Page 109 of The Savage Queen

“Aye, this is Iod,” Lir replied, glancing inside the cauldron. “And it appears we weren’t the first to arrive.”

“There’s already been an offering?” Filverel asked, seeing for himself.

“Offering?” Aisling asked.

“Sidhe blood,” Filverel replied, appraising the already opened gate to the city.

“‘For all those whose blood runs fairie,’” Aisling repeated. “Only the Aos Sí may enter.”

“Another fae sovereign?” Dagfin suggested, twirling his knives between his fingers.

“Fionn,” Gilrel growled in conjecture, hopping atop the brim of the cauldron.

“No,” Lir said. “I’d know the stench of his blood as part of it flows freely in my own veins. This is someone else. None I recognize.”

“Lofgren’s Rise is heavily guarded,” Dagfin said, reminding Aisling he’d come before but never made it to the peak. “Whoever’s gone first has done us a favor. They’ll trip every alarm before we do.”

“Now that you mention it, how did you enter last, princeling?” Gilrel asked, crossing her paws.

“Faeraksoften carry fae blood in vials for masking our mortal scent. Last time I was here, I made use of those supplies.”

Gilrel softened her posture, but by the glimmer in her beady, black eyes, Aisling knew she still harbored suspicion.

The rest of their group stepped closer to the gate while Aisling lingered behind. Swiftly, she reached inside her pocket and found the parchment she’d stolen from the spell book in Bludhaven’s druid shop.

Touch for Memory:

Speak the following enchantment and touch

the desired object to relive its every memory.

Cuillhnigh ar rach hud

a kheap tú go ndearla tú dearkad.

Aisling memorized the words, quickly slipping the parchment back into her pocket the moment Filverel glanced back at her. And once he looked away, Aisling closed her eyes and hoped, gripping the cauldron and repeating the incantation beneath her breath while the others appraised the threshold into Iod. She felt thedraiochtrise and breathe, but this time it was different. It was soft, guided, and molded by the words of the incantation instead of her own will. A spell. Thedraiochtstraining against this new practice in discipline, one she’d attempted in the apple tree with Lir, the second in an effort to heal Lir, and the third now.

Thedraiochtsnarled, nipping at Aisling as she spoke the incantation more loudly in her mind. Racat grimaced, resisting, until Aisling hissed in return, scolding the creature and demanding its obedience.

And it worked.

But the triumph was short-lived, eclipsed by the flashing of the cauldron’s memory: days of wintertide forced a shiver from Aisling’s body, the sensation of a bird’s talons gripping the lip of the cauldron, digging into Aisling’s temples, the memory of silence, of the stirring of the surrounding wood until at last, a memory that mattered appeared.

Starn, Iarbonel, Fergus, Annind, and Killian, stood around the cauldron. One by one they painted their palms in the blood of the fae, whose throat was slit at their feet, and dripped a single droplet into the cauldron. And once the last drop was spilt, they continued into Iod, lugging the body of the fae soldier by their ankles.

Aisling snapped back into the present time. She exhaled a laugh, quickly recovering before joining the others. A handful of seconds she’d been gone, maybe more, but it’d felt like much longer whilst inside the spell. And if Aisling could wield spells such as this, what else could she wield other than fire?

Aisling would indulge in such possibilities later. For now, her attention was focused on her brother.

Starn. One couldn’t enter Iod lest they bore fae blood, so her brother had found a way to circumvent Ina’s law by slaying a member of the Sidhe. A knight from Oighir, Aisling conjectured by the forgery of his armor. Starn, her brothers, and Killian desperate for a disguise.

Aisling cleared her throat.

“My brother has already been here,” Aisling said and the rest of the fae and Dagfin gritted their teeth or shifted. Perhaps having assumed but not been certain. Lir looked at Aisling over his shoulder where he stood nearest to Iod’s arch, eyes drifting to her hand still leaning against the cauldron.

“He’ll die before he reaches Lofgren’s peak,” Filverel said.

“He’s desperate enough not to,” Dagfin said. “That’s how they’ve made it this far.”

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