Page 109 of The Mortal Queen

“Did you really believe the new law would be successful instantaneously?” Lir challenged. “That from the moment Aisling and I were handfasted, peace would reign throughout the land?” The fae king scoffed. “I’ve been alive for three centuries now. Change—reformation––is slow. Often painful. Heeds no man nor Sidhe nor Unseelie. Doesn’t bow to the death of mortal sailors. You all knew the sacrifices, the lengths the treaty would demand before it was perfected. And perfection—even after your descendants rule, after death has claimed your frail hearts and you rot beneath the earth you burned, when I still rule—perfection will be far from within our grasp.”

Nemed placed two fingers to his lips, considering for a moment. Just a moment before his mouth stretched into a cruel grin. One Aisling had witnessed on only a handful of occasions.

“Very well,Damh Bán,” the fire hand spoke slowly, indulging in every word. “The mortal sovereigns of Rinn Dúin will give you three years to adjust your leadership.” At this, Clodagh immediately whipped her head to face her husband. Disbelief softened her sharp angles. “And if there has been no change in three years’ time, consider the treaty null and void.”

Aisling felt thedraiochtpinch her fingertips. Aisling had sacrificed everything. Been traded like livestock only for Nemed to suggest negating it all. To threaten the treaty’s nullification. To disband and render meaningless all she’d been through in the name of such a union. And here her father dangled it above the fae king, as if it were another means to get what he wanted. Just as Aisling had always been.

Lir’s anger matched Aisling’s own, tightening his fists. The flaring of his nostrils as cold rage enveloped him. Terror thrumming through the room at the sight of his fingers moving. Dreading, anticipating the mad release of more magic.

“And before you make any rash decisions,Damh Bán,” Nemed continued, relishing in the fae king’s vexation his words inspired, “in return for the advice you’ve just lent me, here is my own token of knowledge perhaps you’ve already become well acquainted with in your centuries.” The fire hand took another large swig of wine. “The sins of the father often become the sins of the son. Passed down generation after generation. Growing more potent. The only curse breaker”—the last word like honey on his iron tongue—“the son who is strong enough to resist such sin. Such desire. But in your case,Damh Bán”—Nemed grinned—”I suppose it’s the mother’s sins you should be wary of repeating.”

CHAPTER XXXIV

Aisling closed her eyes.

“There are few pleasures greater than having one’s hair combed,” Clodagh had once told a far younger Aisling, considering her daughter in the reflection of the mirror as her lady’s maid tended to her tangled ringlets. And indeed, the sensation of Gilrel pulling a glass brush against the mortal queen’s scalp was beyond pleasurable.

Gilrel’s magpies busily organized the pins and ribbons she’d worn that night, tucking them away into small, colorfully painted clay pots. That same dreamy mist clouded the tent as it had on Aisling’s wedding night, relaxing her as she smoothed out the skirts of her loose-fitted chemise.

It wasn’t long before Aisling lay alone in the dark, swathed in both plush quilts, furs, and blankets but also the distant drawl of the festivities still burning the night away. The Aos Sí could dance for hours. Were more alive when stars hovered resplendently above.

One by one, Gilrel had extinguished the soft light warmly cooing within the surrounding flower buds: ample garlands draping the ceiling of the tent, her vanity, and speckling the floor with both petals and leaves alike. Until there was nothing but darkness. Black, and the angry swarm of thoughts that keptAisling an arm’s reach away from sleep. For tomorrow, either Peitho would be wed to the Roktan prince or Dagfin would’ve passed on to the Other. Not to mention, Aisling feared her father’s knowledge of her abilities would change the course of the future. Had Danu foreseen all of this? Did the empress know what was to become of tomorrow?

Aisling rolled onto her side.

Still, she hadn’t managed a moment alone with the fae king. He eluded her, constantly immersed in more hushed conversations with Filverel and his knights. A fact that enraged Aisling for she too wished to understand, to know what the Sidhe planned, thought, argued if she were to live amongst them. But still, none trusted her. Still, she was a foreigner, a foreigner to all lands for she was seemingly the only one of her kind, a mortal able to wield thedraiocht. Not quite human and not quite Sidhe.

Aisling stirred restlessly, waiting for Lir to enter but as the moon sipped the midnight hours, he never did. It wasn’t until Aisling heard a bizarre hissing that she leapt from her sheets to peer at the creature. A small, black snake looked up at her from the grassy carpets below.

However, the serpent wasted no time, meeting Aisling’s eyes before slithering back beneath the tent and into the outside world.

This way, it hissed as the last of its scales disappeared beneath the canvas.

Aisling didn’t think twice, grabbing a cloak Gilrel had packed and rushing towards the entrance to her tent.

There were six or so sentinels guarding where she slept. And so, it occurred to Aisling: if these bipedal beasts were ordered to ensure none enter nor she leave her tent unescorted, which was most likely the reality, it was near impossible for Aisling to escape her chambers unnoticed.

Aisling stopped in her tracks, biting her bottom lip. There was an urgency hammering away within her. Morethan the snake encouraging her to follow. A tugging, a pulling that motivated Aisling onward.

So, the mortal queen concentrated, eyes darting about the room for an answer. But the answer came in the form of one of the sentinel’s screams of agony. Aisling leapt at the sound, hurrying to the front entrance. And, from the thread-thin opening, she witnessed each of her guards drawing their weapons and leaping to the aid of he who was injured, cursing in Rún. He’d been bitten. Attacked by a serpent who still snapped its fangs at any who dared approach next.

Aisling thought no more of it. She ran. Slipping past her chamber’s threshold and into the night. Her cloak wrapped around her like the wings of a bat for she wasn’t quite free yet. The Sidhe camp lit still with revelry, Sidhe dancing drunkenly between their tents, singing and chasing one another towards their individual rooms. Perhaps it was the stupor of their magic, the veil of night, or the fact none cared to search for a mortal queen who was not yet determined missing from her tent, but none noticed Aisling as she swept past them, a shadow bedizened with violet eyes.

And because Aisling wasn’t certain where she was going, she listened to the rustling trees. For they spoke loudly tonight, debating amongst themselves, arguing, writhing back and forth as if amidst some great council. Indeed, once Aisling stepped between the oaks and the ash and the elms, they hushed themselves, each turning to get a good look at the mortal queen who’d interrupted their conversation.

Aisling wandered deeper than she’d ever dared wander alone before, her bare feet pricked by sharp stones, thorns, and splintering branches, wondering if this had all been a mistake. If she should return now before any discovered that she no longer slept well-protected—or imprisoned—by her guards. But it was then she spotted him.

Lir stood within a ring of trees of yore.

The gloom of evening cast the spectacle Aisling beheld inshades of oblivion. A film of grim enchantment bathing the fae king as the trees craned their great bodies towards him, groaning and reaching their branches to crown his head. As eager as the pools of fog crawling across the forest floor and running their wispy fingers along the contours of his hands, his arms, his legs. He, the heart of the woodland.

Aisling sat frozen, crouched behind a boulder, the gnawing sensation that her presence here was deeply forbidden quickening the pace of her heart. For the fae king was confiding in this greenwood and they him. Speaking, listening, a language of arcane and bygone magic clotting the breath they all shared. So thick, Aisling could taste it on her tongue. Taste as the fae king tasted the sap of these agrestal guardians. There was a darkness inherent within this spectacle. No, not darkness—a primal strength that surpassed mortal understanding of light and dark, righteous and unrighteous. It simplywasand wished tobeand would destroy all that wasn’t.

“You’re hurt.”

Lir’s voice echoed throughout the labyrinth. Aisling’s heart ceased at the sound of it, forgetting to breathe as all the forest whipped its attention towards her, whispering amongst themselves.

Lir’s words rang true. Aisling’s feet bled from the undergrowth, a reminder that despite her ability to wield thedraiochtshe was indeed still human or, at the very least, part human. For the natural world continued to reject her. Threatened her life with the ruthlessness of its keep, with infection, with pain, and suffering should she not protect herself with manmade crafts.

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