Page 37 of The Mortal Queen

Aisling ignored both his offer of help and his comment, heaving herself up on her own instead. “Where does such a trait originate?”

“From the mountain kingdom,Iod, originally ruled by Ina,” Galad said, glancing at the mortal queen following shortly behind. Aisling remembered Cathan’s song, Rian’s translation, and the narrative it described. “At her conception, it’s said Ina was forged with wings, a gene passed on to her original kin. Those of us born of at least one parent of Iod often carry the trait. Although, such unions no longer occur.”

“So, both yours and Lir’s parents are subjects of both Annwyn and Iod?” Aisling asked, struggling to maintain Galad’s pace. “But how can Lir then be king?”

“It’s more common than you’d think. So long as the child is the offspring of a monarch belonging to the lineage of one of the original twelve sovereigns, they have claim to the throne. Lir was the first-born son of his father, the last king of Annwyn, so it matters not where or who his mother was.”

In that case, the last king of Annwyn bore a child with a subject of Iod, the mountain kingdom, and that union led to Lir. How strange these fae lineages were. Starn, the rightful heir to Tilren, would one day marry a noblewoman. Preferably one of Tilrish nationality for the purposes of birthing pure-blooded Tilrish children. As it’d always been done in the mortal world with few exceptions.

At last, Aisling and Galad arrived at a narrow door, owlsetched into the splintering wood, appraising all who greeted their threshold. The knight pushed open the door, waking the world beyond with the hollow groan of its hinges. A cloud of mildew released from the heart of the dark chamber.

Aisling followed Galad closely, eyes adjusting to the shadows when she spotted the ash tree leaning against the far wall of a lofty stone cathedral. Growing at the core of the mountain, its colossal branches reached for the cross-vaulted ceilings, dripping with jeweled leaves and bulbs of light from the center of blooming elderflowers.

“Those aresylphs,” Galad whispered, following Aisling’s line of sight. For indeed, wispy creatures, made of mountain fog, flew among the highest branches, stealing bites from bundles of ripe samara.

“Are they Unseelie?”

“Not quite; most claim they’re spirits of the mountain, long-since deceased Sidhe of Iod, searching for Ina in the summits instead of carrying on to the Other.”

One sylph in particular caught Aisling’s eye, lounging at the end of a branch. Its wings sparkled against the glow of the elderflowers, fluttering open the moment it spotted Aisling from its perch. Lazily it lifted its ivory head, twinkling eyes considering the mortal queen carefully before gesturing for the others to come and inspect Aisling for themselves. As though she were the creature made of magic and not them.

“This way,” Galad said, drawing Aisling’s attention back towards the task at hand.

At the base of the tree stood a steepled door embellished with a knob carved in the likeness of an outstretched hand. The twin knob to the one Aisling had found while wandering the castle alone, leading to the fountain room, creases at the knuckles and palm, indents where nails should be, a hand large enough for Galad to take hold of and press his own palm against the wooden one.

Aisling opened her mouth to speak but before she couldutter a word, the oddest thing occurred: the whittled hand came to life, groaning as it curled its stiff fingers around Galad’s own.

Aisling gasped, flummoxed at the spectacle.

Galad, on the other hand, grew still as a windless wood till the whittled hand, satisfied with whatever it intended, retreated, molding back into the lifeless appendage poised to meet its next guest.

And had it not been for the several clicks and the budging of the door, Aisling would’ve stood there for hours, inspecting the whittled hand beneath the light of the elderflowers.

Aisling cursed under her breath, for the chamber was so silent, it felt intrusive to speak louder than a whisper.

“This ash prefers to make the acquaintance of whosoever passes its threshold, for the sake of ensuring none shall pass who shouldn’t be privy to the information or the people beyond this door.”

Magic amongst the Aos Sí, Aisling was realizing, was effortless. Indeed, the fair folk seemed to inhale magic and exhale fantasy. All of Annwyn pulsing with this tempestuous opiate. Feeding the enchantment and in return it fed them.

“And what does lie beyond this door?” Aisling continued, cringing as the door shut of its own accord behind her.

“The other side of the mountain.” Galad’s eyes flashed in her direction, gauging whether his sardonic reply had dampened her curiosity. It hadn’t, for the more they withheld, the more Aisling couldn’t help but pry.

To Galad’s credit, the ingress had indeed revealed the other side of the mountain. A steep drop looming on the right of a parapet walkway. And as Aisling searched for whatever land lay far below, she saw none, the earth eclipsed by a sea of clouds.

“And how does the tree recognize your touch from others?” Aisling asked, more so to distract herself from the potential of one fateful misstep than genuineinterest.

“Trees are knowledge keepers. They know every ash, rowan, hazel, and willow by name, a title branded into the rings of their trunks. Know more languages than either Sidhe or man are familiar with. Know the faces of all those who enter their woods.”

“You speak of them as though they were sentient.”

“Because they are. The trees are always watching, listening. Nosy creatures. The eldest, most ancient of trees the most formidable. And the most judgmental.”

That was impossible. Not because Aisling doubted its truth—she’d already seen enough to understand how strange the Sidhe world truly was—but because Aisling couldn’t fathom what that meant for her father. For her clann. For every chieftain, tiarna, flaith, and king who’d burned, chopped, laid waste to acreages of woodland.

Aisling’s tongue turned to ash; hadn’t Lir referred to Nemed as the fire hand of the North?

“He who wears the blood of the forest on his hands.”

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