Page 5 of The Mortal Queen

Husband. Aisling’s eyes drifted towards the fae king. Her stomach flipped at the sight of him, forcing herself to clench her fists around the hilt of the dagger lest they began to shake. And as if he had sensed her attention, their eyes met. His lips parted, those green irises glimmering in the starlight like Clodagh’s drawers of polished jade. He’d removed much of his armor, but his axes remained strapped against his back. Those primordial blades perhaps cast in the Forge of Creation itself if such a myth were anything more than that: a myth.

“What would’ve become of me?” Aisling blurted. Iarbonel and Annind shifted in their seats on either side of her. “What would’ve become of me if I’d selected the wrong weapon? During the ceremony?”

Annind followed her gaze and found the fae king across the way, his axes winking back.

“It’s an ancient fae tradition,” Annind began, his voice hesitant. “All unions of their kind participate in a similar test.” Yes, Aisling already assumedall of that.

“But what would’ve occurred had I failed?” Aisling insisted. Annind clenched his jaw, shaking his head slightly as if convincing himself and failing to tell his sister no more.

“If you chose the wrong blade, you’d have been beheaded,” Annind said, clearing his throat and averting his gaze. “Normally, if the fair folk bride fails, they engage in combat to the death. In your case, considering you are mortal and bear no ability to duel, you would’ve been executed near instantly.”

“It never would’ve come to that,” Iarbonel spat, shooting daggers at his brother with his crow-like gaze. An onyx hue each of the brothers had stolen from Clodagh upon birth.

Annind ignored him, cursing beneath his breath.

“The Aos Sí believe their sword or weapon of choice is similar to a limb but not a corporeal one. A limb of the soul. True mates can identify their partner’s soul based on the weapons they wield, said to be inextricably tethered to their heart. For a king, the practice is taken more seriously,” Annind attempted to clarify. To justify.

“It’s nothing more than superstition. Even us mortals have traditions we follow out of habit rather than pure belief. Primitive really,” Iarbonel said, running his fingers through his dark hair. Hair as black as Aisling’s.

“Did Father know?” Aisling asked, turning to face Iarbonel. Her brother avoided her eyes, instead exchanging glances with Annind. But that was answer enough. Aisling knew Nemed and Clodagh would place the North above all else, even their children, but to experience such fealty first hand was more painful than she’d anticipated.

And as if prompted by her thoughts, Nemed stood from his seat and raised a goblet. The fae king, aware of the gesture, quieted his people without so much as a word, and the celebration dissolved into silence, all eyes pinned to the mortal high king of the Isles of Rinn Dúin, as well as the Sovereign of Tilren.

“I speak for each of the mortal northern lords when I saywe are honored to have participated in the first union between the Aos Sí and our kind. May such a marriage lead to peace between our races in the north.” Nemed glared at the fae king, narrowing his eyes. “May we set an example to the rest of the world.”

Perhaps only Aisling, who noted her father’s strange intonation as he spoke those last words, recognized his toast as the threat that it was. She found the fae king in the crowd, a cool smile spread across his face, either unfazed or unaware of her father’s passive aggression. But she shouldn’t be surprised. The Aos Sí and mortals were natural enemies. Not even a political union could change that.

The kings and queens, chieftains and chiefesses, lords and ladies of Kinbreggan, Aithirn, and Roktling stood from their seats and raised their goblets. Some more capable of hiding their fear than others, steadying their hands and willing the wine not to leap over the brim.

“To the end of bloodshed!” the Bregganite king shouted, tipping back his goblet and downing its contents. He was the eldest mortal sovereign, all his sons having died of a disease born from the lack of fresh food and the increasingly squalid state of the mortal world after centuries of ongoing war with the Aos Sí. Even the mortal kingdoms still standing strong feared venturing too far into the wilderness to hunt or gather lest they be set upon by fair folk. For this reason, Tilren struggled to bring in enough meat, grains, fruits, and vegetables for the entirety of the kingdom to eat their fill. That was why Nemed had begun spreading his walls, claiming more and more of the wilderness, burning trees, laying waste to the wilds. So that he could harbor more cattle and farmland within the protection of mortal walls. A gesture met with the fair folk’s fury.

The fae king and his warriors raised their goblets before he tipped his head to the mortal monarchs. Grinning, he drank. His feral subjects followed his lead, themusic prompting their continued debauchery. After all, both the Aos Sí and mortals had thoroughly inspected all wines, meads, and foods present at the festivities for poison or mischief of any sort. Even the grounds were finely combed through for traps should either race choose to take back their word.

But Aisling’s mind drifted elsewhere.

For a warlord, the fae king was beloved by his subjects. Beloved and feared. Aisling had seen first hand the sort of power her father collected through a similar sort of fear, a merciless ruling hand. Ruthless yet effective. But Nemed wielded such authority through the instillment of obedience, cultivating a civilization of order, efficiency, and harmony. Nothing like these anarchic barbarians. Wild, ages-old beasts in the form of breathtaking men and women, Aisling now realized.

But the fae king’s knights also talked freely around and to him, addressing him like a friend. A comrade. One who had fought battles by his warriors’ sides, a strange fae practice Aisling was realizing, for in the mortal realm, kings strategized from their castles, their camps, dueling only when necessary to protect the crown and royal legacy. Especially those with iron legs.

The fae king matched his subjects’ energy, laughing and drinking alongside them. Indulging, far more than was proper of a nobleman, much less a king. And even from a distance, even over the roar of the drums and the music, Aisling could hear his laugh, drawing her back to him. She studied the fine lines of his jaw, his markings wrapped around his forearms like serpents, disappearing under the white of his shirt. By now, he’d stripped away his armor, revealing the tall, slender yet muscular form of himself. Every one of his movements, despite the countless bottles of wine he’d unstoppered, was performed with a grace-like elegance Aisling envied.

It went without saying, he was not the brute Aisling had anticipated physically. Not the monstrous abomination she’dheard in the tales before bed. But those were the most dangerous sort of creatures, the lovely ones.

Just as Aisling intended to turn away, she realized the fae king had caught her staring. The princess’s heart stuttered. His sage-green eyes watched her, a roguish grin sweeping his handsome features. There was something about the shadows in his eyes, the way he undressed her body and soul. Herself, the sole subject of his gaze. A feral devil intrigued by the perfume of her cold fear, her hot blood, the sweat pearling across her skin.

“Aisling,” a familiar voice sounded from behind, tearing her from her reverie. “I’ve caught you at last.” Dagfin, prince of Roktling, greeted the princess with a bow. Her heart twisted the moment their eyes met, a combination of guilt and relief washing over her. The mere sight of the prince disarming the spell the fae king had woven. A gesture for which Aisling was eternally grateful.

Iarbonel and Annind exchanged knowing glances before standing from their chairs and taking their leave, allowing Dagfin and Aisling some privacy. But Aisling knew this was also an excuse for them to join the rest of her brothers, observing the festivities more closely.

“For the moment,” Aisling said, gesturing for Dagfin to sit beside her. Already, Aisling noticed the prince had changed since they were children, sneaking from their rooms in the dead of night. For indeed it had been several years since she’d last seen the prince. Although, he still bore that boyish tousle of locks, thick dark brows, and a scar along his knuckles, a result of Aisling attempting to practice Iarbonel’s lessons on her only friend. He was taller now, his shoulders broader, his features more pronounced. No longer was he the boy that tugged at her braids when she’d fallen asleep during their lessons.

“How are you faring, Ash?” He hesitated, uncertainty clouding his expression. “I suppose I shouldaddress you differently now,Your Majesty,” he said, tilting his head forward.

Aisling smiled. “Nonsense, I preferred it when you called me a spoilt child all those years ago.”

“That name suited you then as this new title suits you now.” He watched her closely. He’d always looked at her like that––as though she were an uncharted sea, waiting to be explored. That was Dagfin’s nature. Perpetually in pursuit of an adventure to whisk him away from his princely duties. To distract him from the crown that would inevitably sit on his head.

Nevertheless, Dagfin had matured since she’d last laid eyes on him. Last held his hand and cried when he’d left for Roktling once more. He’d been nothing more than a boy then. Not the man that sat beside her now. A man whose eyes had darkened, something strange skewing the curve of his smile.

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