Page 19 of The Mortal Queen

“Eventually, you will be expected to gift your betrothed an heir. Do it quickly lest he uses you till your belly is swollen and the responsibility completed. That is, if he’s willing to settle for a child of mixed race. Your father would rather forsake such a bairn than dub it his heir, but perhaps the Aos Sí do not hold themselves to such pureblooded standards.”

Aisling did her best to swallow but her mouth was dry and her tongue brittle. She could almost see Clodagh’s black braids tightly spun into a low bun, her spidery fingers adorned with iron rings smoothing out the skirts on her lap.

“Quite a fuss over an inevitability,” Aisling mused, avoiding Gilrel’s beady eyes as Gilrel slipped a dressing gown over the queen’s shoulders, only possible if Aisling lowered herself enough to be within reach of the little beast.

“A mortal mentality,” Gilrel snarled, spitting the word “mortal” as if it were a curse. However, the servant quickly and wisely softened her tone before continuing. “To the Sidhe, children are rare. A thousand years may pass between a female’s first pregnancy and her second. That is, if she’s capable of bearing a child at all. Most of us are not. For that reason, Sidhe children are precious.”

This made sense to Aisling considering there were far fewer Aos Sí than there were humans despite their long lifespans. While the mortals continued to overpopulate their towns and expand their walls, the Aos Sí were dwindling, made worse by the casualties of war. At least, that’s what she’d overheard her father’s counselors discussing while she finished her tutoring, proven true by what she’d already seen of Annwyn.

“And what of a mortal bearing a fae—aSidhechild?” Aisling asked. Gilrel considered, brushing Aisling’s cloud of onyx spirals. A hue that separated Aisling, if she was not already different enough, from the fair folk and their gilded coloring. Even those who bore darker locks andcomplexions still glittered like marvelous, deep gold in the sunlight. Aisling’s on the other hand was so black it was nearly blue in direct light.

“As far as I’m aware, such a union has never been. The Forge be willing, you will be the firstcaerato bear a mixed-race heir,mo Lúra.”

CHAPTER VII

Even when the sun was swathed in black, come evening, or bathed in pink, come morning, Lir never returned to their quarters.

Aisling picked at the breakfast Gilrel had fetched for her. As with all else fae, their food was impressive: artfully knotted pastries, colorful sweet cakes, emerald gelatins, potent teas steeped with strange leaves. Spoons that stirred sugar into her teacup of their own accord and teacups that resembled large foxglove flowers. The teapot was a bundle of cabbage with a handle, lid, and spout, one the hare skipping across the room eyed hungrily. All of which intrigued the queen no end. Aisling didn’t believe she’d ever become accustomed to this world. Not fully.

Aisling was ravenous, as she found she always was in this new world. But she missed the taste of the milk in Tilren even if it was sourer, the hard breads, the fire crackling in the corner of her chamber, the familiarity of her old home. For every corridor, every room, every stairwell of this castle was imbued with the northern chill, the fae refusing to warm their walls with flame.

Aisling wondered what her brothers would make of this world; would they be equally as impressed or more capable ofseeing past the fae deception that Aisling was too naive to detect? For more and more Aisling found herself guiltily enjoying the quirks of this fae land. Whatever the case, Fergus certainly would enjoy the food. Even if the tales claimed fae fruit, meats, and wines were all bewitched.

“Is there something wrong with your meal,mo Lúra?” Gilrel asked, sorting through a pile of silk, chiffon, and organza with the help of several magpies fluttering enthusiastically around her paws.

“Legend claims men have gone mad after having tasted a single peach from your gardens, plagued with an insatiable hunger till the day they met their end.” Even if Lir had promised the food would be safe for her, she couldn’t help but doubt. In fact, she’d be a fool to trust the fair folk and whatever pleasantries they sweetened the air with.

Gilrel laughed. “You believe this is an enchantment? I’ve seen for myself the men you speak of. It is nothing more than humans struck with a pleasure they’d yet to experience. It is not the Sidhe’s fault mortals are easily seduced by bodily pleasure.” Gilrel smirked, mumbling something beneath her breath in Fae.

Aisling considered the tray of food for a moment, “But you are capable of magic? Spells, enchantments, curses?” Had that part of her education been true? Lir had, after all, extinguished all the floral light in their wedding tent, bud by bud. Even the sentient spoon before her, and Gilrel herself and the animals that frolicked so near to the Aos Sí, so unlike the infinite chasm that lay between man and beast in the mortal world.

“Aye, the Sidhe do possess a certain ability or power. Mortals may refer to such a spirit asmagicbut to us it is essential to our being, a part of our making.”

“It is in your blood then?” Aisling stood from the cloud of quilts to stretch her legs.

“No,” Gilrel said, “just as humans reap their breath from the trees around them, so too do the Sidhe obtain and inhaletheir ‘magic,’ as mortals would understand it. Just as the air fills your lungs, gives you breath to live, magic nourishes the Sidhe, passes through us, in us, for us.”

Aisling considered asking her marten to demonstrate such abilities but thought better of it. It would be wise of the mortal queen to establish certain boundaries between herself and the fair folk, especially those who washed her clothes, prepared her food, and accompanied her throughout the day. Aisling didn’t, and perhaps never would, fully understand the Aos Sí and their abilities. And despite her curiosity, she shouldn’t lick the blade she feared.

“You are dangerous creatures,” Aisling said, padding barefoot towards her private balcony.

“Mortals would do well to remember it, lest they fancy themselves thieves or trespassers again,” the handmaiden sneered.

“That’s enough, Gilrel,” Aisling snapped, holding her beasty gaze. Gilrel stilled, her lips pressing into a thin line of contempt. Whiskers startled straight.

“And remember, Aisling: even in your dying breath, never give them the satisfaction of seeing you wilt, witnessing your fear.”

The memory of Nemed’s words was all that kept Aisling from relenting. From not appeasing the handmaid even if this creature could drink her blood from the floors.

Had Aisling not been stunned by the view from her terrace, she might’ve been tempted to further counter her handmaiden’s claims. After all, the fair folk had been the ones to steal northern land and trespass on mortal territory, a world that was not theirs to begin with.

But standing on the balcony was like floating amongst the trees, suspended hundreds of feet in the air in the tangle of flowers and branches and leaves like chips of Connemara. Out here, it smelled of sweet sap, fresh pines, and the northern wind. Aisling could see all of Annwyn from thisvantage point: the edge of the castle and its winged statues admiring the lovely kingdom knitted into the forest, the gorge where Aisling had entered, and the great expanse of woodland, cliff, and mountain.

And just as Aisling leaned her head against her palm, she spotted movement, a crowd fussing over a group of armor-clad men entering Annwyn.

The mortal queen perked up, leaning over the terrace to catch a better glimpse of the commotion.

Fifteen fae knights, perhaps more, travelled through and up Annwyn towards the castle. At the center of their cluster, two knights were cautiously carried by their comrades. One appeared well enough to hang from another’s shoulder, limply trudging on. The other was unconscious, carried by his comrades soaked through with red.

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