Page 94 of The Mortal Queen

“Sister?” Iarbonel, her second oldest brother, spoke first, against his own volition, Aisling could tell, for he himself appeared stunned the words had left his lips. But the cadence of his voice, his mortal accent, and the wave of familiarity its sound inevitably conjured weakened Aisling. Aisling did her best to rival the scowls of the other half of the mortals. Expressions, faces, features so different than the fair folk she’d grown accustomed to. The ones whose shock was only equaled by their glares of pure disdain. Of betrayal. Those belonging to Starn, Friseal, who’d been her private tutor as well as her father’s hand, and the king of Kinbreggan to name a few.

The mortal queen had anticipated experiencing relief, joy, excitement at being reunited with her own kind. But now only anger simmered in her belly. For how dare they narrow their eyes at Aisling as though she’d betrayed them? She whosacrificed herself, had sacrificed everything on their behalf? For the sake of their peace?

But there were others whose expressions Aisling found unreadable. Among them were her father and Dagfin.

Aisling’s heart caught at the sight of her old friend. She hadn’t expected to see him this soon. To witness him standing beside her clann, before the northern mortals, at his father’s side, the shimmer of his stormy eyes incalculably alarming. Capturing her soul and pulling her beneath the Roktan seas. But what he thought, how he felt at the sight of her, he kept locked away deep inside the crypt of himself. A crypt that growing up, Aisling had often searched for the key to.

Aisling gripped Saoirse’s reins. The stag prancing atop the invisible line Lir and Nemed had drawn between their kingdoms. The fair folk on one side and her clannsmen on the other.

And as soon as Aisling’s stag arrived beside Lir’s, the fae king tossed off his helmet and leapt lithely from his mount to approach her own. He offered Aisling a hand, a hand she accepted without thought as he lowered her to the earth, clasping her waist as he did so, his touch protective, desperate. The will to hold more than her mere hand, harrowing his red-rimmed eyes. Eyes riddled with the signs of sleepless nights and rumored mania.

She’d been wrong—accused him of planning her execution when he’d known all along. Known that which Aisling was ignorant to. The beat of Lir’s heart knotted around her own as he held her hand possessively. The curve of his mouth flecked with tortured longing.

“Aisling,” Nemed piped.

Aisling startled at the sound of his voice. How it strained, struggled to maintain its composure. Startled at the glazing of his eyes devouring the sight of her. The fire hand smiled, the scar across his face stretching. And it appearedgenuine.

The others gaped at Aisling and the fae king, devouringthe sight of them side by side. Dagfin’s own expression at last cracking and revealing the fury of the Ashild beneath. The horror.

Aisling resisted the urge to squirm. Even the slightest of movements would reveal everything she felt towards her clann. A tuath who’d always been able to see through her, seemingly capable of reading her mind at will.

“Aisling, I—I can’t express how wonderful it is to see you,” her father continued, soaking in the sight of her alive and well after months, nearly a year, in a world of terrors and demons. Those he’d led her to believe were golems crouching in caves, sucking on the bones of children. “Come, come. Let me get a good look at you.”

Aisling wasn’t certain how to act, behave, feel, or think. Against her own volition, Aisling looked to Lir. But his tormented expression had shadowed, forewarning his bride of the monster she called her father. His twin axes winked back at her with a promise of violence.

So, Aisling inhaled, swallowing the bile gathering in her throat, and nodded towards the fae king. And as soon as Aisling’s hand slipped from Lir’s own, she sensed him tense as a single step towards her clann became many and her father awkwardly rushed towards her, lumbering on his prosthetic legs. He wrapped his daughter in his arms and squeezed.

Aisling froze. The smell of him—of Tilrish spices, of fires crackling in the hearth, of the handmade soap Aisling’s chambermaid botched the recipe for. Of home.

Tears pricked the backs of Aisling’s eyes as she stood there. Motionless. Unable to move. Paralyzed by this distant dream rapidly manifesting around her. A reunion she never believed she’d survive long enough to experience. The hope of a day such as this was one of her only motivators during the first several weeks amongst the Aos Sí. And now that she was here, now that she was experiencing it…none of it was how she’d imagined, especiallyherself.

Nemed released her, beaming with all the warmth of home.

“You’re in good health,” he said, a question or a statement Aisling was unsure, for the softness in his voice took her off guard. Perhaps he hadn’t yet borne a moment of clarity to fully acknowledge the fae opals, the webs, the pixie dew draping Aisling’s curves. Garments Aisling believed would drive him mad enough to estrange and condemn his only daughter to the gallows. But it hadn’t.

“I am,” Aisling spoke for the first time. Near wincing at the sensation of Lir’s glare piercing her back as he forced himself to witness the image of Aisling and the fire hand embracing. For she herself struggled to make coherent sense of her feelings and everything unraveling like a thread pulled too soon from a tapestry.

One of the stags huffed amidst the silence, reminding Nemed of the fair folk before him. The image of these creatures, however, immediately sharpened the violet eyes he shared with Aisling. An edge of loathing he didn’t shuffle away but rather embraced as he cleared his throat and addressed the crowd of Aos Sí and mortals alike.

“Tonight, we dine together for there is much to discuss between our kinds. A meeting between our leaders is overdue. And tomorrow we celebrate another interracial union, the purest of symbols for the newfound peace between mortals and Sidhe.”

Sidhe. He hadn’t said Aos Sí. Aisling hadn’t heard of another moniker for their race until the day Galad had mentioned it. So why now did her father unveil a truth he never had before? Why now did he drop one of his many veils?

“In the time being,” Nemed continued. “I hope theDamh Bándoesn’t mind if I steal his bride away for the evening.” His violet eyes flashed towards Lir. “And should you grow bored while she’s away, Friseal, court advisor and hand to the high king, would be more than honored to begin debriefing theSidhe on the mortal perspective with regards to”—Nemed paused—“our relations both among ourselves and among others.”

Aisling’s eyes darted towards her father, the urge to confront him growing with every breath she forced herself to take.

Lir’s stag stomped behind him. “That’s not possible. Our queen requires rest after her journey.”

After having travelled through the empress of the dryad’s mirrors and emerged in subterranean aqueducts months later, Aisling thought to herself.

“I assure you,” Lir continued, “there will be more than enough time over the next several days to speak with your daughter.” A feral inflection perverted his every word. That same mania she’d read in his eyes.

A vein appeared down the center of Nemed’s forehead. A gesture she’d beheld far too often throughout her childhood. A gesture she’d come to fear. But it was also Dagfin whose eyes shifted to the fae king with violent intent written across every fiber of his body.

“Aisling’s own clann is more than happy to accommodate any of her needs,” Nemed said. “She will both rest and find unparalleled sanctuary amongst her own kind. Her family,” the fire hand challenged, his tone light, but Aisling cringed at the venom she tasted in every word. The challenge he staked into the earth between himself and Lir.

Lir glared at the high king and Aisling knew he would rather be burned alive than surrender to the fire hand. So, the mortal queen stepped between them, raising her chin.

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