Page 23 of The Mortal Queen

Aisling swallowed the stone in her throat. But where she thought her anger would grow, swell, and expandto its full capacity, she found herself unable to unlatch her eyes from his own. Ancient jadeite eyes that struck fear in her. A fear she wished to explore. To know. To master. After all, he had more reason than most to despise mankind; he was ultimately responsible for the casualties dealt by the mortals after centuries of warring. A king was always responsible for the death of his men even if by the hands of the enemy. Even Nemed couldn’t claim to have experienced such loss in his comparatively short lifespan. Aisling didn’t blame him for his prejudice against her kind, nor did she expect him to blame her for hers.

“You are all the same,” Lir added. Aisling considered him, the press of his lips where his fangs scraped on occasion. The way his brows shadowed those emerald eyes. The posture of his head, his hands lazily settled on either arm of his throne.

“He is the worst of them, ruthless, merciless, no more than a beast driven by hunger, need, and power. But, unlike the wolf, he is insatiable. Never let your guard down around him, Aisling. Never give him an opportunity to choose between you and what he covets.”

Abruptly, silence befell the arena and Aisling held her breath, unsure what to expect from these fae customs. But it was also a relief, a reprieve from that tangled, tightened cord pulling her away and towards Lir simultaneously.

To her surprise, thirty or so fae females swept into the arena. Dressed in pale lilac, pink, tea, and cerulean gowns—one made of owl’s feathers, another thistle, and another snap pea—they arranged themselves at the center of the grass. Sparkling circlets framed their brows, cinching clouds of wild, loose curls where berries clung to each ringlet. And from their backs sprouted wings. Bewitching, translucent wings like spring beetles.

Music arrived with the rain, showering the festival with a sound so lovely, Aisling’s heart was struck with an ache-like longing. And despite the cloudburst, the torches were notextinguished, the fae people did not shrink away nor flee, and the women at the center of the arena began their dance.

Aisling forgot about the cloudburst that soaked through her gown, the chill of the northern air, the hordes of fair folk surrounding her.

“This is an ancient fertility ceremony,” Gilrel whispered into Aisling’s ear, startling the mortal queen and tickling her ears with her whiskers. “They’ve summoned the rain to bless your womb.” At that, Aisling looked to the groaning sky above, flashing with lightning. The crack of each bolt was as much a part of the music as the beat of the drum or the blow of the flute.

Aisling had danced in the rain once before. Alongside Dagfin, she’d climbed the stairwells of her fortress in Tilren. Fergus was the first to find them, reprimanding them for their carelessness, their stupidity. But the exhilaration was an opiate Aisling struggled to resist.

The dancers took one another’s hands and formed a circle. Like this, they twirled, rotating in an endless loop around the arena, never dizzying, never falling.

And as they moved, the earth began to shift. The high risen flags quivered, the stands shook, the tents flapped, the forest moaned, as something at the center of the arena began to…grow. Aisling leaned forward, squinting and rubbing her eyes to ensure she wasn’t hallucinating. Wasn’t dreaming up the leaves, the bubbling flowers, the thorns rising from the earth in great, miraculous hedges. Large bushes bejeweled with roses perfuming the arena till the badgers sneezed and the bumblebees hummed excitedly.

Aisling inhaled sharply. This was impossible and yet here it all was. This magic, this forbidden, ages-old magic mortals considered wicked and perverse and wrong. All of it was more breathtaking than Aisling could’ve ever imagined. For within the span of a few heartbeats, the hedges had grown into a labyrinth at the center of the arena.

Just as abruptly as the dance, the music, and the rain had begun, it stopped. Aisling watched the fae performers curtsy before the noble box and take their leave. Her eyes followed them as they dissolved into the crowds of spectators praising the performance. It was sorcery. All of it. Everything. Everyone here. And Aisling should hate such sorcery. Despise it as much as Nemed.

As the mortal queen whispered in her handmaiden’s ear, Aisling was caught off guard by various fae entering the arena. But these were unlike the dancers who’d just performed. No, these female Aos Sí were strapped in fae armor, leather, and more weapons than Aisling could count. They stood with lethal poise. Their immaculate sheets of armor and twinkling chainmail, flattering their otherworldly forms. One among them, more impressive than the rest.

She was a vision: her hair the hue of autumn’s climax, framing her delicate face, a face embellished with suns for eyes and full, rounded lips. Drenched by the recent rain, she maintained her mighty glamor, her feminine strength, and grace-like ease. Even her fae markings wove airily around her long, distinguished form, like a flower’s roots or trails of a passing comet. But her regard was cold if not cruel as she and the other fae ladies drew their weapons.

“That is Peitho,” Gilrel whispered, following Aisling’s line of sight. Peitho leaned into another lady’s ear and gestured towards the private box. Both their feline eyes flicked towards the mortal queen before erupting into hushed chatter.

“Who is she?” Aisling asked, straightening her posture.

“She is a princess from one of the Sidhe territories in the southern continents.”

“Then why is she here? In the North?”

Gilrel hesitated, brushing invisible lint from her furry shoulder before replying. “She was betrothed to Lir,mo Lúra.”

Against her own volition, Aisling’s eyes spun to the fae king, waiting patiently for whatever these female warriors would eventually perform. It hadn’t occurred to Aisling that just as she’d been intended for Dagfin, Lir had been intended for another as well.

“Then it was my union that interrupted their affairs?” Aisling continued as three, enormous bipedal hedgehogs took their places before the fae females, one in front of the other. Oranges delicately balanced between each of their ears. Peitho tested the weight of her sword in her hands, swinging her arms in preparation for whatever was to take place.

“Aye.” Gilrel nodded. “It is my understanding that once your father suggested a union, the first of the mortal kings on any continent to offer such a treaty, there were many councils held over whether the Sidhe would agree to such an arrangement and if they did, which of the six Sidhe kings would volunteer. The risks were great, for if the king and the mortal bride were notcaera, beheading her would only exacerbate the feud between mortal and Sidhe.”

“And Lir volunteered?” Aisling asked.

“Once the Sidhe had agreed to take the risk, to satiate your father’s demands, it only made sense that the northern mortal princess would unite with the northern Sidhe king.” Gilrel clapped for the warriors on cue.

“But if you claim myself and Lir to becaera, how could Lir have ever married Peitho?”

“Centuries ago, they were raised together. Peitho’s father, the fourth Sidhe king, believed themcaera. Most of us did. Not to mention, the Sidhe have interpolitical strife of their own to sort through. Their marriage would’ve been a unique alliance all of its own. One Peitho was desperate to seal,” Gilrel said.

Peitho laughed at one of her comrade’s comments, tossing her glossy locks over her shoulder. Strands braided throughwith orange poppies and yellow buttercups.

“Can Sidhe have more than onecaerain a lifetime?” Aisling asked.

“Some claim it to be possible. Others do not. However, I suppose those who insisted the latter have already been proven wrong.” Gilrel sat up straighter, a smile spreading across her features.

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