Page 61 of The Savage Queen

Lir reclined on his bed, sorting through the fury in his heart. He hated the way Aisling inspired such rage within him. Burnedhis blood with her spells without ever needing to summon herdraiocht.

“Are we certain we can trust this list?” Peitho asked, braiding her hair by Lir’s chamber window.

“Aisling wants to escape Oighir more than anyone. Fionn delays her voyage to Lofgren’s Rise every breath he imprisons her here,” Gilrel said.

“She could burn down this castle if she wished,” Peitho argued. “Yet she hasn’t. Perhaps her loyalties have shifted.”

Lir wrenched his eyes shut. He’d traveled as quickly as possible, blazed through the realm to find Aisling before she forgot him or betrayed him once more. And yet, perhaps he wasn’t quick enough––the thought daggering his chest and breeding new rage.

“Her loyalties may have changed,” Filverel added. “But she couldn’t burn down Oighir. In time, it’s possible, but for now, I suspect her magic is dulled by Fionn’s own.”

At those words, Lir cocked his head to his advisor. He’d wondered the same, questioned why Aisling hadn’t used herdraiochtbefore. Until he realized Aisling wasn’t aware her power was more formidable while in Lir’s presence. Together, theirdraiochtinspired the other’s; a result of beingcaeraor Danu’s prophecies, Lir wasn’t certain. Only that together, they were enough to bring the world to its knees till kingdom come.

“Enough speculation,” Lir said, unfurling to his feet. “We allot the queen of Annwyn the benefit of the doubt until she’s proven otherwise. As we would any other subject of Annwyn.”

They exchanged glances.

Peitho cleared her throat, arching a brow knowingly.

“How did she say she obtained this parchment anyways?”

Lir’s entire body tensed and the vines he’d grown in his rage crept down the walls with renewed vengeance.

“Tonight, I’ll win the second test. And tomorrow morning, after the third test, Aisling will be one of us once more.”

Lir stalked from the room without another word, his knights staring after him.

Lir enjoyed an audience.

And today, the crowd was larger than when he’d slayed the Ellén Trechend. A sea of Sidhe from Oighir crowding into Fionn’s colossal throne room whether they be birds pressed against the vaulted ceilings, perched on pillars; or Sidhe craning for a glance at Lir and the table set before him. Even Aisling’s brothers, the Tilrish princes and their newFaerakfriend, stood amidst the hordes, watching.

“Ignore the onlookers and focus on the task at hand,” Filverel said, eyeing the table himself.

“What fun is a victory if others aren’t around to bask in my glory?”

Filverel exhaled. “Concentrate, Lir. Lest this hunt for yourcaeraend in a bloodbath.”

“I never assumed it would end any other way.”

Filverel snorted, starting toward Galad and Peitho standing in the periphery. He paused.

“Where’s Gilrel?” Filverel asked.

Lir searched the crowds for the pine marten. She was nowhere to be found. Not amidst the crush of spectators, atop the rafters, nor among his own kind.

Just then, Fionn walked into the chamber, escorted by Greum, Frigg, and Aisling at his side.

The sight of Aisling was always enough to steal the breath from Lir’s lungs and today was no different.

Her cloak draped over her head and swept the floors. Lir did his best to refocus his attention, but it was futile, her violet eyes meeting his own and stirring something feral inside. So, Lir couldn’t help the trajectory of his attention as it drifted to Aisling’s arm linked in Fionn’s own. A shadow taking root inside him at the sight of it, inspiring the doubts his knights had spoken earlier.

Aisling and Fionn stood before two thrones, glaring out at Oighir’s court before taking their seats. The vision of them atop the dais together, enough to rip apart any guises Lir had managed since arriving in Fjallnorr.

Perhaps Filverel and Peitho were right, he thought to himself. Both dread and violence strangled his every thought, damning himself for the twisting of his core regardless and the pleasure her dagger elicited each time it struck him in the heart.

But just before Aisling bent to take her seat, she removed her cloak.

She wore an emerald gown. The hue of Annwyn’s forests personified in the rich silk that spilled down her body, pinned at her curves by viridescent beetles Lir found he envied. Insects that tied her braids at the end, interspersed between loose, wild waves in Annwyn fashion. The folds of her gown lengthening, moving, shifting like flora come spring.

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