Page 4 of The Savage Queen

“By the Forge,” Fergus cursed, appraising the damage. Both fear and the faintest hint of disgust flickered across his expression.

“What is it, Fergus?” Dagfin snapped, tearing his eyes from Aisling. Fergus stammered. Nerves brought about by the shadows creeping at the edges of Dagfin’s posture. Indeed, everyone knew not to provoke theFaerakafter there was mention of the fae king. Especially if it came from Aisling’s lips,and such a temper could only mean he’d heard Lir’s name all too recently.

“Starn’s ordered every crew member to gather on deck,” Fergus managed. “We’re set to sail come dawn.”

Dagfin nodded, clenching and unclenching his fists. A tell-tale sign of his efforts to stifle the frustration churning within.

“We’ll just be a moment.”

Fergus made as if to protest, thinking better of it and ushering himself out without another word.

Aisling dusted her skirts—a simple linen gown Gilrel would’ve scoffed at. Rags compared to the beetle-encrusted necklines, the spider-web bodices, the fitted skirts of puckering petals she’d donned in Annwyn.

Her conversation with Dagfin was fortunately interrupted and, if Aisling had a say in it, would be left that way. So, she rose from the destruction to follow Fergus from her cabin, caring little for her garment’s singed edges. After all, only deceit would bring Dagfin solace. And Aisling was more than capable of lying, but not to Dagfin.

“Here,” he said as she brushed past him, handing her a folded bundle of soft wool. Aisling carefully unfurled its fabric. It was a cloak of midnight blue. Thousands of silver stars scattered across its folds, delicately sewn into constellations Roktling’s seafarers sought for guidance when lost amid the sea. Fiacha’s Southern star, the Sunless Throne, the Goblet of Dreams, Odhran and the Weight of the Night. Odhran, forced to glare upon the sands of time until the last grain was spent, and all of evening’s kingdom would crush him flat.

The cloak twinkled in the pillar of soft morning light spilling from her cabin window.

“You needed a new one.”

The fact that she’d burned the last three went unsaid yet acknowledged by the flitting of their eyes to the ashen debris.

Aisling said not a word. “Thank you” felt insufficient, and anything else, any other emotion, seized her by the throat and turned her tongue to stone. So, she wrapped it around herself and lifted the hood instead, watching as it brushed the cabin floors around her boots.

Dagfin studied her closely, forcing Aisling to wonder what he saw. For before him stood what he’d sworn byFaeraklaw to hunt. His old childhood playmate, now the sort of creature he slaughtered.

“Go on without me,” she told Dagfin, unable to bear the silence any longer. “I’ll meet you on deck in a moment.”

He exhaled, running a hand through his tousle of hair. She knew he wanted to warn her of her brother’s temper, Starn’s loathing for being left waiting. But he said nothing instead. Either because he’d never convinced Aisling to do something she wasn’t already inclined to do, or because he’d grown weary from their travels. Exhaustion riddled the nuances of his appearance. The red around his eyes, the slackening of his shoulders when he and Aisling were alone, the tired dimness of his boyish smile.

At last, he nodded, vanishing out her cabin door without another word.

Aisling wasted not a moment.

If she took too long, one of her brothers would come looking for her, or worse, Starn himself would break down her door. So, she turned her back from the mirror on her vanity, removed her leather gloves, and flipped her palms face up, appraising them for the first time since she’d used her fires. She hoped that perhaps this time, the pain was no more than a figment of her imagination.

Bloodied and blistered, the agony mocked her. Her skin peeled like the skin of a snake, burned by her fires and devoured by the hot teeth of thedraiocht.

Aisling allowed herself a brief sob. For the most persistent tears to flee before they forced the rest out. Then she inhaled, wiped her face with the backs of her hands, and slowly slipped the gloves back on. The tender wounds protested as though baiting her to scream from the tops of her lungs. Instead, she ground her jaw and wished for dust.

Thedraiochtlaughed. “Only monsters prefer to endure the night than concede to morning.”

CHAPTER III

AISLING

Dagfin was right.

Aisling needed a new cloak, but not for the cold. Aisling no longer looked entirely human, nor did she look thoroughly fae, but rather something in between. Her eyes were larger, the violet of their irises less human, and her features sharper. Something uncanny about the way her body moved.

She’d overheard the tales spilled around goblets of foaming mead, whispered beneath moonlight showers, and shared between lovers. In some tellings, the northern princess traded to the fae king as a symbol of peace between mortals and fair folk was a victim; her soul was sucked from her chest by a single kiss from the barbarian lord. In others, she’d bargained her soul, lost her soul, willfully gave her soul, stolen something she had no business meddling with. But no matter the version, all the stories ended similarly: the northern princess was no longer mortal. She was something else. Something no king nor queen nor commoner had ever witnessed before. She no longer belonged to iron but to the Forge and its bygone magic the Sidhe calleddraiocht.

And while Feradach selected the crew aboard theStarlingfor their discretion, Starn thought it best to hide Aisling’s face lestthe potent truth of the rumors inspire fear in those around her. Lest they discover the full extent of her abilities.

But even with her face shrouded in the shadow of Dagfin’s cloak, theStarling’s idle chatter fell silent as the sun rose over the Ashild. Gleaming through the cave in which their ship bobbed. All eyes pinned on Aisling.

Starn stood at the forefront of the ship, anchored to the port. The whole crew turned to heed his words: seasoned seafarers hardened by salt-ridden winds, the prideful gleam of the sun, and the memory of shipwrecks. Their mortal hatred for the Aos Sí reflected in every glance they offered Aisling. In the tightening of their fists around their iron swords, daggers, and belts whenever she appeared. Their faithless prayers to the gods they didn’t believe in. Aisling, the queen of those who buried their comrades deep below the surface. Where mortal man’s fire and iron were obsolete.

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