Page 34 of The Mortal Queen

Aisling repressed such excitement, stuffing it into some cobwebbed corner of her conscious mind. It was foolish to delight in danger. In violence. A lifeforce of its own, pulsing through her as though her bones, her body, had been lulled into a hollow sleep. Until she’d dropped the axe on the trow’s head and faced the Cú Scáth.

The mortal queen considered the teacup in her hands, tilting the liquid from side to side. It smelled both bitter and of some unfamiliar foreign spice.

“Tears of Leshy.” Gilrel set the pot on Aisling’s bedside table. “A forest spirit. Drink, for it will heal you quickly and efficiently.”

“A wraith?”

“Not quite. Leshy is amongst the oldest of trees, his roots said to cut near the center of the Earth. Unless he wishes to run, to dance; he travels through the woods. A great guardianto the feywilds.”

“And these are his tears?”

“Aye. Leshy is near impossible to find, to chase. To extract his tears is an unthinkable task save for the king of the greenwood. And such tears are reserved for his knights when targeted by their vulnerabilities. And now his queen.”

Aisling swallowed, avoiding Gilrel’s eyes. So, this was how Lir’s knights had miraculously recovered after iron’s kiss, for their unique ability to heal swiftly only applied to wounds dealt by non-iron means, this much Aisling knew. And this new knowledge, knowledge of Leshy’s power…well, Aisling only wondered what Nemed would do with such insight, a potion capable of eliminating one of the mortals’ only advantages against the fair folk if harvested in great enough quantities.

“Leshy’s tears may be somewhat repulsive, even by mortal standards, but it will quicken your recovery. By tomorrow morning, you will feel as if you’ve been freshly cast in the Forge.”

Aisling gagged after her second whiff, its acrid stench trailing through the whipped, billowy puffs of steam atop its milky surface.

Gilrel climbed up the chair beside Aisling’s bed and sat, adjusting her tail so it sat neatly beside her. Her scars were caught by the rays of sunlight filtered through the castle’s stained glass windows. There was seldom a moment Aisling didn’t wonder how the marten handmaid had received them. Did these familiar beasts fight beside the Aos Sí? Had Gilrel faced her father before? Encountered Starn on the battlefield? Aisling would quite enjoy watching Gilrel wield a sword. In fact, she’d be fascinated to witness these furry beasts fight. How radiant they must be, fully dressed in armor of their own. Perhaps one day she would. After all, even if the Aos Sí and humans no longer opposed one another, it was quickly becoming clear that another threat lurkedthroughout the wilds.

“Has it always been this way?” Aisling asked abruptly, studying the marten’s reaction. “Have the Unseelie always been a threat to even the Aos Sí?”

Gilrel met the mortal queen’s eyes.

“Yes,” she said sharply, stroking her whiskers, “but never like this. They’re becoming bolder, stronger, angrier. Our forests weren’t always so at odds.”

“But the Unseelie are motivated by human flesh?” Aisling thought of what Lir had spoken the night before:the Unseelie hunger for mortals. A notion that continuously baffled the mortal queen the longer she considered it.

After all these years, how was it possible her own kind was unaware of their most insatiable predator? Had they been so focused, so distracted by the Aos Sí to understand what lurked between the trees? Aisling’s fingers twitched, the memory of a quill in her fingers drawing her towards the parchment at her vanity. She must write to her father. Especially if the fair folk bore reason to fear their own woodlands. A world they, the elms, and the ashes staked equal claim to.

“Half a century ago, a member of my litter was maimed by an Unseelie.” Gilrel said the words so flippantly, Aisling near choked on Leshy’s tears, but the marten’s expression grew severe.

“My sister was protecting a mortal. A young child she’d found lost in the woods. Nuala was a silk weaver, skilled with sewing rare thread sourced only from a rare Unseelie species known as theneccakaid.”

Spidersilk, Aisling conjectured. She’d heard tales of the material, its pricelessness, but where or how it was harvested was never, if rarely, disclosed.

“The Sidhe and the Unseelie are indeed rivals,” Gilrel continued, “but we’ve found ways over the centuries tocoexist. For the most part. Nuala traded mortal trinkets—jewels, clothing, objects manufactured by human hands—inexchange for yards of neccakaid silk. I’d always despised the transactions. Warned her that no good could come of dealings with the Unseelie. Obviously, she ignored me and on one unfortunate day, she’d encountered a human boy aimlessly wandering near the neccakaid caves. Why the mortal child was there, no one knows, but it hardly matters. Nuala wished to warn the boy before the demons caught his scent, but it was too late. They descended upon the mortal child, and instead of fleeing herself, Nuala stayed behind.” Gilrel’s voice caught in her throat, deepening as she forced herself to continue. “To this day, I can’t bring myself to understand why she’d chosen to sacrifice her eternal life for a life so fickle, so sickly, so small.” Gilrel laughed a dark, humorless chuckle.

“The child abandoned my sister, left her to die. When Nuala didn’t return that night, we went in search of her. We found the mortal boy first, covered in Sidhe blood, running through the trees. A quick interrogation revealed Nuala had indeed slain one of the neccakaid to save the boy. But my sister was dragged along with it into death’s hollow.”

Gilrel blinked as if batting away the memory. She cleared her throat and shook her head, smoothing out the creases in her apron.

“Lir wouldn’t let me kill the boy for abandoning my sister in fears it would only exacerbate the conflicts between Aos Sí and mortals. But there isn’t a day I wish I hadn’t torn that child to shreds. So, you see,mo Lúra, even the Sidhe are not immune to the bloodthirst of the Unseelie. You are fortunate to be alive.”

Aisling set the cup aside. She could offer her condolences, apologize for Gilrel’s loss but none could truly assuage the grief that no doubt swelled within the marten before her. Especially from the lips of a mortal, the same race that had forsaken her sister. Gilrel wouldn’t want Aisling’s sympathy. So, Aisling sipped her tea, ignoring the burn of its waters onher tongue.

Several moments passed before Aisling set down her cup, its base cushioned by the saucer.

“Perhaps, the mortals and the Sidhe have at last found common ground”—Aisling held Gilrel’s gaze—”a common enemy.”

CHAPTER XII

Another two days dissolved in the northern wind and still Lir hadn’t returned from wherever he’d vanished after theSnaidhm. Aisling hadn’t intended to count the days he was away, nor had she intended to peer over her balcony every few hours, awaiting his return. Her idle mind searched for a distraction, anything to halt the endless rehearsal of the past several nights. For she was locked away in this mountain castle with nowhere to explore, save her own mind, a perilous terrain, threatening to unravel her fully as Gilrel insisted she rest, insisted she sleep and eat without distraction so she would recover with the aid of Leshy’s tears. But her physical wounds paled in comparison to the mental scars she now bore. Terrors that salted the healing lesions, soaking her thoughts with blood and teeth. And something else. Something far worse that gnawed at Aisling. Made her hungry. Made her lie awake when the sky turned obsidian and the forest whispered her name.

Meanwhile, Galad was tasked with overseeing the mortal princess while Lir was away. He stood outside her door from dusk till dawn. And no others, not even the rest of Lir’s knights, were permitted to enter Aisling’s chambers.

So, Aisling set to writing at the vanity, an ivory quill poisedin hand, made from the feathers of a three-eyed owl, Gilrel explained. The handmaiden fussed over her magpies braiding Aisling’s hair too tightly as they weaved through, up, and over one another, curls pinned between their beaks.

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