Page 112 of The Mortal Queen

She was the image of a warrior. But not one of brawn nor skill with a blade or shield. One of rapacious, confoundingsorcery rivalling the ferocity of the Sidhe themselves, how the Forbidden Lore described the fair folk: ancient, heroic warriors forged with the blood of the earth in their bones. A sentiment, a resemblance that pricked the back of Aisling’s eyes, for she too appeared of another age. An age of the Other where she was welcomed as one of its own.

“Come,mo Lúra,” Gilrel called from between the canvas curtains, “the union is set to begin any moment now.”

Aisling approached the ring of humans and fair folk alike. They stood surrounded by torches like rubies, flickering despite the morning storm descending upon the isles. Parasols guarded the heads of most mortals while the fair folk braved the cloudburst, water drenching their richly colored locks, beading their skin, and soaking their dress.

Fae drums ricocheted off the bellies of the surrounding cliffs, booming into the mud, the grass, the wind, and through their bones. A rhythm joined by the charge of electricity webbing across the sky in flashes of white light.

As they parted the crowd, Gilrel followed Aisling a step behind. Four sentinels escorting their every step.

“Skalla,” the fair folk whispered beneath their breath like rustling trees, their voices growing louder the nearer she approached the center of the circle, a large clearing where both the trooping fae and mortal clanns stood at the periphery. Not a single pair of eyes failing to land on Aisling, studying her as though she were Unseelie, Seelie, mortal, something in between. A beast. And perhaps she was.

Nemed was the only member of her audience who grinned as the crowds peeled back to make way for the mortal queen. His eyes glazed with such genuine pride, love, that Aisling felt her knees weakening. Never had her fatherregarded her so. Her brothers, yes. Even Dagfin, who the fire hand considered a fifth son, but never Aisling. Clodagh, on the other hand, bit her bottom lip, eyes hollowing with horror as she beheld her daughter clad like a warrior. Like a fae knight. Her expression mirrored that of Ciar’s, who stood clutching her son’s arm so tightly Aisling believed Sim’s limb might snap in two.

But it was Dagfin who unnerved the mortal queen most. Dressed in Roktan blue, he sported more weapons than Aisling could count, crossing his arms over his chest. Eyes flickering with something Aisling couldn’t place but struggled to tear herself away from. Something like hope. Of unparalleled excitement. His brown hair curled around his ears as a result of the rain.

Lir caught Aisling’s eyes as she approached. And while his cold, steely expression didn’t change, Aisling could see the conflict harrowing his manic eyes the moment they shifted onto Aisling. The desire that dwelled there, unmet and unslaked.

Lir moved, lithely stepping towards Aisling; that same shivering of the heart each time his attention was fully fixed upon her was near overwhelming. And once he stood within reach, he extended his arm towards her and held out his hand. Those long slender fingers wrapped in fae interlace, symbols, knots. But she hesitated, the pounding of animal skins, mirroring the thumping in her chest.

Against her own volition, her eyes wandered towards her mortal clann. Watching her, her brothers’ callous expressions hardening the moment the fae king neared her. Extended his arm towards her as if they were one and the same, she and the barbarian king of the greenwood. Intertwined like twin storms, destined to ravage all they touched. Nothing but sweet ruin lying in their wake.

Aisling inhaled sharply, placing her hand in Lir’s. And even from her periphery, Aisling witnessed Dagfin shift. It was all that kept her from focusing on the cord between her and thefae king; it knotted tightly as she felt his every scar, smelled the wet leaves, heard the purling creaks, felt the monk’s moss beneath her feet, tasted the wind weaving through the solemn forests, considering from afar. Woodlands that this morning were uncharacteristically quiet.

Lir smiled at his bride, a grin powerful enough to unbind the mortal queen lest she look too long. Mercifully, there was no time. The fae king guided Aisling towards their spot around the circle, positioning her beside him. The predatory glint flashed in his Connemara eyes. Aisling still wasn’t certain what Lir’s intentions with her were. Just last night he’d confessed to not knowing himself. Described how he’d considered spilling her blood to rid himself of the encumbrance he believed her to be, torn between a supernatural bond and the responsibility to his kin.

Startled from her stupor, the drums stopped their beating.

Like ivory ships, three stags emerged from between the folds of mortals and fair folk, giant beasts, whose soaked pelts shimmered amidst the stormy haze, carrying their riders forward. Riders Aisling immediately identified as Blaine, Deidre, and Peitho at the center. The fae princess donned a similar beaded, crimson gown to the one Aisling had worn to her own union. Panels of sparkling stones and meshed lace. But where Aisling’s hemline finished just below her slippers, Peitho’s carried on, draping her stag in a cloak of red, plastering both its rump and thighs. And her veil, steeped in northern rain, stuck to her face before hanging from her shoulders. A crimson goddess, gliding forth on her ghost.

Dagfin stepped into the circle. His eyes pinned to Peitho. But where Aisling believed she’d find terror dwelling amidst the contours of his handsome face, she only found resolve. Purpose and courage. The eyes of a hunter.

The Roktan prince bowed his head, falling to one knee before Peitho’s great stag, the fabric of his sapphire trousers now steeped with mud. It was then Aislingwondered why Nemed had chosen Dagfin and not one of his own sons, or even Sim, to be married off in the name of Rinn Dúin. Why Feradach had ever agreed to this trade—Dagfin was the sole heir to the Roktan crown. If anything happened to him, Roktling would be left without a successor. The mortals were risking more than a princess this time. They were risking a crown.

This couldn’t be happening, Aisling thought to herself. Her chest splintered with every passing moment.

Peitho, Deidre, and Blaine dismounted from their stags, splattering mud onto nearby gowns and trousers. One by one they drew their weapons and staked them into the earth. Blaine, a spear. Deidre, two shortswords. And Peitho, a bronze greatsword. Aisling knew which blade was Peitho’s; it was obvious enough by its autumn-hued splendor. But even if one was aware of which weapon belonged to the bride or groom, still they would be incapable of selecting it if they weren’tcaera. A phenomenon Gilrel had explained to Aisling several weeks after her union with Lir. Otherwise, Aisling would’ve been tempted to shout the correct response. To save her once-intended from an untimely death. But magic was particular. Magic was strict. Magic claimed what it desired and refused to compromise.

So, all Aisling could do was watch. Watch as Dagfin approached the line of weapons and considered each blade, tilting his head to the side as he inspected each finely crafted hilt, each sharply spun edge, every immaculate detail the Sidhe hammered into everything their graceful hands could craft. But he wouldn’t touch a single haft until he’d made his choice. To touch was to choose.

Aisling grew numb to the rain showering from above, folding her hands into fists and digging her nails into her palms. She turned to Feradach, his expression as hard and cold as the Ashild, holding his breath as Aisling held hers. Ciar’s teeth chattered as she embraced Sim. Clodagh wrapped in Iarbonel’s jacket and shadowed by the parasol. But morethan the anxiety of the royal clanns caught Aisling’s attention. So too did the mortal sentinels unlatching their chains from their belts and unsheathing their weapons.

Aisling’s head spun, her stomach vaulting up her throat.

But before Aisling could think more of these armed mortal sentinels, a sudden burst of commotion erupted from the crowd. Aisling whipped her head back to Dagfin.

He’d chosen.

Aisling’s eyes grew wide as Dagfin’s fingers closed around the heavy haft of the spear.

He’d chosen wrongly.

Thunder clapped above. A boom that cloaked the maddened shrieks of Sidhe and mortals alike.

There were few seconds in Aisling’s life that felt longer than those that passed now. More agonizing than the ones that slipped from her hands, for she was powerless against what was to come. A beam swept Peitho’s expression, visible even beyond her veil, as she lifted her greatsword from the wet earth and raised it above her head. She was quick. Quicker than any mortal sentinel, guard, knight, or soldier Aisling had ever witnessed. As though she hurdled a gold star whose tail of fire could cut. Could joyously sever Dagfin’s head from his body.

Before Aisling could stop herself, she was stepping into the circle, reaching for Dagfin. But Lir caught her wrist and held her back. Just a step towards the Roktan prince and Aisling knew, even without Lir’s intervention, she hadn’t been fast enough to prevent any of this from happening.

Dread as black as an inky swamp flooded her. Drowned her and filled her lungs as tears flowed freely from her eyes.

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