Page 30 of The Mortal Queen

And once the lucidity crawled back into her mind, the night air sobering, Aisling clumsily stood, staggering and lengthening the distance between herself and Lir. Closer and closer to the edge of the forest. Away from he whose breath trailed around her still, prickling her skin.

Lir smiled, unfurling himself from his crouch.

“If you knew what lies in those woods, you’d prefer my company to theirs.”

Aisling snapped a branch beneath her heel, a reminder of how close she stood from entering the surrounding woodland.

“More trows and dryads?” Aisling quipped, rummaging through her mind for the right words. After all, a thick cloud still blanketed her thoughts, lifting at a glacial pace, theSnaidhm’s residual enchantment that’d transformed her bones to glass and her limbs to jelly.

“Aye, and other fiends of the feywild.”

Aisling considered the forest over her shoulder. The instinct to avoid the woodland tugging at her conscience lest she be punished, for the wilderness had always been forbidden. Until now. There was no Clodagh to reprimand her, no Nemed to raise his hand to her, no brothers to ridicule her. She could do what she liked here. Even stand with the enemy at the woodland’s edge, the forest himself.

And perhaps it was still theSnaidhm’s charms that made it appear as though the trees spoke amongst one another like a great counsel. The groaning of their trunks in the evening gale, the rustling leaves, the murmuring insects, the hoots of an owl, all were sentient. All alive and eager to see her. Touch her. Know her. Ancient and feral and unpredictable. Inhospitableto all they rejected.

Lir held out his hand to her. “You’re not in your right mind. I brought you here only to diminish the effects of theSnaidhmbefore continuing on. Return with me to Annwyn. From that distance, the sorcery of theSnaidhmshould entirely?—”

“I’m fine,” Aisling interrupted, holding his gaze.

“You lie easily and quickly, is this a mortal trait?” he asked.

“A dreadful habit of my kind,” Aisling quipped, “although, perhaps more characteristic of your blood than mine.” Nemed had indeed always said the mouths of the Aos Sí were designed to spew lies and speak deception, incapable of being honest lest their tongues burn.

“You believe we lie?” Lir scoffed. “To tell a mistruth requires great concentration and even then, it is poorly told,” he said, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “Believe me, I tried when I was a child.” How long ago that must’ve been. What was it like to carry centuries of memories? For one’s childhood to be lost in some distant, ancient past?

Aisling stifled her surprise. If what he said was true, how could her father have been so wrong? Perhaps the fae king was deceiving her even now but there’d already been a great deal Nemed had chronicled poorly. The way the fair folk looked, for example. Aisling had never known her father to be wrong about anything. Although, she realized, pent up in Castle Neimedh, there’d never been another to disprove his claims.

“So would say a liar.”

He laughed, eyes glinting like a rogue. “I don’t need to lie to you.”

Aisling clenched her fists at her sides, her fear of the fair folk only rivalled by her rage. Her resentment. The bitter taste of an upbringing stoked by her race’s rivalry with these brutes.

“Do you know how to wield that dagger?” Lir’sattention shifted between her corset and her face, devilry widening his smile.

Aisling slid the knife from her bodice, careful not to reveal herself in the process. She bore no intention of using it on the fae king but was rather comforted by the sensation of it in her hands.

“You’ll have to draw it more quickly if you wish to take me off guard,” the king continued, moving closer. So close, Aisling needed to tilt her head up to meet his lowered gaze.

“Who says I have any intention of using it?” Aisling growled. For the mortal queen would be foolish to consider jeopardizing all her clann had sacrificed. And attempting a strike on the fae king was among the fruitless errors that would find her executed by either the Aos Sí or the mortals themselves.

“It’s written in all that you do: your strange, violet eyes perpetually glancing over your shoulder, how you recklessly clutch your dagger even while you dream, the flickering of the muscles in your hands each time I near you, the tension in your jaw each time I look at you.” Lir’s eyes flicked to Aisling’s mouth, quickly returning to her eyes. “I know you want to use it. But I also know you won’t. You and I both know the risks of presenting this union as anything other than a joyous pairing.”

Horror ambushed Aisling, her throat running dry. Lir had noticed more of the mortal queen than Aisling had anticipated. His sage eyes were more watchful than she thought possible, capable of dissecting her behavior with an accuracy that chilled Aisling’s spine.

“Regardless,” Lir began again, “a queen—especially one of the feywilds—should be familiar with her dagger.”

“I’m aware how a blade works,” Aisling spat, taking a step back, standing on the lip between the forest and the glade. “I use the pointy end and stick it in your heart.”

“Show me.”

Aisling inhaled, trapping the breath inside her chest. If hewanted to provoke her, then provoke her he would. For he inspired something reckless within her, the sensation of swimming in an abyss, holding her palm beside a flame, wrestling with a wolf.

So, the mortal queen lunged for the fae king, waving the dagger the way she remembered Dagfin practicing in the gardens while she read. And in response, the fae king laughed, a cruel cackle that bred fury all over again in Aisling’s veins.

“Had I wished you harm, you’d be dead before the tip of your blade decided upon its direction.” Lir smiled broadly. A brief flicker of mirth before he propelled forward. Had Aisling blinked, she would’ve missed it. The flash of movement as he snatched the dagger from her hand and held her in place by the wrist.

“To draw your weapon, you’ll need to be quick. You may be weaker, smaller than most opponents you’ll encounter, but you can be fast. Drawing your advantage first is half the battle. And if given the opportunity, you should always be the first to strike”—Lir considered her bodice, flushing Aisling’s cheeks—“and you’ll need something more practical to stow away your dagger than a corset.”

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