Page 43 of The Mortal Queen

Both Gilrel and Blaine erupted from the starting line, an explosion as they became mere blurs of color in the distance.

They raced wickedly fast. Shrinking with impossible speed as their mounts carried them towards the dummy. Blaine raised her bow first, reaching for the arrow in her quiver and balancing it on her bow. Gilrel pulled ahead, both paws still clasping the reins. Her beast quickened with Gilrel’s guidance fully focused on her. Blaine, on the other hand, fell behind, near standing atop her mount. Poised to strike. She demonstrated a savageness Aisling realized was wonderful. A realization met by a familiar guilt.

“What’s Gilrel waiting for?” Aisling asked Galad, her heart hammering against her chest. Her hands squeezed the leather reins. For still, Gilrel hadn’t reached for her bow nor stood from her mount.

“Gilrel is prioritizing speed.” Galad watched intently as he spoke. “She’ll come closer to the dummy more quickly if she keeps her attention focused on the stag. It’s an easier shot the closer she rides to the dummy, but she risks her opponent succeeding on an early attempt. Blaine, on the other hand, prioritizes the shot. Her approach is more aggressive. If she can make the shot from far enough away, striking first, she wins despite the slowingof her stag.”

Aisling held her breath, straining to watch them both in the distance.

By now, Gilrel was far ahead of Blaine, increasing the distance with each of her mount’s steps. But Blaine, indeed, shot first. Releasing the arrow from a way’s back. The reed spun like a swallow and cut the fog, brushing past Gilrel’s ears. A magnificent attempt. One that put mortal archers to shame. Including those within her own tuath.

But alas, Blaine’s risk didn’t pay off. The arrow struck just below the dummy’s chin, a hair’s length from its intended target. Aisling squealed, clenching her hands into fists.

“Does this mean Gilrel’s won?” Aisling asked.

“Unless she manages to miss, then yes,” Galad said. And sure enough, Gilrel stood atop her stag—a tiny, mighty little creature—raised her bow, placed the reed against the string, pulled and released. The arrow cut across the length of the field, nailing the dummy in the center of the head.

A perfect shot.

Aisling yelled, unable to stifle her excitement. A gesture that summoned Peitho’s, Noirin’s, and Deidra’s twisted expressions.

“Don’t be too thrilled just yet,mo Lúra. Your turn is coming,” Peitho said, ignoring Gilrel’s hoots of victory from across the field.

Blaine and the marten plucked their arrows from the dummy and trotted back, Gilrel’s bow held above her in victory.

Noirin and Deidra lined up next, readying themselves just as Gilrel and Blaine had. Peitho, once again, counted down until they burst from their positions with equal fervor.

They raced fiercely, challenging their stags. Like twin stars, catapulting towards the Earth. They were closer to the target now than either Gilrel or Blaine had been, at last releasing the arrows in nearly the same breath. Noirin’s arrow struck first, landing in the dummy’s chin. Deidra released herarrow next, puncturing the doll right between the eyes.

“Who’s won?” Aisling asked Galad, watching as they both retrieved their arrows from the dummy. “They’ve both managed to hit it in the head.”

“Aye, but Noirin released her arrow first,” Galad said. “She wins this round.”

The two fae returned to the group. And as they rode, Aisling knew that with every step closer, time was fleeting before it was her own turn. She, whose skills in archery were only dismally better than her sword fighting, which was saying very little.

Aisling clenched her jaw, willing the flock of crimson-eyed ravens to settle within her stomach.

“Ready,mo Lúra?” Peitho asked, already positioning herself before the starting line. “Will you count us down, Galad?”

The pitch stretched on for an eternity. Much larger than it had ever appeared from the terrace in the castle. The dummy was dwarfed by the distance and disguised amongst the landscape of trees that spectated as well.

Aisling’s hands grew slick with anger. The mortal queen was expected to fail and fail miserably. For no one expected her to compete against a member of the fair folk, pride unscathed.

Nevertheless, Aisling would rather suffer the loss than surrender. A more humiliating alternative.

“You needn’t fret,mo Lúra,” Peitho whispered beside her, “despite your showing at theSnaidhm, all of Annwyn knows you’re no fighter. You mortal princesses are best suited for spectating rather than participating. It’s best your attentions remain focused on birthing an heir. The Forge knows you’ll need it”—Peitho beamed—“especially after what happened with his lastcaera.”

Aisling stilled, unable to utter a word without scalding Peitho with her unfiltered thoughts. Too angry, tooambushed by the insinuation of anothercaerato properly organize her thoughts.

“You didn’t know, did you? That Lir had anothercaerabefore you? Obviously, she died, or else you wouldn’t be here, now would you? Died during childbirth as did the child. So difficult for us Aos Sí to bear children, you see. Of course, you mortals don’t have much issue with that. Like cattle you breed endlessly.” Her face twisted with disgust. “I thought I’d be his secondcaera, against all odds. Considering howclosewe were.” Aisling sat frozen. “Don’t look so shocked. Be grateful I informed you of his past, moLúra. I don’t think anyone else would have.”

Aisling struggled to find words.

A secondcaera?

Filverel was right. All the fae had indeed anticipated Aisling’s union was nothing more than an execution. For Lir had entered that ceremony prepared to behead her. To go against the political union the mortals believed it to be. Just as Filverel had intimated. After all, Aisling didn’t know much about fae customs or traditions, but she knew them well enough to know a secondcaerawas unheard of. In which case, Lir hadn’t expected Aisling to survive that night.

But there was another side to Peitho’s words. A part of Aisling’s heart that weighed heavy for Lir in a way she didn’t think was possible for a fae king. He who’d killed so many of her kind. And yet, she pitied him.

---