Page 54 of The Mortal Queen

He laughed. “Ah, yes, we often despise our own vices reflected in others.”

Images of the trow’s head rolling to the side, flashed across her mind’s eye.

Aisling wished it were daylight, for if it was, Lir could witness her furious grimace. A scowl that reddened her mortal features.

Lir brought their stag to a sudden stop. It was only then that Aisling glanced over her shoulder and foundthe rest of Lir’s knights several paces behind. Steadily, they made their way towards herself and Lir, murmuring to one another in Fae. A far cry from their usual boisterous nonsense.

Lir tugged Saoirse towards a nearby tree. An ash tree, Aisling assumed by the looks of it, its darkly painted bark was riddled with deep grooves, like rivers painted on a map. It was also both wide and tall, roots bursting from the undergrowth, forming arcs and bridges in the surrounding land where moss clung, and arachnids scurried. This bestial tree was primeval. Exhaling and inhaling to the rhythm of the wind.

The fae king positioned Saoirse directly at the tree’s base. Lir removed one of his gloves and pressed his bare palm against the trunk of the ash. Aisling blinked, encouraging her eyes to dilate. She wanted to witness what it was the fae king did. But the darkness didn’t impede her understanding for Aisling firstfeltand thenheard.

The ash moaned, leaning forward and pressing its bark more firmly against Lir’s hand. The sound of the tree’s voice haunting, travelling through its skin and into the earth beneath. Then, Aisling felt Lir’s chest rising and falling against her own back. Both the fae king and the tree were…they were speaking to one another. Aisling could feel it.

Aisling dared not utter a word. Dared not interrupt whatever it was the fae king and the tree whispered to one another. The words they passed from one charmed breath to another.

So, it was Lir who spoke first, releasing his hand from the bark of the tree.

“Now I’ll tell you something,” he whispered, nudging Saoirse even closer to the ash. “Her name is Yddra.”

“The tree bears a name?” Aisling asked, remembering that Galad had once mentioned something similar. That Gilrel had described Leshy, the oldest spirit of the woodland to her.

“Aye, written in the rings of their trunks, unknown to all who are not of their kind unless they’re split open.” Themention of such violence incited the trees around them as if offended, moaning as they leaned closer to the fae king and his queen.

“All, except you,” Aisling gathered. “You speak to the trees.” She was breathless and too stunned to do anything about it.

“The trees, the animals, all creatures who cannot use their voice as we do.”

“Magic,” Aisling exhaled, suddenly more aware of the clicking branches overhead, snapping their twigs.

“Whatever abilities they wield are aberrations. Perversities of nature. As they are themselves. Do not let them convince you otherwise.”

“What the mortals call magic we calldraiocht.In your tongue, it means breath. This, the ability to speak with the trees, is a form ofdraiochtreserved for the current sovereign of the greenwood to communicate with the entirety of their kingdom.”

“And what do the trees tell you?” Aisling asked.

Lir considered for a moment, studying the canopies now alive with interest.

“They tell me of all who call these feywilds home, the names of those who enter, their age-old stories that would bleed days to retell, and”—Lir hesitated, turning back to Aisling—“they tell me of you.”

Aisling whipped her attention to the fae king, lifting her chin to meet his eyes.

“What do they say?”

“They tell me you’re strange.”

“Because I’m mortal?” For Aisling believed few if any mortals had ventured into these forests and if they had, they certainly hadn’t journeyed this far.

“Because you’re different. Not quite mortal. Not quite Sidhe,” he said, piercing directly through Aisling with the intensity of his gaze. The scrutiny of a bird ofprey eyeing a mouse down below.

The mortal queen averted her eyes. Whatever the trees had told him, Aisling knew they were wrong. Nevertheless, she’d felt their keen gaze, examining her every breath. The way the hazels, alders, birches, and yews rustled outside her terrace when she woke and settled into stillness when she slept.

Before Aisling could respond, Lir grabbed Aisling’s hand. The fae king pressed her palm against Yddra’s body, curling himself around Aisling so she couldn’t move. Aisling squirmed, startled by his quickness.

“Let go of me!” she hissed.

Initially, Aisling felt no more than what she already had during Lir’s conversation with Yddra. But the fae king held her firmly against the ash, his grip impenetrable. And just when she made to curse his name, assail him with a verbal lashing, she felt not a heat but a pressure leaning against her palm. A swelling, invisible force that reached for her as though it had limbs of its own, running its smooth fingers along her arms, her back, her cheeks, her hair, caressing her lips as if it wished to slip inside and possess her fully. Crush her beneath its oppressive weight.

This force was sentient, alive with desire. But Lir persisted, holding her captive against the ash. And as the sensation grew more potent, till Aisling’s ears flushed with white noise, it spread, and Aisling knew its name: magic,draiochtringing throughout the forest in eager vibrations.

---