Page 112 of The Savage Queen

Lir avoided Aisling’s eyes, preferring to stare into the dark instead. He knew something, but Aisling wasn’t certain what. Only that no matter the situation, she could depend on Lir to harbor his secrets.

Aisling swatted the questions away lest her anxiety worsen. Everything she’d ever wanted rested at the tip of Lofgren’s Rise. Just within reach, yet Aisling couldn’t help feeling like it were somehow farther away than it’d ever been.

At last, they arrived at a landing that spilled into a wide corridor. One that belonged inside a magnificent fae castle, dressed in banners of ivory and embroidered with three-eyed owls. Fae light hung from the beams overhead in quilts of white clover, illuminating the velvet carpets, the vases spilling over with prickly poinsettias and holly. Ceilings distantly high, knotted with ribbons, wind chimes, and dripping with dark jewels mined from within the mountains, Aisling assumed.

And just before them, at the center of the corridor was a mighty threshold made of wood. Carvings of thorny wreaths, interlace, and one slender dragon adorned the door, vibrating with the sound of music on the other side.

“It’s a trap,” Filverel said, drawing his sword from his back. “No one goes near the door.”

The advisor approached slowly, weighing the possibilities of what lay beyond. It sounded like a celebration. One of wild music, of swishing gowns, and uninhibited laughter.

“The corridors aren’t predictable,” Dagfin said. “They shift and change direction, leading further into the mountain until it’s near impossible to find one’s way back.”

“What’s your alternative then, princeling?” Gilrel leapt atop Filverel’s shoulder.

“The mountain is divided in two,” Dagfin said. “The left side is trickery. The right side is riddled with beasts. At least, that’s what I pieced together last I was here.”

“And why were you here, princeling?” Peitho asked, arching a brow.

“Faerakbusiness.”

“Care to share?” Galad pried.

Dagfin grew taut, glaring at the fae through shadowed eyes. Each day he grew weaker, Aisling could tell. His Ocras lessened by the hour as he consumed more than he ought to. And despite standing in Iod now, where Ocras was harvested from the stone, Aisling didn’t know how or if it were possible for oneFaerakto reap the Ocras alone. So, Aisling was left to hope Dagfin knew what he was doing. And selfishly, Aisling needed him to indulge in the Ocras lest he perish. Lest he be another mortal caught in the crossfire.

“Is there another way?” Aisling interjected. “Or do you know what lies on the other side of this door?”

Dagfin shook his head. “Last I was here, I chose the corridors instead of this threshold. The music persisted even then, meaning?—”

“It’s an enchantment,” Filverel conjectured.

“Not all enchantments are bad.” Peitho shrugged.

“And what of the corridors?” Galad asked.

“As I said, most are deceptive, but it isn’t impossible to navigate them. Based on the landscape of the rest of the mountain, however, the ballroom should be the quickest route to the top. Almost a direct path.”

Aisling eyed the trail of blood. It traveled down the right-hand side corridor and into darkness. Starn was being sloppy. A sign of desperation.

“We’ll divide ourselves,” Aisling said. “Half can follow Starn’s trail of blood through the corridors, a guide despite the labyrinth. The rest will venture through this threshold in case the corridors are a deception. If either or both of usare successful, this doubles our chances of reaching the top of Lofgren’s Rise before anyone else.”

“Is it wise to divide ourselves against unknown enemies?” Peitho asked, appraising the reaction of the rest of their party. “We have no idea what else lies here, much less who. Our chances of survival are slim when apart.”

“Peitho’s right,” Galad said. “There’s no guarantee we’ll find one another again considering we lack communication whilst inside this keep. If anyone were to grow lost or…” The rest of his sentiment died in the air between them. The perils of their quest made tangible and bitter on their tongues.

“Not one of us was ignorant to the risks involved when entering Iod,” Aisling said. “Whatever our motivation, we came to reach Lofgren’s Rise before any others, not to dawdle in fear.”

Aisling could taste what she’d coveted for so long. It was close. All the answers she needed were right here, beating like fae drums. She couldn’t—wouldn’t––slow her pace now. Wouldn’t let the frivolities of fear keep her from losing what was just within reach to the ambitions of another.

“Your impatience blinds?—”

“Enough,” Lir interrupted. “Your queen has spoken.”

His tone commanded silence. Filverel swallowed his rebuttal, bowing his head at Aisling. And at the gesture, Aisling’s stomach fluttered. As though his acquiescence was born from more than just his respect for Lir but his respect for Aisling as well. Yet, it wasn’t possible. Filverel despised and distrusted Aisling more than most, yet the glister of recognition in his opalescent orbs spoke a different sentiment entirely. One Aisling hadn’t been prepared to receive.

“How should we divide ourselves then?” Gilrel asked, brushing dust off her pauldrons.

“The princeling knows these corridors best,” Galad said. “Gilrel and Peitho will follow him through.”

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