Page 125 of The Savage Queen

“Starn is already at the top,” she said, diverting the conversation as they drew nearer to the peak. It was barely a whisper. Loud enough for only Dagfin to hear. But the sound of her eldest brother’s name rang back and forth inside Aisling’s mind.

“I knew he’d come but never realized he’d make it this far. When he left in Oighir, I assumed he’d be startled home. But it’s clear now: Starn would never return to Tilren lest he’d obtained what he wanted for Nemed or died trying, using some dead fae to weave his path through Ina’s defenses undetected as a mortal.”

Dagfin’s brow furrowed but he nodded his head.

“Have you told your fae?”

Aisling despised the way “your fae” sounded on his lips. Immediately glancing at the fae king at the head of their procession, Hiraeth in hand. But she opened her mouth to respond regardless, swiftly interrupted by a bead of moisture plopping onto the center of her forehead.

Aisling stopped in her tracks, glaring upward.

“What is it?” Peitho asked, halting a step beneath her own.

“Ssshh,” Aisling said gently, stilling the rest of their party with her voice. Her heart thudding inside her chest, loud enough for all Fjallnorr to hear as she wiped the bead away. A thick syrup.

Both the Sidhe and Dagfin followed Aisling’s line of sight, finding to their horror a single, glittering thread, vibrating above their heads. As though plucked and left to thrum.

Gilrel clenched her jaw, whiskers trembling with anticipation.

The silence swelled into a crescendo; the hiss and click of a body moving inside the nearest cavity of Iod, skulking closer, giggling and salivating. At first one and then many. Thousands, creeping to the mouths of their dwellings.

Aisling paled, realizing alongside the others, they were surrounded. Watched by a trove of reflecting eyes, peering back from the dark.

LIR

Before death reaped a soul, the air always tasted of smoke. And the moments after, stained the tongue with ash. With unlived nights and unspoken words.

Before a slaughter, the sun dimmed. Too ashamed by the blood rage to peer past its veil of clouds. But the moon always looked. Always beheld the shadows’ devilry.

And so, as Lir readied his axes, he gave fair warning to the pale, dying winter sun, studying the neccakaid’s every step as they crept from their nests.

“Damh Bán,” they hissed in Rún, bubbling over with laughter. “We spin and we spin and we spin, century aftercentury after century. And yet, the tapestry always weaves the same.”

“You weave for the Lady,” he replied. “And she lacks creativity.”

“We weave for the gods,Damh Bán, and so does the Lady. Nevertheless, your threads are exceptionally complex.”

“So, I’ve heard.”

“Turn back now,” they said, creeping into the light. Giant, snow-white creatures, whose spindly legs clicked against Iod’s stone. “This is your last opportunity to forgo whatever it is you covet in exchange for a future. Lest this day be your last.”

Lir, instinctively, searched for Aisling in his periphery. Daring not to turn his head lest they glean his priorities. The eight bulbous eyes of the nearest neccakaid studying the flashing edges of Hiraeth.

“Are you willing to spill your blood for the Lady?” Lir asked, stepping closer. The neccakaid hesitated, half retreating into their hollows.

“Tis not for the Lady, Damh Bán,” another chittered, “but for the sake of both Seelie and Unseelie alike.”

“I’m wounded.” Lir feigned offense.

“The neccakaid are left with little choice but to align ourselves with both the Lady and Danu: those who fear their visions more so than you. You served the Unseelie well, Damh Bán, until you made the ill-fated choice to bind yourself to a mortal whore and forsake us.”

Lir wished the neccakaid hadn’t spoken those words. There was another path that could’ve been trodden. One that bore no violence. Now, Lir was forced to gut every last beast till they gargled their apology through lungs filled with scarlet.

“Lir—” Filverel started, swiftly cut off by the slash of Lir’s axe. In a blink, Lir was before the neccakaid, the blade slicingthrough its head with a hideous screech, splattering their crystal webs in gore.

“By the Forge,” Galad cursed, glaring up and around them as every neccakaid descended upon their small group.

Lir only grinned, gathering his axe from the carnage and launching toward another. It rose on its hind legs, spear-tipped legs jutting for him as he faced the foul underbelly. He cut through it easily, pivoting to lunge for another, casting its white string. Lir sliced through the thread, tossing his left axe so it plunged into one of many beady eyes, swiftly dodging the onslaught of three more beasts as they descended upon him. Summoning roots from the stone that impaled their thick bodies and tossed them down the chamber till they smacked against the furthest most floors.

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