Page 82 of The Savage Queen

Aisling stood by the window, glaring down at the thoroughfare below. A river of mortals, increasing the pace of their gait as the northern sun lay to rest below Lofgren’s peaks. Shutters slamming shut, doors locked, and shops emptied.

Dagfin, among them, ventured into a shop of herbs, incense, and teas, speaking in whispers to a haggard-looking man as he disappeared inside. A fresh hood pulled over his head. Aisling leaned further out her window to catch a better glimpse, but the moment was fleeting and her vantage point limited.

“You straddle the line between your old life and the new. Between your princeling and theDamh Bán.”

Aisling tangled her fingers in the curtains.

“I’m both. Both my old life and my new,” Aisling replied more honestly than she’d intended. “And I cannot commit to either my mortal or fae reflection without killing the other first.”

“Then perhaps you must welcome such death,mo Lúra.” Gilrel smoothed out her furs, hopping atop the table at the center of the room and pouring herself a glass of water from the decanter. Without hesitation, she spewed whatever touched her tongue across the room. Aisling didn’t need an explanation. Mortal water wasn’t comparable to what the Sidhe drank: cool, freshly collected, glacial, rapid, and rainwater blessed and purified by nymphs.

“‘Mo Lúra,’” Aisling repeated. “The last I saw you, you called me by my given name.”

Gilrel straightened, gathering herself.

“And last I saw you, you were fleeing on horseback with five mortal princes. One among them, the son of the fire hand, and Galad’s torturer.”

Aisling flinched as though physically struck, forcing herself to meet Gilrel’s eyes.

“You’re angry with me, I understand. But I needed—needto reach Lofgren’s Rise before all else who might complicate my ends. I’ve lived half a life. And I’ll perish before I settle for such an existence for a second time. If there’s even a chance my life means more than it has, I must know it.”

The groaning of the tavern was deafening. Moaning as though weeping uncontrollably, bracing itself for the storm stalking in the later hours of the evening.

Gilrel didn’t move. Her paws hanging motionless at her sides.

But before Aisling could say more, a knock sounded at the door, startling them both.

Gilrel unlatched the locks, peering through the needle-thin crack with the haft of her blade in one hand, prepared to be drawn. Her suspicions were seemingly assuaged by whoever stood in the corridor, for the door swung open entirely.

Galad, expressionless, stood in the doorway, a pile of clothes in his hands.

“Lir had me fetch these formo Lúra.” He handed the clothes over to Gilrel, deigning to glance in Aisling’s direction.

“Galad—” Aisling began, his name spoken in her thoughts before finding its way onto her tongue. But the fae knight ignored her, turning and leaving without another word. The door swung shut behind him. The sound of its slap echoing painfully.

Gilrel cleared her throat, thoughts masked by the growing dark of evening. Both she and Aisling, wordlessly having agreed to forgo firelight in their chambers.

The pine marten handed Aisling the bundle of clothes. Leather pants, gloves, and boots lined with fur, a tunic, a wool vest, and a thick cloak, proper for the growing cold of Fionn’s winter.

“How quickly you forget the Sidhe’s role in revealing your true nature. I welcomed you—befriended you. Lir guided you. And Galad, despite the loathing of all others, believed in you. And yet you betrayed us?—”

“Betrayed? It was the Aos Sí who corrupted the treaty my union symbolized, not the mortals.”

“Ah yes. The Aos Sí—yourpeople as queen of Annwyn and bride of the forest. You are no longer mortal, Aisling, despite how desperately you cling to those who drank the blood of half your life. And so, our betrayal of the mortals was yours as well.”

Aisling bit her tongue.

“You left us, and coupled with those who’ve indulged in our suffering,” the pine marten continued. “If you believe for a moment even your most recent sins will be forgiven so quickly, reconsider what naivety remains while you pursue something more for yourself.”

Gilrel started for the door, pausing before shutting it entirely. A temple bell clanging outside the tavern and crying into the night.

“And be glad,” the pine marten added, “it’s our anger you face and not the edge of our blades.”

DAGFIN

Dagfin was familiar with Bludhaven. The second time he’d visited this druid settlement, he’d been half blind and nearly deaf after an encounter with the bánánach Unseelie, haunting mortal settlements closer to Heill. So he’d memorized the path to this very shop by sound, smell, and the press of the gravel beneath his boots.

And over time, Dagfin had learned the way of druids. Druids were most often peaceful. They enjoyed their incense, their runes, and their prayers, often keeping to themselves, secluded from the rest of the mortal world. This, by their own design but also because humankind despised them, feared them, and kept them at an arm’s length as outcasts, strangers, and, often, traitors.

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