Page 96 of The Mortal Queen

By now, the Aos Sí had dispersed behind them, whisperingskallainto the oncoming storm. So, Galad followed a pace behind her and her brothers. The intangible cord between herself and Lir tightened. But she dared not glance back at him as her brothers led her into the mortal camp.

Each of her brothers chatted idly amongst themselves. Starn’s pointed expression eyeing Aisling from his periphery, an expression that, as children, had struck both fear and respect into herself, Iarbonel, Fergus, Annind, and Dagfin. Starn, the eldest of them all and destined to be high king before even Dagfin was to be king, carried an air of power. A shrewd, cold sense of authority since Aisling could remember. When Starn spoke, others listened. The strongest, quickest, mightiest of the Neimedh children.

Dagfin was the only one to keep silent, observing the mortal queen as though she might grow horns at any moment. And perhaps she would, Aisling thought to herself. But neither Starn, Iarbonel, Fergus, nor Annind were truly the Roktan prince’s brothers. Not by blood. But over the years he’d spent in Tilren, they’d become brothers. Played like brothers. Ridiculed one another like brothers. Fought like brothers. For one day, they’d all believed law would make them so if friendship couldn’t entirely.

“We’re glad you’re alive, little sister,” Annind chimed, a remark met with one of Iarbonel’s looks of disapproval.

Something bitter stuck to Aisling’s tongue. Something bitter and thick, eager to be swallowed. But before she could dwell on it further, the crowds dispersed, unveiling the labyrinth of mortal tents spread before her. Striped tents lined with both fiery torches and iron-clad sentinels alike. Humans, so many of them all in one place. All speaking in a tongue she understood. Foods, drinks, spices she could freely eat without fear of enchantment. Clothing styles she recognized. Fiddle, lute, harp strings, and medleys that washed over her in a wave of nostalgia for they were all tunes, melodies, andnotes she’d heard since she was a bairn.

But the hospitality she’d once experienced, the respect from her people, was replaced with potent disapproval. Eyeing her as if she were a member of the fair folk themselves. Swatting their children’s bottoms should they not rush indoors the moment she passed. Children who whispered to one another when they believed their mothers distracted.

“They say he’s killed the Lady Aisling. Replaced her with a changeling,” said one.

Another child shook their head. “I heard she exchanged her mortal soul in exchange for magic.”

Aisling’s stomach soured for where she once believed she’d find belonging here, at last meet a haven and sanctuary amongst these humans, she’d never felt more like a stranger.

Never felt more like an outlander than amongst her own kind.

CHAPTER XXX

Night descended without hesitation, whisking the sun behind the veil of jagged cliffs and snowcapped mountains.

Two sentinels stood outside the mortal tent Aisling approached. Their suits of iron bronzed by firelight. Galad grabbed Aisling’s wrist, lowering his mouth to her ear. A gesture met with the five princes’ immediate apprehension, the instinctive reaching for their weapons.

“Keep your secrets,” he whispered so only she could hear. And Aisling understood, briskly meeting Galad’s eyes.

Wordlessly, the sentinels bowed to Starn and Dagfin as they passed between the canvas flaps, a custom Aisling had already grown accustomed to growing up. Starn and Dagfin would eventually inherit crowns: Starn the crown of the high king of Rinn Dúin and Dagfin, the crown of the king of Roktling. Commoners, lesser nobles, servants, and guards would bow to these sons out of both tradition and ritual. But never had Aisling witnessed the sentinels considering Dagfin the way they did now, a glimmer of both respect and fear flashing in their rounded mortal eyes as he approached. Never had she witnessed trained guards hold their breath as her childhood friend neared. A similarreaction allotted to Galad as he passed but with more hate bent into the stiff lines of their mouths.

The inside of the tent was dimly lit. The perfume of Tilrish wool and blooming heather washed over Aisling in a potent wave. Scents that tasted of her childhood, of late nights peeking through keyholes to spy on Nemed’s conferences. Those her brothers had infrequently been invited to but never she. No. Her perspective was always through the crack in the door, the floorboards, the midnight races back to her bed before her wet-nurse would discover her mischief.

Her father no doubt slept here, a down feather bed draped inolanncovers sat in another room of the tent. An extension that was large enough to be a Tilrish household in and of itself. But at the center of this room, the one she entered, stood a round table overrun with maps, scrolls, quills, and coins that, by the look of it, symbolized the mortal fleets scattered across the isles.

Starn, Iarbonel, Fergus, and Annind dispersed around the room, unbuckling their bandoliers, setting down their daggers, and pouring themselves chalices of wine despite Galad’s presence. Perhaps they supposed he’d not risk the unity between fair folk and mortals, especially when he was vastly outnumbered amidst their camp.

Dagfin, on the other hand, forewent disarming himself. What happened to the light-hearted boy she’d known as a child? This man who studied her through narrowed eyes wasn’t the same boy she’d caught crying in the stables.

Aisling stepped further into the room. A gesture met by Dagfin’s pointed stare, measuring her every step. Realization seized Aisling then: it wasn’t only Galad he appraised but she as well. He didn’t trust her. And although betrayal was a sickening fist in her gut, she couldn’t blame him. If her tuath knew what she’d become, none of them would’ve robbed themselves of their defenses so easily.

“Can you sit in that gown?” Fergus asked, glaring up at hissister from where he’d thrown himself into a wing-back chair. One whose upholstery was fraying at the seams.

Aisling smoothed out the fabric of her opal bodice, sliding her fingers down the webbed skirts.

“Aye,” Aisling said, cautiously stepping nearer to the disheveled table.

“Have you forgotten how to speak our tongue, little sister?” Annind asked next, flipping a coin he’d stolen from the maps. “You deign to speak unless necessary.”

“So hostile, Annind,” Starn smiled slyly, pouring five chalices of wine from a scarlet bottle. “Let her adjust. I can only imagine what she’s been through.” Both Starn and Iarbonel divided the half-filled glasses, handing a glass to each of Aisling’s brothers. One for Iarbonel, one for Fergus, one for Annind. And where Aisling believed Dagfin next, Starn eventually approached Aisling, gesturing for her to accept the goblet.

“Tell us, what was it like?” Starn asked, ebony eyes glittering. “What was it like living amongst the fair folk?”

“I’ve never been allowed wine,” Aisling blurted, looking to her brothers and Dagfin for an explanation as to the goblet offered now. “Nor mead, nor beer, nor ale.” The only one not drinking was Dagfin. For initially, Aisling had thought the fifth glass reserved for the Roktan prince and not herself.

Starn exhaled a laugh. “You’re no longer a child, Ash. Nor a commoner, nor noblewoman, nor a princess.” He mocked her. “You’re a queen now. You can do as you like.”

Against her own volition, Aisling’s lips curled. Those words, his tone. They acted as if—as if they respected her. For never had Aisling been allowed to do as she liked, much less what she craved, whilst within Tilren’s stone keep. Before her union to Lir, she was scarcely permitted in the castle gardens without an escort. And now—now they handed her a glass of wine, a chalice nearly as forbidden to her as fae wine.

Aisling waited till the others gulped beforedoing so herself, willing her hand steady as she accepted the chalice.

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