Page 36 of The Mortal Queen

“You’re suggesting I’m a spy? That my intentions to protect my own kind are not pure?”

“I’m suggesting youcouldbe a spy,mo Lúra.” Galad grinned, not ashamed in the slightest of his accusations implied or not.

“Was this Lir’s idea?”

“Aye, it was, and if anyone can understand it should be you. I’m confident your kind would do the same in our position.” Aisling didn’t disagree. Nevertheless, it remained a nuisance that, each time she corresponded with her family, her words would be sifted through for a betrayal onher behalf.

“If I must comply with your precautions, may I, at the very least, accompany my letter to ensure its hasty delivery?” But Aisling was already closing the door behind herself. Asking for permission was more of a courtesy. She’d follow him whether he agreed to it or not.

“Have you recovered sufficiently?” Galad’s eyes darted towards the gauze peeking beneath her sleeve.

“That furry little nightmare may have a fit but I’m in no mood to be stuffed in my chamber for yet another day,” the mortal queen huffed. Galad eyed the door firmly shut behind Aisling, where just beyond, Gilrel would eventually return in search of her lady. Would inevitably scold her magpies for not keeping the mortal queen contained for the second time.

“Lir instructed?—”

“Tell me, do you always do what you’re told?” Aisling interjected, holding the door’s wooden knocker tightly between her fingers.

“The better acquainted you become with yourcaera, ‘doing what you’re told’ becomes the more appealing option,” he said, gesturing for Aisling to fall into step beside him. “Nevertheless, I don’t envy your solitude, especially after last night. Walk within my shadow at all times. The castle is no place for a mortal wandering alone.”

At times, travelling through Castle Annwyn felt endless. Rooms, hallways, doorways, staircases were susceptible to moving, shifting, rotating when they believed none to be looking. Ghostly laughter floating on the sails of every passing draft. Paintings that were thrashed, portraits of a great maiden and her three-eyed owl. Chambers whose doors were chained and bolted shut. Yet the corridors smelled of the flowers that hung from their vines and the further theytravelled up the mountain, the colder the air grew.

The castle’s staff scurried past the knight and Aisling, forcing themselves to bow or curtsy while in the queen’s presence. Aisling did her best to ignore their ogling, memorizing the names Galad used to address them as they passed by. Back in Tilren, Aisling had only ever bothered to learn a handful of the staff’s titles. Those who directly served her. But here in Annwyn, everyone was familiar, a result of centuries of working alongside one another. Surely if Aisling had been ages old, she would know her staff’s names. Wouldn’t she?

“How much farther are these court advisors?” Aisling asked, breathlessly climbing yet another winding staircase.

“Not much farther,mo Lúra,” Galad assured, unfazed by the boundless upward trajectory. A trail visited by strange insect-like creatures, some charming and others grotesque, scampering by her slippers as she passed.

“I’m assuming the Aos Sí don’t tire of these steps?” Aisling paused to catch her breath. If she’d boasted any stamina or muscle, perhaps this wouldn’t strike the mortal queen as such a feat.

“Rarely, and those who do, use their wings instead.”

Aisling blinked.

“Do all of you bear wings?” Perhaps it was rude to ask but Aisling found her curiosity far outweighed her manners. So, Aisling tilted her head to inspect the knight more closely as he climbed higher. No wings flared from his armor but perhaps they were tucked away somewhere beneath. Somewhere far below his finely forged plating, his artfully braided chainmail, the skinned leather, or his painted skin.

Galad exhaled a laugh, the sound echoing through the tower in which they stood.

“Not all, no. It’s a subspecies of Sidhe, some among us born with the abilityto bloom wings on a whim.”

“Does Lir have them?” Aisling blurted, immediately wishing she hadn’t spoken his name aloud. There was something about those letters on her tongue that felt strangely intimate to let spill from her lips. Perhaps even to think within the privacy of her own mind.

“Shouldn’t you already know the answer to that?” Galad asked.

Aisling’s stomach dropped. If only she’d kept her mouth shut. Had Aisling and Lir consummated their marriage, were truly husband and wife, she would know. She should know, had they disrobed before one another, seen one another in their full glory. She would know. But alas, Aisling was as ignorant as a passing stranger, for no such ritual had occurred nor did she believe it ever would.

“Do you bear them?” Aisling countered, changing the subject as quickly as she was able.

“Yes,” he confessed while turning to continue up the staircase, “and so does yourcaera.” Aisling nearly tripped on the hem of her gown, awkwardly straightening herself. The thought knotted her stomach as she swatted away the image now invading her most vivid imaginations. But there was no indication, no sign of strange appendages she’d noticed yet. Perhaps they truly could grow them on a whim—another variable that, despite their beauty, made them so cruelly inhuman.

“Why do you conceal them?” Aisling continued, palming the stone wall for balance. Her thighs protesting every step higher.

“Unlike the rest of our bodies, our wings don’t heal quite as efficiently. If one were torn or injured, it could never restore itself fully. Even if mended correctly. In which case, for a knight or a king, it’s unwise to sport them regularly. To sport any vulnerability regularly.”

Aisling didn’t doubt it. The wings she’d already spotted amongst the populaceappeared as thin and as delicate as a fly’s, nearly translucent if it weren’t for the way they reflected both light and color.

“They’re lovely,” Aisling confessed, the words spilling from her tongue before she could intercept such words of flattery.

“Is that a compliment to the Aos Sí,mo Lúra?” Galad glanced back, extending a hand to aid the mortal queen climb a series of dilapidated steps. Steps chipped away by the chisel of time.

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