Page 38 of The Mortal Queen

Is this what Lir meant? Was the whole of the forest as sentient as Gilrel had described the great Leshy? Aisling’s father had burned miles of woodland, creatures as conscious as Aisling was herself. No, that wasn’t a fair comparison. These trees, like the fair folk, lived for centuries. How many memories were lost when Nemed charred kingdoms of forest? Starn alongside him, stomping out the ashes of these sentient beings on the tattered old rug by the kitchen entrance in Castle Neimedh.

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

Aisling, suddenly grateful for the cliff should she fall ill, struggled to abate the nausea. Nemed didn’t know. Couldn’t know. Wasn’t aware of what truly comprised the feywilds. So, she would tell him. Once he replied to her letter, she would help him. Help the North. A thought that sobered her, warming her complexion once more.

Galad paused before the last door on their left, pressedinto a corner of the mountain. The knight knocked three times before the door creaked ajar, revealing a thin, tall chamber. The room was framed by scrolls, parchment, and books. Shelves that seemingly stretched to the tips of the summit, where three tawny hawks perched amongst the highest of tomes. A room that reeked of animal skins, of dried ink and dust, of the birds whose windswept feathers ruffled at the sight of newcomers.

But no aspect of the chamber was quite as interesting as he who sat behind the desk, haloed by the sunlight dyed resplendently in the hues of stained glass.

“Filverel,” Galad greeted the fae male.

Filverel lifted his head, peering past the ivory strands, hardening his already angular features. And despite donning the appearance of one thirty or so years of age, Aisling knew from one glance at the primeval edge in his moonstone eyes that he was much, much older.

“Galad,” the Aos Sí replied, grinning broadly. “I’d heard you’d been tasked to guard the mortal queen. But I hadn’t expected to see you until Lir returned.”

“Has he sent word?” Galad asked.

“Only that he’ll be longer than usual this time.”

Galad nodded his head. “I anticipated it wouldn’t be as simple as it once was.”

Aswhatonce was? Where had Lir gone? Aisling opened her mouth to ask but before she could utter a word, Galad glanced at Aisling over his shoulder.

“Aisling requests to correspond with the—herfather,” Galad said, on the verge of referring to Nemed as something Aisling assumed would only inspire her temper.

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.” Filverel stood from his seat, moving like a ghost and gliding across the carpets with eerie elegance. An impossibly tall, grey-clad phantom. Of course, he didn’t sport the usual tunics, inars, trousers, orléine, the mortals usually did. No, like all other Sidhe,he wore a far more interesting counterpart, one woven and embroidered masterfully by Sidhe hands. Attractively cut and, at times, imaginatively embellished with all manner of woodland accessories: petals, leaves, pine needles, bugs, stones, feathers, and furs. But as startling as this Aos Sí was,Aisling had already crossed his path twice before. Once during the night of her wedding and again at theSnaidhm, sitting a few seats over in the private box with the rest of the trooping Sidhe.

“I’m one of Lir’s oldest court advisors,” he said, bowing and never once releasing Aisling from his gaze, the stench of lavender and thyme, dusting off his robes and clouding the room.

“Pleased to meet you,” Aisling said, donning the etiquette Clodagh had branded into her every muscle, bone, and breath since she bore the wherewithal to eat with a book balanced on her head. “Aisling of Clann Neimedh. The?—”

“The almost-beheaded mortal princess.” Filverel bared his pointed canines. “Forgive me, I’m still reeling from the reality of it. I was among those opposed to your union, considering it was nearly an execution bound to exacerbate mortal and Sidhe tensions. But alas, here we are. The princess lives.”

Aisling snapped her mouth shut, considering her next words carefully. He’d read every thought she’d harbored over the last several days with alarming accuracy but hearing an Aos Sí speak of it as though her human life were as frivolous as a flower to be plucked from the earth, was unnerving, to say the least. A product of their immortality, it shouldn’t shock Aisling that her mortal life would indeed be considered insignificant by comparison.

“Aye, nearly headless then and heedful now for, not only did I keep my head, I’ve added a crown.”

“Of course,mo Lúra.” Filverel hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty flashing across his opalescent orbs, appearing as quickly as it had vanished. The tone with which he said “mo Lúra,” a knife, gliding across his tongue.

“Aisling’s letters need to be revised before they’re delivered,” Galad interjected, stepping between the mortal queen and advisor.

“Yes, I recall Lir mentioning as much should the princess fancy herself nostalgic. Where’s the letter?”

Galad considered Aisling before offering Filverel the envelope.

For what felt like an eternity, the Aos Sí inspected the parchment, combing through each word, dangling the page in varying lights—even over the beams striking through his window—perhaps for some clever ink with which the mortal queen could slip a message.

At last, he set down his magnifying glass and his quill, folding and slipping the parchment back into its parcel.

“As far as secret codes or treasonous slurs go, the princess is innocent,” Filverel said, melting the seal anew. “But,mo Lúra, I must ask: what gives you the impression your father isn’t already aware of the Unseelie?”

Aisling met Filverel’s stare, annoyed he’d read her letter at all. For not only had he thoroughly devoured every stroke of her penmanship, but now he’d pried into the content even after determining it innocent.

“He’s never mentioned them before. No one in the mortal world, as far as I’m aware, has ever mentioned the Unseelie.”

“And you believe that reason enough?” Filverel challenged, narrowing his eyes.

“I have no reason to doubt him.”

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