Page 4 of The Mortal Queen

Her whole life, Aisling had imagined standing in Castle Neimedh, wearing a white gown, bowing before her father with the prince of Roktling at her side. Instead, she stood in the wilderness, in a circle of fire, bound to a fae king. A barbarian. An enemy. The antithesis to the world from which she was born and bred. An immense death took place in her heart for the life taken from her.

The second rider, the one whose hair lit like flames, drew a dagger from his belt and cut his king’s palm. Aisling winced. From there, the first rider lifted a goblet of wine to which the fae king offered his own blood. He squeezed his hand into a fist, so the blood oozed from the wound and dripped into the goblet itself.

Aisling knew what was to come next. They gestured for Aisling’s hand once more. The princess hesitated, daring a glance over her shoulder at the clann that stood behind her. Aisling’s brothers each swallowed, their muscles tightening beneath their woolen cloaks. Her mother shied awayfrom her glance, unable or unwilling to meet her eyes, her father shifting where he stood.

The princess raised her hand. She inhaled sharply as the dagger sliced her flesh and stole the blood from her veins. It hurt, an acute pain that was thankfully brief. No worse than the nicks and scars she’d received escaping Castle Neimedh to secretly climb the trees outside the city walls, or exploring Tilren’s narrow passages at night.

Drop by drop, her blood was poured into the goblet, the same as had the king’s.

The fae lord drank first. He tipped the glass back and Aisling couldn’t help but stare as his throat bobbed in the gesture, skin glimmering in the firelight. Then it was Aisling’s turn. The king angled their bodies so he could lift her veil, their other hands still tangled in the rope. Aisling caught his stare. There was not a breath that passed where their eyes unlocked from the other, as he folded the veil over her crown of braids, witnessing the bare flesh of her cheeks, her pale complexion, her violet eyes. She felt naked before him. Heart hammering against her chest. More vulnerable than ever before. For he appraised her unapologetically, exploring her expression and the fear that no doubt ran rampant across her Tilrish features.

The fae king brought the goblet to her lips, and she drank. It tasted of iron as it slid across and stained her tongue. But such a flavor morphed into something else entirely, transformed into a sweet syrup, lighting her belly with fire. Something Aisling could’ve drunk for hours and never tired of. Like the sap the Tilrish kitchens would boil over the hearth when highland temperatures dropped, filling the city thoroughfare with spice and sugar. A memory Aisling now realized was nothing more than that: a memory never to be lived again.

As soon as she swallowed, the crowd erupted once more. The beat of their drums thrummed through her core, awaking a wild excitement she hadn’t realized she’d harbored untilnow.

The Aos Sí stomped their feet and banged their weapons against their shields. The mortals clapped and at last her father beamed wildly, masking the cold anger burning behind his violet eyes. The unsatiated rage her brothers ground into their teeth. For now, she was both married and a queen of the Aos Sí.

CHAPTER II

The fair folk drank and danced wildly. Aisling blushed at the sight of the females twirling barefoot in the fields, much of their skin exposed to the crisp evening air. Their hair hung loose, weaved through with satin ribbons, flowers, nuts, and pinecones. Flora that resembled jewels rather than scraps from the forest.

The fae males removed their armor and danced alongside them, singing, flirting, sparring playfully. They grabbed one another’s hands and formed a circle, twirling to the beat of the drum and the melody of the flute. They were the heathens Nemed had always described them to be, their flesh glimmering with sweat and the intricate tattoos said to describe their conquests, the countless human lives they’d stolen and left piled on battlefields.

The mortals, on the other hand, sat proudly at their tables, too afraid or too disgusted by the Aos Sí to participate in the revelry, Aisling was unsure.

Clann Neimedh were not the only mortals in attendance. So too had the nobles of the other northern mortal kingdoms—Kinbreggan, Aithirn, and Roktling—travelled to attend the union of the fae king and mortal princess. Kings, chieftains, their brides, and queens. The countries comprising theNorthern Isles known as Rinn Dúin. Even Dagfin, the prince of Roktling, once intended to marry Aisling when she came of age, was here. But war had changed such negotiations. War had changed everything.

Nemed and Clodagh had stuck close to Aisling until now, shoulder to shoulder, soaking in their last moments with their daughter. Of course, neither said more than a few words. The silence was heavy and cruel. For her mother and father bereaved their daughter’s still-beating heart, a Tilrish heart of iron and stone traded into the hands of the fae. But such proximity was short-lived, for every mortal monarch of the isles wished to speak with their high king and queen. And so Nemed and Clodagh obliged. Aisling was accustomed to such duty; it was, after all, for all of the mortal sovereigns, all of the North, all of mankind, that Aisling had wed the fae king.

“I ensured a means for you to write while you’re…away,” Iarbonel said, taking their father’s place beside his sister at the dining tables. Annind settled into his mother’s seat. Both Starn and Fergus, on the other hand, stood a pace away from the circle of fae dancers, studying the fair folk, for Fergus had scarcely seen the enemy up close. Starn was the only one amongst her siblings who accompanied Nemed on all his expeditions, dangerous or otherwise.

Aisling didn’t blame her brothers’ fascination. As wild as the Aos Sí may be, they were undoubtedly lovely. Still, no mortals dared join in the revelry. They either sat or stood stiff-backed, fearing for their lives should they inhale too deeply.

“Thank you,” was all Aisling could think to respond, her words more clipped than she’d intended.

“It doesn’t need to be said but I’ll say it regardless: you’re doing a courageous thing, Ash. For Clann Neimedh and all the North. Perhaps beyond,” Iarbonel continued, his eyes flicking to Nemed. Iarbonel was the third eldest son and perhaps the kindest of the four. “Here. Consider this a wedding gift from Starn, Fergus, Annind, and myself. But don’t showFather,” he said, a familiar mischief lacing his words. Her brother pulled from a strap across his tunic an iron dagger with a twisted onyx hilt, embellished with a pommel in the shape of a fist gripping a single, large ruby.

Aisling gasped at the sight of it. Iarbonel had taught Aisling how to use a dagger when they were children. All weapons forged in Tilren and in the mortal kingdom were done so with undiluted iron, the only substance known to wound or kill a member of the fair folk.

“Where did you get that?” Aisling said, perhaps too loud, for Annind nervously shushed her, watching Nemed and Clodagh from the corner of his eye as he’d done a thousand times before, while they snuck coins from their father’s desk drawers, let the wolfhounds loose during Clodagh’s tea, or stayed up past their bedtimes reciting outlandish and inappropriate tavern songs beneath their covers.

“Fergus borrowed it from Father’s weapons chamber,” Iarbonel said.

Aisling took the dagger, inspecting it just below the table. Low enough that none could see but herself and her brothers.

“He’ll hardly notice it’s missing.”

At that Annind scoffed, crossing his arms. Hardly a mouse skittered through Castle Neimedh that Nemed wasn’t aware of.

Aisling admired the pommel, stroking the ruby enclosed in the fist. It was a symbol for mankind. The crest of the mortals. An image that described how man, in the beginning of all things, had been born of nothing, had made themselves from nothing, had carved themselves into the earth from nothing. The ruby was the fire with which they did so, a fire firmly clutched in the hands of mankind. There were no gods or religion. Only man and man alone had risen of their own strength and of their own power. This symbol was a rejection of the lies spewed by the Forbidden Lore. Of the beliefs of the Aos Sí. Even if some of their myths and legends still snuck their way into modern man’s fireside tales.

“I hope you won’t need it but, just in case, we thought you might make use of it. If nothing other than to remind you of home,” Iarbonel said, closing Aisling’s hand over the hilt. His voice shook slightly. Aisling didn’t need to meet his eyes to know he was afraid for her. Who knew what would become of her now that she belonged to the fae? There wasn’t an aspect of this agreement that didn’t endanger Aisling, but it was a sacrifice all of the North, her clann, and her family were eager to make if it meant sparing their people from further conflict.

“I can’t thank you enough,” Aisling said, steadying her voice.

“It’s best you keep it a secret,” Iarbonel added, and Aisling understood. She couldn’t imagine solid iron was welcomed amongst the Aos Sí, especially when wielded by a mortal.

“Even from your”—Iarbonel tripped over his tongue, swallowing whatever twisted his tongue––“your husband.”

---