Page 18 of The Mortal Queen

“You mean to ask me: ‘how can a lowly beast speak your mortal tongue?’”

“That’s a bold assumption.” Aisling stiffened.

“But a true one.” Gilrel lifted her muzzle triumphantly. “Sidhe territory is imbued with the same power that oncestirred in the Forge. Ancient, archaic forces vibrating through even the marrow of the Sidhe. An energy that has blessed those beasts born during the forging of these lands, with the ability to speak, walk, communicate, sing, even fight as do the Sidhe. And the longer we live, the more civilized we become.”

Aisling’s mind spun as she considered all of this. Question after question bloomed within her mind as she debated which to query next. But none of the boisterous musings ever left her lips. It became clear that the information she would acquire would be given gradually and not all at once. After all, she had a lifetime to understand all these strange creatures.

As soon as Gilrel pushed open the doors to the mortal queen’s chamber, Aisling’s mouth fell open. The room was exquisite; opulently furnished and decorated with precious metals and stones, polished marble floors, and a rounded balcony floating amidst the plush, emerald canopies of the surrounding forest, the same wood that hugged the mountain in which the castle was carved.

This was so unlike her home in Tilren—a gothic fortress of stone and iron, an impressive bastion by mortal standards. But this, this fae palace was not the barbaric pigsty she’d always imagined. Aisling didn’t know what to make of it or if she’d ever come to believe it truly existed. For it felt more like a dream, a hallucination, an enchantment than anything she’d laid eyes on before. This world was certainly made of magic but not the twisted and wicked charms she’d anticipated.

“Your belongings arrived before you and have already been unpacked and stowed away in these cupboards.” Gilrel opened two large wardrobes, filled to the brim. Flocks of mint green moths burst forth from cabinets, richly cloaked in opulent garments fit for nobility. A fragrant, sweet, and powdery cloud followed in their wake, dusting Aisling’s clothes.

“The other end of the chamber houses all yourcaera’s belongings.” Aisling assumed that meant Lir’spossessions. She hadn’t even considered the possibility that she and the fae king would share quarters. Nemed and Clodagh had always slept separately in opposing wings of their Tilrish fortress.

“What does that word mean?” Aisling asked, cautiously stepping further into the room.

“Caera?” Gilrel’s brow pinched, thinking of an explanation. “In mortal terms, I believe you call them husbands. Spouses, perhaps. But it is more to us. All mates in our culture are only wed if they arecaera. Soulmates, in your tongue. The bonding of two hearts in the Forge.”

How superstitious these fae creatures were.

“This applies to even political unions?” Aisling asked, biting her tongue as soon as the words slipped from her mouth. Perhaps she shouldn’t speak of such things with just anyone, much less a commoner. She needed to remember to trust no one. No one and no thing. These creatures were beasts and her enemy despite their beauty, despite their attempts at hospitality.

“The Sidhe cannot wed if they are notcaera,” Gilrel insisted. “You wouldn’t have been capable of choosing the correct blade otherwise.” Aisling remembered the test the night of her union, the three blades staked into the earth before her. Two swords and an axe. Logically, there was a one-out-of-three possibility to select the correct blade. Unless, Aisling realized, Gilrel was implying enchantment was involved. The mortal queen laughed at the thought. Iarbonel had claimed such a marital custom meant nothing. In fact, he’d insisted it was no more than a ritual, and she’d no reason to trust a member of the fair folk over her own brother.

“And had I chosen wrong? What would’ve become of the peace treaty between our kind?” Aisling pushed, focusing on Gilrel’s reaction. This, considering Aisling would’ve been forced to duel Lir to the death and been executed as a result.

“I’m merely a handmaiden,mo Lúra. I’m not privy to such discussions. However, having served beneath the king forseveral centuries, I can confidently say Lir would risk a great deal for a chance to protect the Sidhe. If the mortals requested a political union, Lir would stop at nothing to achieve his ends.”

In another world, another reality, Aisling had chosen the wrong weapon the night of her union and had been beheaded by Lir. The mortals and this savage race were still at war, battling atop the ground where Aisling’s blood ran deep. All for a silly, fae superstition. Superstition fostered by childish fireside tales and unfounded religion. A religion with no logical bearing. Although, what logical bearing did a talking marten boast as it stood before her now?

Had Nemed known of any of these customs before agreeing to the union? Before trading his daughter for peace? Had he known the risks to her life? Of course, he had. But Aisling knew as well as he that her life was nothing in comparison to the thousands that would be spared as a result of her sacrifice.

As for Lir, Aisling expected no less. If anything, it was a relief knowing he was as wicked as she’d always imagined. As her father had always described.

“He is the worst of them, ruthless, merciless, no more than a depraved fiend driven by hunger, need, and power. But, unlike the wolf, he is insatiable. Never let your guard down around him, Aisling. Never give him an opportunity to choose between you and what he covets.”

Nemed’s words echoed in her mind, hardening her resolve. Her purpose here.

Aisling wandered towards the vanity facing the four-poster bed.

“This is to be your gown for theSnaidhmtomorrow afternoon.”

Gilrel hung an embroidered gown beside Aisling’s new wardrobe. A gown woven with leaves like chips of emeralds and threaded with stringsof pearls.

“Snaidhm?” Aisling asked.

“It is customary in our culture to host an event the day following a union. However, for obvious reasons, the event has been postponed until tomorrow.”

“An occasion to celebrate an occasion?” Aisling turned her back to Gilrel, allowing, although reluctantly, the handmaid to pull the muddied and wind-hardened frock over her head and dispose of the trousers now steeped in the scent of stag’s pelt. For nothing pricked Aisling’s nerves more than the thought of the marten’s calloused paws or weather-worn claws stroking her bare flesh.

“A wedding celebrates the union. TheSnaidhmcelebrates the consummation of said union,” Gilrel said, untangling Aisling’s coronet with impressive skill, careful to avoid tugging at her scalp or splitting strands of hair. The result of centuries as a handmaid, Aisling assumed, or perhaps the benefits of finely pointed claws in the place of blunted mortal fingers.

The mortal queen blushed, immediately reminded of her wedding night. Shame or perhaps embarrassment washed over Aisling at the thought, for she had not yet fulfilled her promise to Rinn Dúin. As far as Clann Neimedh would be concerned, she was not yet queen if the marriage hadn’t been consummated. And if a consummation was as important in fae tradition as it was in mortal tradition, Aisling’s suspicions had been correct. Lir barely deigned to speak to her, much less touch her. Perhaps there was something to be grateful for there. The lack of consummation would be their secret, for Lir was bound to uphold the image of their marriage as much as Aisling was.

“Fret not,mo Lúra,” Gilrel said, misinterpreting Aisling’s palpable anxiety. “It is merely a day to bid thecaeragood fortune in producing an heir.”

A murder of silver-eyed ravens let loose in Aisling’s stomach. Clodagh had warned Aisling of this responsibility, for Clodagh too had borne a similar duty upon her union withNemed.

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