when the cards are seemingly stacked against them.”

“Seemingly?” Aisling asked.

“There’s a reason humans can no longer harness thedraiocht. By nature, humans are greedier than either goblins or dragons, more spiteful than either banshees or brownies, and more naive than the Sidhe who choose to trust any one of them. Thedraiochttasted your weakness and so, it conquered you. So, although the fire hand may have his tricks, I’m not concerned over whether he’s aware of your abilities.” Filverel licked his fangs and grinned. “After all, no one wants an arrow just as capable of shooting backwards as it is frontwards.”

But Aisling had witnessed the hunger in her father’s eyes, the joy when he’d beheld her use thedraiocht. Knew the fire hand never bore merely one method of achieving his goals. And if any believed him to be as naive or as one-dimensional as Filverel believed him to be, they’d be made aware of such fatal assumptions soon enough.

“Hold your tongue, Filverel, lest I burn it from your mouth.”

“I’d remind you whose allegiance you’re bound to but then I realize your loyalties are tragically divided, aren’t they? No,don’t answer that. Answer this.” Filverel smiled, snatching Aisling once more and elegantly dipping the mortal queen so her hair swept the grass beneath them. “If given the choice to return to your clann, would you?” he asked, unable to resist the cruel laughter that followed.

Bile rose in Aisling’s throat as she desperately ignored thedraiochtalready reaching for more. Even when Leshy’s tears still did their best to heal its damage.

“I can be both. I don’t need to choose.”

“No, Aisling,” Filverel said, pulling her in close. “We may not know what you are: mortal princess, sorceress,skalla. But regardless of whatever the gods are brewing in the Forge, you’re part Seelie now whether you realize it or not.”

Aisling’s throat ran dry. He knew he’d caught her. A satisfaction she detested to witness him boast. As if the cleaving of her personal identity were entertainment to him.

But before Aisling could respond or stay true to her threats, the music changed, and the partners rotated. And so, another male grabbed her, spinning her towards him. Aisling thought to leave the dance altogether until she smelled this new dancer, the salt of the Ashild churning beneath a grey-clad sky.

Aisling’s eyes darted towards her partner, looking up at oceans for eyes. Eyes that cut into her and tore apart any resolve Filverel had hardened with his aggression.

“I don’t have much time,” Dagfin whispered, those shadows he’d grown over the years they’d been apart, thick and heavy as he spoke. “I know you’re still angry with me, but I need you to listen closely.”

“Lest you bridle me like a beast?”

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