Page 42 of The Mortal Queen

“If the Battle at Beigarth’s Fjord is any indication, Noirin, you need the practice,” the knight replied, already turning towards the stags, finished with the conversation.

But the very mention of war sobered Aisling. After all, the Battle at Beigarth’s Fjord had been a bloody duel between the Aos Sí and the mortals, her very own clann having participated, Starn and Dagfin among those soldiers. They could’ve, should they have met more unfortunate ends, beenone of the countless Lir, Peitho, Galad or even Gilrel had no doubt slain. The many they’d stained the earth’s blood with.

But Aisling knew better than to voice her irritation. She was smarter than that. So, the mortal queen bit her tongue and followed Galad towards one of the prepared stags. A beast who fanned Aisling with an aura of excitement the nearer she approached and eventually mounted. For riding was one skill Aisling did possess.

Its round eyes considered her, tilting its head back. Close enough for the queen to better marvel at the diadem of tangled bone. So, Aisling slid her fingers over the contours of each antler.

“What are we to do?” Aisling asked, straightening her posture atop the mount. Galad retrieved a bow and quiver for her, handing it to his mortal queen.

“You see that dummy at the end of the pitch?” Galad asked, pointing into the distance. Far off stood a humanoid doll, limply nailed to a stake.

“We call it the fire hand of the North”—Blaine grinned wickedly—“for inspiration.”

Aisling felt her blood boil, heating her skin till she nearly simmered. But losing her temper to these Aos Sí would be a loss. She couldn’t allow them to provoke her.

“It’s a game we train with. You’ll be paired up to race towards the dummy. The first to impale its head wins,” Galad explained, draping the quiver over her shoulders.

“Is there a certain distance I’m to shoot from?”

“You can shoot from here if you like. But you only have one arrow so make certain it’ll find its target. On the other hand, the longer you wait, the more opportunity you give your opponent to strike the dummy first.”

“You’ll need to manage your mount, aim your reed, time your shot against the race, and hit the target,” Gilrel elaborated, climbing atop her own stag. A funny sight if Aisling were being honest. But although small in form, Gilrelmore than compensated with her confidence and unmatched resolve.

“Simple enough.” But once the words left her lips, she knew Galad had heard the uncertainty inherent within.

“It’s not so difficult,mo Lúra.Hold the bow with one hand and the arrow between these two fingers.” Galad demonstrated. “Set the arrowhead on your fist to steady it. I like to draw an imaginary line, a thread between the tip of my arrow and its target. Then inhale and shoot with the exhale. As for the riding, I’m confident in your abilities.”

“No one expects you to master it on your first try, mo Lúra,” Gilrel said, nudging her hart closer to Aisling’s as the rest tested the weight of their arrows against their bows.

“No, we absolutely do not,” Deidra added.

Gilrel ignored the trooping Aos Sí. “We’ve had centuries of practice.”

“But by the way you hold that bow, I’m assuming you’ve had none.” Peitho brought her stag beside Aisling’s own.

“An ragairl é fin,aPeitho?” Galad barked but the fae princess shrugged him off.

“Gilrel and Blaine, why don’t you demonstrate first?” Peitho tossed her fiery hair over her shoulder.

“Very well,” Blaine replied, eyeing the marten with shards of ice for eyes.

Both warriors commanded their mounts towards the starting line, a band painted across the grass with two torches lit on either side. The rest of their group joined them, spectating a few paces away. But the doll, far in the distance, was a mere speck at the other end of the field.

“What happens if they miss?” Aisling asked.

After all, the challenge they’d described was a feat—at least, Aisling realized, for a mortal.

“We don’t miss,” Galad said, training his eyes on the dummy up ahead. The mortal queen was on the brink of discovering whether that was true and if it were, she was indeed riding straight into a humiliation she didn’t believePeitho would soon forget.

“Are you ready?” Peitho asked and in response both Blaine and Gilrel nodded, taking hold of their reins and leaning forward.

“Very well,” Peitho continued. “On the count of three.”

Gilrel narrowed her beady eyes to the horizon.

The group fell silent, allowing them their concentration. Their stags prancing anxiously beneath them. A punch of energy, of eagerness, of a drive to run, to feel the morning wind in their manes, the ground beneath their hooves, startling Aisling.

“One, two,” Peitho counted, “three.”

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