Page 66 of The Mortal Queen

“What are you?” he asked.

CHAPTER XXI

By the time the fae knights had mounted their stags and continued their travels, the dawn had yet to arrive. Nevertheless, their fae procession would continue to travel through the night, eager to burn these dark hours before they found another place to rest, deep within the forest. And find it they did, far in the highlands of the North, where the trees grew tall and thin and the snow melted off the mountains in great, frothing rapids.

“Are they all dead?” Aisling asked the fae king riding behind her. The image of his wide eyes, looking at Aisling from across the rocky glade, flashed repeatedly in her mind, crimson speckling his otherworldly face as he rushed towards her, a circle of dead surrounding him. For although each of the fair folk had been outnumbered during battle, none had faced the brunt as greatly as had Lir. Aisling couldn’t count the bodies that lay tangled at his feet.

The fae king hadn’t bothered to wipe his weapons, blades dripping as he inspected the mortal queen for injury. His sage eyes darted between herself and the fomori blackened by the violet fire.

“No, some, those who didn’t attack, are alive.”

“And what of them now?”

“They will continue as they always have over the past millennia,” Lir said, tugging Saoirse’s reins so she turned on a steep bend. “But if one breaks Sidhe law, they’ll meet similar ends as their brethren did tonight.”

There was a part of Aisling that found herself hoping the fae king cared for mortal well-being. An irrational part of her. But Aisling knew his enforcement of Sidhe law was exclusively for the sake of his own kind; in order to prevent further conflict with Nemed and the rest of the mortal sovereigns, the Unseelie needed to comply with the laws of the Sidhe.

“Many Unseelie establish dominance and leadership through brute force. The strongest among them, he or she who fights for ascendancy and wins, is to be crowned the rightful sovereign of their group,” Lir explained, his voice a whisper.

“So, the fomorians, they view you as their leader once more?” Because Lir had killed Balor effortlessly. With the flick of his wrist and an iron dagger.

“For now, I’ve gained their obedience. Demonstrated dominance.”

“That’s barbaric,” Aisling said.

“It’s their order. How they establish social hierarchy, an understanding that the mortals enjoy pretending they’re above but partake in all the same. In their own way.”

Aisling knew the fae king was partially correct. Man, Aos Sí, Unseelie sought out powerful leaders. Sovereigns, masters, kings, and queens who could protect and provide for them. And while the mortals followed strict bloodlines to name the rightful heir, strength, power, and control were nevertheless required to deter usurpers, coups, or revolutions. Such uprisings had occurred in other mortal states, Aisling knew.

So, the queen bit her bottom lip, ignoring the pressing of new, violent memories on her mind. She could feel such experiences—the death, the destruction, the pain—tweaking at her thoughts.How she thought. What she thought. Brutality is easier and easier to cope with. To behold, unlike when she’d slain the trow. The exposure to such horrors desensitizing her slowly. She tasted it, the numbness. The disregard for the death of those she believed deserved slow and painful ends.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice soft and new. Aisling didn’t need to crane her neck to read his expression; even in the dark, she could feel the tension hiked in his shoulders and arms. Could see the flexing of his hands, veins coiling around the backs of his runed palms. “I didn’t intend to leave you out there so long. For them to”—he hesitated—“touch you.”

Aisling cringed at the memory. The filthy stench their proximity had smoked her leathers with. How Gnoll had indeed touched her.

“We needed to see if they’d comply with the new laws. Refrain from assaulting a mortal,” Lir continued.

“An infraction punishable by death,” Aisling surmised.

“An infraction alone, a breaking of Sidhe law, is rarely ever punishable by death,” Lir said.

“But to disrespect their king is—” Aisling conjectured, for Nemed would’ve done the same to such treasonous slurs, if not much, much worse.

“The Sidhe have already lost this war. You are no longer my king.” Balor’s voice would haunt Aisling—the mortal queen knew this—for long after this night. Aisling was quickly realizing that not only were the Aos Sí outnumbered by the mortals, suffering by their susceptibility to iron and their inability to produce offspring, but their alliance with their sister race, the Unseelie, was falling apart as a result of Lir’s attempts to preserve the Sidhe. To protect the Sidhe he’d risked everything. And now the consequences were raising their vengeful heads.

“No,” Lir said, his voice darkening, “to threaten your life.”

Every muscle in Aisling’s body tightened at the words. She felt—she didn’t know how she felt. Strange and perhapsgrateful he’d indeed lived up to the promise she’d doubted he would. For Filverel, despite his palpable disdain for Aisling, had protected her in the name of his king.

Aisling searched for something to say but no words came to mind. So thankfully, Lir spoke for her.

“You should sleep,” he said as they began their ascent up a rocky path. With one hand, he released Saoirse’s reins, reaching around the mortal queen to hold her waist. The other hand remained on the reins, directing the stag onward. “I’ll steady you,” he whispered in her ear.

Aisling opened her mouth to protest. But the warmth of his body wrapped around her own, the heat that such contact conjured within herself, and Saoirse’s steady gait, lulled Aisling to sleep.

The mortal queen plunged into a deep slumber, a flailing body driven by a current of nightmares. Time after time, she relived the images of the fomorians racing from their caves and swarming the crater. Gnoll’s hungry embrace. Their putrid smell. The scratch of their nails against her skin. Gnoll wrapped in flames of violet. But in her dreams the fomorians bore burning coals for eyes, their horns wrapped in those strange flames, devouring her fingers, her legs as she watched, immovable. Unable to stop them, for she was too weak.

Aisling woke furious, cooled by the world around her. Lir was guiding Saoirse deep into the forested mountains of Rinn Dúin. The fae king weaved Saoirse between the pines and ducked beneath the frosted needles that mirrored the sparkling skies above. Skies whose midnight blue was gradually blooming into spring rose with the arrival of dawn.

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