Page 40 of The Mortal Queen

Iarbonel’s dagger.

A knife she’d lost in her tussle with the Cú Scáth. A knife she believed she’d never see again. One he’d also brought a scabbard for, placing it beside the weapon.

The fae king faced the open terrace. His features lit with the moon’s soft glow, rendering his damp skin radiant. His hair was a tumble of black, curling around his ears and pushed away from his forehead. Loose braids retied.

There were new scars now. A trail along his ribcage and three faint lines, like claw marks, dragging between his shoulder blades. Blades that now harbored wings. Only the starlight rendered them visible.

If this was a dream, she could do anything she liked, including touching his wings without fear of the consequences. She needn’t be ashamed of wanting anything while in a dream. Even if what she wanted was to touch a member of the fair folk. To see what those wings felt like.

“He is the worst of them: ruthless, merciless, no more than a beast driven by hunger, need, and power. But, unlike the wolf, he is insatiable.”Nemed’s voice drilled into her chest, opening a bottomless cavern.

While in shadow, Lir was the macabre king of barbarians her father had always described. And while in light, he was the stag his people knew. So, for the first time, Aisling understood why the Aos Sí dubbed Lir theDamh Bán:he was the embodiment of the still, silent, and powerful fae stags in this particular dream. A dream painted by the fair folk’s gaze. And when she woke, he’d once again bare his fangs, eager for blood.

Beneath his breath, he hummed a hauntingtune. One with which Aisling was familiar, Cathan’s song and the legend of Ina. The lullaby threatened to lull Aisling to sleep once again but she craved more. Desired her ears to drink and drink till the sun itself deigned to rise and the world remained a prisoner of the moon. The vibration of his voice, the way the natural world leaned closer, delighted by his song. The wisterias swaying back and forth. The ivy braiding themselves into Aisling’s hair.

So, Aisling lay there still, eventually descending once more into deepest slumber. Stolen away, swept into another distant, dark world of dreams and nightmares. Whisked away to another place, another time. But Aisling found herself resisting those new machinations. Reaching rather for that one nightmare of the fae king and his ivory wings. Just out of reach.

CHAPTER XIV

When the morning arrived, Aisling was haunted by the memory of him. Dreams of a winged fae lord sitting at her bedside, humming that song. At the time, there’d been some uncertainty as the memory was nothing more than a sleepy hallucination. But any doubts were quickly put to rest when Aisling was, yet again, alone in her bed, no sign of the fae king having come or gone. Save for Iarbonel’s dagger at her bedside, ruby winking in the morning light.

Aisling paled at the thought of him being so close. The eternal war-lord had watched her as she slept.

And just as Aisling padded out of bed, the chamber door burst open. The mortal queen lunged for her dagger before she’d had an opportunity to witness who’d entered.

“Morning,mo Lúra,” Gilrel said, strolling into the mortal queen’s rooms, unfazed by the ebony dagger pointing in her direction. “I’m glad to see you’re returning back to normal. Your recovery has gone better than anticipated for a mortal. Miraculous, really.”

Aisling lowered the blade, sheepishly fiddling with it between her fingers.

“Apologies, I thought you might be someone else.”

“Yourcaera?” Gilrel smiled wryly. Was she not concernedabout Iarbonel’s dagger potentially being held at her king? Perhaps she didn’t believe Aisling capable of doing any such damage to Lir even if it had been him at the door, or perhaps the Aos Sí were warriors, violent savages even in the privacy of their relationships. Immediately, Aisling shook away the thought.

“I’ve caught word he’s returned,” Gilrel said, rummaging through Aisling’s cupboards.

“Here? To Annwyn?”

“Where else?” the lady’s maid retrieved a sleeveless, emerald tunic and various leather accessories to accompany it. Something far too form-fitting for Aisling to ever select herself.

The mortal queen dimmed. She’d known the fae king would return at some point, but she hadn’t been prepared for it to be today. She’d grown comfortable in her solitude despite the aching monotony of being cooped up in her chambers, a sensation that reminded her of life in Tilren––and not in a positive way. That was the one change Aisling had been eager for, to wander wherever she liked. These chambers may not have been the dungeon she’d imagined before marrying Lir, but it was certainly a form of imprisonment.

“Come, we must prepare you,” Gilrel said, already helping the mortal queen undress from her chemise.

“For what, may I ask?”

“Today is your opportunity to leave the castle’s walls,” the marten said, as if having read her mind. “Just to the training fields, beside the stables, but it’s better than nothing.”

Aisling had obviously never ventured towards the fae stables, but she’d seen them from a terrace further inside the castle while navigating the corridors with Galad. The stables stood beside the forest’s edge, at the end of a verdant pitch where many of the Aos Sí sparred, wrestled, swung their blades, shot their arrows, and exercised the stags.Trained to slay mortals, Aisling thought bitterly to herself.

Aisling awkwardly slipped her legs into the trousers, aware of how they hugged the curve of her legs. Next, Gilrel tugged the emerald tunic over the queen’s head, a vest and skirt of chainmail, all cinched by a leather corset. “The training fields?” The mortal queen swallowed.

“Peitho has requested you join her for the morning and, despite it being Peitho who asked, I thought you’d be delighted to receive some fresh air. As am I.” It was then that Aisling realized Gilrel wasn’t wearing her usual servant’s dress but was rather clad in two small shoulder plates, a bandolier, and a tunic of chainmail over her furry belly.

“You’ll be joining us?” Aisling asked the chambermaid.

“Only if you allow it,mo Lúra.I haven’t had the practice in some weeks and figured this would be a good time?—”

“Of course,” Aisling interrupted her. “I don’t think I could handle Peitho on my own, regardless.” Gilrel did her best to conceal the shock, perhaps even gratitude, flaring across her expression. So, she swiftly redirected her attention to the magpies busily folding Aisling’s chemise pooled on the marble floors.

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