Page 7 of The Mortal Queen

“It’s time for our king and queen to take their leave,” Annind translated for the mortal guests. The bitterness in his voice matched the expressions of her brothers. But nothing compared to the intemperate storm gathering behind the glint in Dagfin’s eyes.

At the very least, both her brothers’ hands and those of the nearby fair folk had lowered from their weapons, now hanging at their sides, bottled anger curling their fingers into fists.

Aisling willed herself steady, for her knees not to quiver, accepting the fae king’s outstretched hand. She winced as their flesh made contact, nevertheless, allowing him to guide her from the tent, spilling with fair folk and mortals alike. Tucking the dagger Iarbonel had gifted her into her sleeve and stifling her fear.

Aisling dared not glance back at her old friend, but she could feel the pressure of Dagfin’s regard as she lengthened the distance between them. Had he expected her to say goodbye? To match his fury and provoke the savage lord she’d been traded to? Aisling knew this wasn’t wise, yet her heart stretched and cleaved in two the moment she stepped awayfrom Dagfin and didn’t look back.

The rest of the Aos Sí cheered, banging their fists atop the tables. Stomping their feet and shaking the foundation of the tent in which they all stood.

“Rabhair aoidhre dúinn!” The Aos Sí shouted, growing louder the longer they sang. A musicality to their tongue Aisling’s mortal language couldn’t boast.

Against her own volition, Aisling sought out Annind for a translation, but he shied away from her glance. If that was the case, perhaps she was better off not knowing.

The fae king led his new queen towards the cluster of smaller tents and away from the hordes of people. He laughed and waved at his subjects, but Aisling wanted nothing less than to meet either Nemed or Clodagh’s gaze for fear of what she might find. Not even her brothers’ gaze. Grief, sorrow, fury would do little to save the Northern Isles. So, she turned her back to the festivities and allowed the king to tear her away from the rest of the world, from the life she’d lived thus far. For even if he hadn’t devoured her physical body, he’d gutted her, heart and soul.

CHAPTER III

If the Aos Sí publicly beheaded their lovers as a marital custom, what did they do to their wives in private? Of course, if the fae king wanted Aisling dead, he could’ve already made it so. They were far enough away from any mortal that none could hear her scream nor find her body if the fae king wished it.

Still, that didn’t rule out torture.

Aisling shivered, shaking away the thoughts.

“Are you cold?” The fae king leaned down to whisper against her ear lest the wandering revelers overhear their conversation. His breath scalded the nape of her neck. But it was welcomed, warming her frozen skin and sending chills down the rest of her body.

Aisling, startled, turned towards the king.

“Aren’t you?” she asked the king in return for he wore less than she, dressed in nothing more than a loose-fitted shirt, trousers, and his axes. Improper for a gentleman, much less a king.

He grinned and exhaled a soft laugh.

“My kind rarely grows cold,” he began. “I’ve forgotten how weak humans can be.”

“Weak?” Aisling growled. “It is weak to complain of it. Notto bear that over which we have no say.”

“Perhaps fragile is a better word then?” he said, flashing his pointed canines like a wolf.

“The most valuable things are,” Aisling huffed, relieved her voice bore the confidence she didn’t yet feel.

They approached the largest tent at the center of the fae camp. Sentries stood guard at all four corners, their armor flashing with orange in the torchlight. But Aisling bore no illusions that the fae king couldn’t defend himself if necessary. Could not slay a horde of humans if he so desired. As soon as she thought it, the images followed shortly after, accompanying the horror of her assertions. Aisling’s tongue turned to ash that she forced herself to swallow.

The king spread apart the curtains and gestured for Aisling to enter. The queen held her head high, but she’d dreaded this more than the wedding itself.

The scent of freshly plucked pine needles greeted the queen first, then the miraculous heat of its interior.

Where Aisling had expected dirt and filth, the tent was adorned with rich, luxurious quilts and comforters, plump pillows, hand-woven rugs, and opulent animal pelts, skinned to perfection. How the fair folk had not only parceled and lugged such luxury across the northern landscape but also prepared it so charmingly, was a shock to the mortal queen. All and every piece were fabricated by fae hands. Mortal fingers couldn’t design nor use such rare and luxurious materials. Spider silk too delicate to weave, maiden’s moss too spongy to thread, and pale oak too susceptible to splintering to carve.

A bed large enough for three had been placed at the center of the room, crowned with garlands bubbling over with plump buds and blooming wildflowers. But some of the flora stole Aisling’s attention, shimmering with soft light. The flowers lit the room, casting a warm, hazy glow throughout the tent’s interior. Their glittering pollen floating in the midnight breeze––a wind stealthy enough to slip insidethe moment Aisling had.

Within the tent, the air itself must have been enchanted, filled with some unspoken lullaby. A muffled melody that soothed even the mortal queen as she stood soaking in the canvassed chamber. Was this the magic the fair folk were known to practice? The wielding of powers they believed to be bestowed by the gods themselves?

“The Aos Sí say their magic comes from the gods. There are no gods. Whatever abilities they wield are aberrations. Perversities of nature. As they are themselves. Do not let them convince you otherwise.” One of Nemed’s many lectures she’d received since her marriage was signed and sealed by all mortal and fae sovereigns from the North and elsewhere. Words that she knew she’d do well to remember, aware she’d soon learn the extent of such fae abilities.

The fae king brushed past her and shrugged off his weapons. Weapons she hadn’t yet seen, belted against his trousers, in his pockets, behind his shirt, around his calf. Except for his axes. The only possessions he tucked neatly beneath his pillow as if afraid to part from them even in his sleep.

Aisling had overheard tales of warriors unable to find rest without first preparing themselves for an attack even if years had passed since their last battle. This was what war did to man, death crouched on their shoulders long after the ground puddled with blood. If they survived. Was this what afflicted even a barbarian king? Aisling swatted away the thought. These were beasts. Not men. They bore no such vulnerabilities. Emotions. Hauntings.

Without hesitation, he next removed his shirt. Aisling stifled a gasp, covering her mouth before she could utter a sound. She’d never laid eyes on a male so undressed, even if he still wore his trousers. But Aisling knew this was not what most men looked like; the fae king was tall, muscled, lean, and painted with complex fae tattoos that disappeared belowhis narrow waist. Black coils, symbols, knots, and braids that followed the curves of his broad shoulders, his neck, his hands, and Aisling assumed, everything she could not see.

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