Page 24 of The Mortal Queen

“Watch,mo Lúra; you’ll want to prepare yourself for what’s to come next.”

Aisling turned her attention back towards the arena, avoiding Peitho’s daggers for eyes, burning into her flesh. But it was not Aisling that Peitho watched now. It was Lir she regarded from the corner of her eye as she pulled back her blade and launched it towards the hedgehogs. Her arms and legs rippled with muscle, visible even beneath her leather garments.

The tip of the sword flew like a sparrow, straight and true, puncturing the three oranges sitting atop the beasts’ heads. Juice exploding and spraying the nearest spectators with its citrus blood.

Aisling swallowed. She’d never witnessed such skill before. Deadly skills she’d practiced all her life yet never bore the talent to perform.

Each of Lir’s knights stepped onto the field, positioning themselves to one side of the great labyrinth the dancers had summoned. They wore their armor, strapped with blades and shields, and contraptions Aisling knew not the name of, raising their arms and baiting the crowd to cheer more wildly.

“What are they doing?” Aisling eyed them warily, familiar with their many faces after having journeyed with them once before.

Gilrel’s muzzle stretched into a thin smile.

“It’s tradition. The malecaerawill fight to prove he is worthy of you and the strongest among his circle.”

Aisling blanched for there were twenty knights to one. The task appeared impossible. But before she could respond, Lir was standing, the fair folk bursting into wild praises, chanting the king’s name to the beat of their stomps as he held out his hand, gesturing for Aisling to take it.

CHAPTER VIII

Aisling reluctantly took the fae lord’s hand. After all, what choice did she have?

A knight, one Aisling had not yet met, stepped into the center of the field, before the great labyrinth, to announce each of his comrades. He raised their arms above their heads and the spectators clamored with increased fervor. Yevhen, Aedh, Tyr, Hagre, Einri, Rian, Galad, and Cathan were among the names Aisling remembered. All sported fae braids, shaved sides, or beading in their hair. Scars speckled their bare skin, a testament to centuries of warring and protecting their kind.

Next came Lir’s introduction to which theSnaidhmexploded with their chants. Already he’d guided her down the staircase of their private box and onto the arena’s pitch.

“Damh Bán!” The crowds repeated, the sheer volume of their shouts vibrating through the box, the arena, the earth beneath them, surely waking every worm and rodent if any still slept down below.

“What are they saying?” Aisling asked the fae king. The rest of Lir’s knights formed a line to the right of the hedge, but the fae king led Aisling to the left where a single pillar stood.

“It means the ‘White Stag,’” he explained. “A moniker given to the king of Annwyn and the greenwood, protector ofthe feywilds.”

She stumbled clumsily after the fae king, her skirts absorbing the mud dampening the field.

“And what becomes of the malecaerawho fails to outdo all these competitors?”

“I don’t fail.” Lir flicked his eyes towards her, measuring her response. But Aisling was unamused, becoming increasingly suspicious of what was unraveling around her.

Lir brought her to an abrupt stop, halting before the wooden pillar nailed into the ground, staring down the rosy labyrinth towering before her.

“Do you trust me?” Lir asked, unable to wick away the devilry curling the corners of his lips. The question echoed in her mind as Aisling spotted a cage lifted above the fae crowd’s heads by four black boars approaching the arena steadily from the western entrance. Made of carved wood and dark metals, its door was bolted shut lest the mad creature within, shaking the bars of its prison, be set free.

Aisling’s tongue turned to ash as she beheld the—thething. Her palms were wet with sweat as she backed into the pillar.

The fae king followed the mortal queen’s line of sight, landing on the approaching cage. A cage rattling with the fury of its captive.

“Is my trust contingent on anything to do with that?” Aisling asked, nodding her head in the cage’s direction.

“That, princess, is atrow.”

Aisling mouthed its name breathlessly, unable to look away from the nightmarish fiend floating nearer and nearer. The smell of it drowning out the freshness of the rain, the roses, replacing such perfume with a putrid stench. But the boars carrying the creature appeared unfazed by its attempts to break free from its prison, its grotesque appearance, or its unbearable smell. So, the bestial sentinels placed the enormous cage on the opposing side of the labyrinth where Aisling could no longer see. A few yards from where Lir’s knights readied themselves.

“A species of Unseelie. Wicked creatures with insatiable appetites despite their short stature. Dull, square teeth that ensure their prey are all the more reluctant to be caught. Usually, rabbits or mice or even foxes, but today, I’m sure this trow is just ravenous enough for a princess.” Lir’s smile widened, boasting his pearly collection of teeth and fangs.

“You intend to feed me to it?!” Aisling managed to spit out, willing her teeth to stop their chattering. What was this—thisthing? This aberration of all that was good and right. Did Nemed know this creature existed? Did the mortals? Had Aisling forgotten some vital teaching she was intended to remember? No, no, no. She would’ve remembered tales of this.

There was nowhere to run, to hide, to escape. Not when she was surrounded by hordes of Aos Sí. Hordes who hollered around the arena, laughing, cheering, dancing, strumming their fiddles, and beating their drums.

“You wound me, princess.” Lir feigned offense. “So long as I’m near, the trow won’t manage a taste, much less a bite. I’m a jealous king,” he teased. But the fae king’s words did little to reassure her for as soon as Aisling spotted the tether in his hands, she staggered back. A rope to bind her.

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