Page 57 of The Mortal Queen

“Galad’scaerawas a knight, Morrin. Could best any one of us in hand-to-hand combat,” Filverel said, moving closer to where Galad and Aisling sat side by side. “And in any conflict with the mortals, she fought valiantly, sweeping through more of your kind than any soldier I’ve yet to meet.” Filverel grinned.

“She was the reason for our victory on the Hills of Hidris. She fought for the Sidhe on this continent and beyond for the Sidhe’s continued survival in this realm. Without her, the Sidhe may’ve met a different end. Without her, none so many knights would be sitting around this very circle.”

The Aos Sí exchanged glances, speaking without uttering a word. All except Lir, whose attention remained latched to the mortal queen. What loathing he must feel for her, Aisling realized. She knew of the horrors centuries of war had rendered on both races, but to hear the individual stories aloud…Aisling felt ill.

“And after this fateful battle, along with a handful of others, Morrin stayed behind to tend to the injured, aiding the healers in all they required. But of course, the mortals felt nothing of honor. They spat at the foot of integrity when their surviving battalions captured the Sidhe who remained, outnumbering and binding them with iron. Morrin among them. For decades, Galad searched for a way inside the walls of Tilren. Into Castle Neimedh. To find Morrin and lay waste to that mortal pot of filth.” Filverel was behind Galad now, hovering above him like a vulture. “And in the depths of one night, Galad managed it. Snuck his way into Tilren, through your city streets and towards Castle Neimedh, only to be caught and held prisoner for years. And Morrin—poor, brave Morrin—was never found.”

This was not true. Had a Sidhe been harbored in her own castle for years, Aisling would’ve known of it. Would’ve been aware that Galad, one of the few Sidhe who’d shown her some fleck of kindness, was held captive in the dungeons.These are lies, Aisling repeated in her mind.

“Show us what marks those years left,” Filverel commanded the knight.

Galad looked straight ahead, a cord snaking down his forehead.

“What matters is that Lir sacrificed greatly in return for Galad’s life,” Gilrel piped, “and we’re grateful he sits amongst us now.”

Filverel ignored the marten, eyes burning a hole through the back of Galad’s head.

“Show us,” Filverel repeated, his tone growing impatient. Still, Galad didn’t flinch, only clenched his teeth.

“Enough, Filverel,” Gilrel growled.

“Very well.” And with that, Filverel bent down and raised Galad’s shirt, so quickly, Aisling had scarcely seen the advisor lunge. But it mattered not, for what Aisling looked at, took her breath away. Across the knight’s rib cage was an enormous branding. The symbol of mankind. The fist gripping the flame. The same shape that was carved into the pommel of Iarbonel’s dagger. The image etched into his skin, bubbling the flesh with nasty red lesions that interrupted his slick, fae markings. As fierce as though it had been burnt into his flesh yesterday.

Aisling gasped, clasping a hand over her mouth. And now, there was little Aisling could do to prevent the tears from spilling down her cheeks till they dripped from her chin.

“A token but not from your father as you might’ve guessed,” Filverel continued, his dark eyes burning like coals. “One of the king of the greenwood’s first Sidhe knights branded by the heir to the Tilrish throne. Starn of Clann Neimedh.”

Aisling was grateful for the crackling of the fire, the woodland gale, the whistling of songbirds perched in the canopies. For these sounds masked the grinding of her jaw as she lay at the center of the glade. The rest of the fae knights already dreamed or drank by the stags. All except for Einri, Aedh, Filverel, and Lir. Einri and Aedh paced the clearing’s edge, eyes locked on the realm of greenwood. The fae king and his advisor, on the other hand, whispered for hours, plotting their revised approach to ensnaring the Unseelie, Aisling assumed.

But Aisling couldn’t sleep. Rage kept her an arm’s length from rest, her blood boiling.

To hear her eldest brother’s name on Filverel’s lips struck Aisling like a blow to the gut. Starn had always been Nemed’s favorite: the only one of all five siblings allowed to escort the mortal king on his weeks-long missions. Favored to fight beside Nemed, to take his place at court when Nemed was too preoccupied. Because Starn was the heir to the kingdom. Starn had always been fierce and cruel and cold, but a king needed to be if they wished to rule. And a king Starn would one day be.

These fair folk knew nothing of her brother, her father, the struggles that mankind endured, or Nemed’s reasons for burning the forests. Tilren and all of the mortal nations were overpopulating, bursting at their kingdom’s seams and because of the Aos Sí’s monopoly over the wilderness, mankind couldn’t hunt or gather sufficiently to provide for the growing demand. So Nemed burned the feywilds to spread Tilren’s walls. To make room for his multiplying realm.

On the other hand, the Aos Sí carried the opposite dilemmas. Their primordial race was dwindling, dancing on the cusp of extinction, Aisling realized. A result of the fair folk’s inability to birth enough children to compensatefor the casualties of war. They were far outnumbered and crippled by their susceptibility to iron. How much longer could the Aos Sí survive in a world where man demolished the wilderness to carve out their bastions, their roads, their cities, their overeager goals of conquest?

And if rage were not enough to keep the mortal queen from resting, her pity overwhelmed her. Swelling from within like a cold shadow, both sadness and guilt extinguished the irate flames she tried desperately to stoke. She wouldn’t allow herself to feel sympathy for them, Hagre and Rian’s accounts, all the knights’ stories that had yet to be spoken. Not even Galad whose branding was etched into her memory forever. She couldn’t. Wouldn’t. And yet she did.

Without an approaching sound, a figure stretched themselves down beside the mortal queen. Aisling rolled from her position as quickly as she was capable, Iarbonel’s dagger in hand. But her attempts at self-preservation and privacy were futile for Lir caught her wrist easily.

He lay on his side, considering her and she him, the perfume of the wildflowers swirling around them like pink clouds of cologne.

“You’ve been crying,” he said, eyes tracing the saltwater stains around her swollen cheeks. Aisling wiped her face with her sleeve, scrubbing away the tears. Still, he regarded her like a riddle, taking Aisling apart before reassembling her in his mind.

“Wasn’t that your intention? To torture me?” Aisling bit, jerking her hand back.

“Filverel’s intention. Not mine.”

“Yet you did nothing. And because you did nothing you are just as much to blame,” Aisling simmered, speaking in angry whispers lest she wake the rest of the Aos Sí. Normally she wouldn’t care but as it currently stood, she bore no desire to interact with any of them quite so soon. Regardless, it didn’t matter if Lir involved himself or not. He didn’t owe heranything more than preserving her life for the sanctity of the union. A union Aisling felt more and more was made of glass.

“You needed it,” Lir said.

“Needed to be humiliated?”

“Needed to hear from the mouths of the Sidhe their stories. Their perspective,” he said, rolling onto his back. His hair fell away from his face, his striking features bathed in the shadows of the yews hanging over.

“You didn’t know of any of it, did you?” he asked, turning his head to the side, sage eyes flashing brilliantly. “You didn’t know what your father did—does, do you?”

---