Page 9 of The Mortal Queen

Somehow, Aisling felt different. And while the mortal queen wouldn’t have been surprised at this foreign sensation blooming within, its emergence owed nothing to her virginity.

“You must be tired.”

An immeasurable weight had lifted from Aisling’s shoulders at the fae lord’s words. Her incorporeal self, beholding her would-be ruination from above, snapping back into her body, near knocking her off her feet. Naked in the blackness, entirely vulnerable, Aisling couldn’t shake the feeling that perhaps she’d done something wrong. Her chambermaids, advisors, and Clodagh had all groomed her for that night. Braced her for the pain, the terror, the indefinable andunavoidable loss of her virginity at the hands of a beast. A ritual of soul-scarring importance, and yet here she was, still a virgin. Unfulfilled in her attempts to uphold her duty for the sake of the North. Her thoughts warring between bewilderment, indescribable relief, and immeasurable guilt.

No. This bizarre feeling was something else entirely. Aisling awoke that morning, hearing andfeelingthe radiance of the sun humming to the tune of the songbirds’ chirps, all this despite being sheltered by the tent. She felt the pang of morning’s hunger, heard the animals sifting through the trees, their anxiety as so many visitors lined the forest’s edge. Potential predators. Feelings, sensations, sounds, voices that were not her own. As though she were experiencing the thoughts of someone or something else. Even the rustle of the trees was louder, more coherent than it ever had been before.

Aisling rode on her own stag at the center of the fae cavalcade. She blended well amidst their ivory and gold banners, caparisons, flags, and steel armor. A single tree was embroidered at the center of their crest, a tree shadowing the wide stance of a hart beneath its knot of limbs.

Fifteen of the king’s knights surrounded their new queen as they cut through the wilderness. The land this far from Tilren was wilder than any place Aisling had laid eyes on before. As if the queen could blink and the mountains would roll, adjusting their slumbering positions like hibernating bears. As if the trees would pick up their roots and dance or the caves would snap their mouths shut after years of yawning.

The rest of the fae king’s knights trailed behind, carrying their supplies and belongings. As for the fae subjects, they’d already departed at dawn, beginning the trek back to Annwyn.

Against her own will, Aisling found herself searching her surroundings for the fae king. He rode fiercely, at times leading their fae procession, other times flanking the wings, surveying from behind, challenging the greathart beneath him to keep his pace. The queen had never witnessed anything like it. Nemed would have ridden beside Aisling at the center of the cavalcade, well-protected by his knights should an enemy, an Aos Sí, threaten his life. The fae king paid no mind to such precautions. And why should he? He was just as much a part of the forest as it was a part of him. This enemy land washisland.

Although each of the knights wore similar armor, the fae king stood out like the first autumn tree turning at equinox. Not only was he revered by his subjects, their heads turning as he passed, his helmet was embellished with a stag’s antlers, bone-white and large like a mighty, thorned diadem.

At times, their eyes met. Always briefly, fleeting like a spark leaping from the flames.

“How long is the journey to Annwyn?” Aisling asked the knight riding nearest, hoping he understood her tongue as the fae king had. She’d recognized him from the night prior: one of the riders who’d presented his sword during the ceremony.

“We’ll arrive within two days’ time,mo Lúra,” the rider said, pulling his hart closer to Aisling’s.

The queen breathed a sigh of relief. Now there were two members of the Aos Sí she could rely on to understand her. In fact, this rider was one of the few fair folk who regarded the queen kindly. The rest of the Aos Sí studied her through narrowed eyes as if expecting her to transform into some mortal deception at a moment’s notice. She didn’t blame them. Had a fae princess married either Starn, Fergus, Iarbonel, or Annind, Aisling would’ve regarded them similarly.

“What does that mean?”

“Mo Lúra?” the rider asked, and Aisling nodded in response. He considered for a moment, removing his helmet to reveal a collection of hair braided like ropes. He was handsome, as all Aos Sí likely were, but Aisling would need to grow accustomed to their wild, unruly dress and styles. In Tilren, it was uncivilized for a man’s hair to surpass the topsof his ears, much less spiral down his back in beaded plaits.

“Lúra na Bryveth, Bride of the Forest.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Since the Age of the Forge, the queen of Annwyn has answered to this title. From the moment any bride is handfast to our sovereign, the moment you handfasted the fae king, his and your soul are tethered to the forest.”

Aisling blinked, doing her best to conceal her surprise. By marriage, by position, she supposed she was queen, but never did she believe the fair folk would consider her so. And perhaps they didn’t. Perhaps this rider followed custom, fought to maintain the illusion of peace this union symbolized. As for tethering her soul to the forest, it was nothing more than an odd manifestation of these people’s beliefs.

“You may call me Aisling,” she said, straightening herself. Fighting to uphold her own illusion of strength amongst these barbarians. The rider smiled, a warm expression framed by dimples. If it weren’t for his being an Aos Sí, Aisling would’ve believed him to bear a kind heart for his cobalt eyes sparkled with a tender sort of reassurance. Surely it was magic that made the Aos Sí so lovely. Made them so attractive, alluring, easy to trust, so they could coax innocents into the wilds.

“And you may call me Galad.” The rider bowed his head, readjusting his grip on the reigns of his stag.

“Are you faring well?” Galad continued, riding closer to the mortal queen so he could better hear her over the whipping of the stubborn winds. He gestured towards her stag and how she rode the great beast, for indeed this many hours on a mount were bound to chafe and gnaw at the muscles of the undisciplined.

Aisling nodded. “I enjoy riding.” Throughout her childhood, the world outside of Tilren’s walls was forbidden unless the princess was receiving riding lessons. Aisling grew to treasure those hours spent on horseback, breathing in the mountains, the fields, the cliffs, the forests that thegreat gates of Tilren eclipsed with stone.

“You’re naturally skilled for a mortal,” he said, admiring her posture. “The sign of a good rider is their beast.”

“And what signs does this beast tell?”

“Saoirse is our most obedient mount, she’d placate even a child who’d never ridden before,” Galad said. “I can’t say the same for the rest of our beasts.”

“I see,” Aisling stroked Saoirse’s broad neck, disappointed that the stag’s deference wasn’t the result of her own riding.

“But I can see in the twitch of her muscles, the angle of her ears, her willful gait, she wants to ride faster, quicker, harder.” He considered Aisling. “She’s inheriting that spirit from you,mo Lúra, and a rider who inspires their stag is a formidable one indeed.”

Aisling held back a grin. Was it possible an animal could interpret, sense so much of its rider? Or that the fair folk beside her could identify such a connection?

“Then I quite like this stag,” Aisling said, proudly running her fingers through Saoirse’s silken hide, a contrast to the destriers in Tilren whose hair was as stiff as the straw they ate. Saoirse shook with delight, leaning into Aisling’s palm.

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