Page 135 of The Savage Queen

And although she wept till she thought her heart was punctured and bleeding saltwater, she was also angry. So damnably angry that Dagfin had perished atop a mountain of the very Ocras that’d almost killed him, his own iron finding him first. That as Aisling cradled his face, forcing herself to push him into the silver lake so that magic might take what it was owed, she hated thedraiochtand everything it’d already claimed. His body buried in Racat’s oblivion alongside what was left of Aisling’s humanity.

“The choice is yours, Aisling. You and I may forge a path for ourselves, unbinding from the fae king once and for all. Or, we may align with the dark lord. Regardless, we are bound together, dear friend. All that’s left is a choice so that you and I will rule this realm till kingdom come. Together, we’ll enter the Otherworld and join the Other and this realm into one. Ours."

The evening burned slowly. Patiently indulging the revelry of Annwyn below till Aisling believed the sun might never rise. That the fae would dance till their feet bled, the world would never seize its spinning, the wine would endlessly spill, and theSnaidhmall Annwyn celebrated would scream into oblivion.

It was Tyr’s, one of Lir’s knights,Snaidhm, in celebration of his recent union. One bound and sealed after Aisling, Lir, and his knights had returned from Lofgren’s Rise, boots covered in both ice and soot.

“You should join them,” a voice sounded beside her, laced in fae wine.

Galad approached, wearing little save for trousers and an unlaced shirt. Every last Sidhe rune glistening in sweat and reflected by the fae light, idly floating through theSnaidhm. “If they knew you’d come, they’d feast in your honor.”

Aisling scoffed, crossing her arms. They stood at the edge of the forest, glaring through the last trees before shadow gave way to glowing festival.

“They’d curse me as thief once more. Demand my death so the threat of the curse breaker is no longer. Even if it would cost them Racat.”

“Not anymore,” Galad said. “You destroyed seven mortal fleets at Lofgren’s Ri?—”

“I know what I did,” Aisling bit, unable to hear the words spoken out loud. Not yet. Perhaps not ever if it helped her forget what’d happened to Dagfin. She could still pretend Dagfin was alive elsewhere. Had run off as he’d always dreamed and made a new life for himself.

“The Sidhe won’t forget what you’ve done so easily, no matter how badlyyoumight try to. And with Racat bound to you, they cannot demand your death. Without Racat, Annwyn is made vulnerable to the mortals and Unseelie alike. To Danu. You, Aisling, are the weapon the Sidheneed. That they want. And that’s a cause worth forgiving all else.”

“And you,” Aisling asked, turning to meet the knight’s sapphire eyes. “Have you forgiven me?”

Galad stepped away, never once unlatching her from his gaze. His dark hair brushed by the midnight breeze.

“Come and partake in the festivities,” he said, ignoring her question as he walked away. “Lir will be searching for you.”

And as though summoned, the fae king materialized between the folds of fae dancers. Miraculous, brilliant, twisting Aisling’s heart at the sight of him. Both rage and something else stirring inside her gut, near making her ill.

He wore only a jacket, his bare abdomen exposed and teasing the eye. The axes he never parted with crossed at his back. Chains like thorns wrapped around his throat, ringed fingers, and several hoops in one of his pointed ears. But his charcoal-lined eyes met Aisling’s across the path, pulling at the intangible cord between them. His left eye marked by a thin red scar. A memory of Dagfin and how the magic indeed took what it was owed.

Aisling turned away.

She couldn’t face Lir. Not without losing what composure she still harbored.

Lir hadn’t killed Dagfin, yet for an endless moment she’d believed he had. And the desire to kill him, to punish him for his betrayal was real until that moment, at last, ended. Replaced by another. One where Starn had slayed Dagfin instead, with Lir’s axe and the magic the Lady had lent him to kill Aisling. In so doing, ending a prophecy for the Lady and empowering humankind for Starn.

She’d kill her brother. Ensure he felt every morsel of pain before at last meeting his end. And Aisling wouldn’t rest until said end was dealt by her hand. At one point, she’d feared her brothers died escaping Lofgren’s Rise. That she hadn’t killed them when she’d bore the chance and another had stolen the opportunity. But a strange sort of glee filled her lungs when she felt his heart beating further north. A signal from thedraiocht, a whisper, a calling of blood and clann that could never die, screaming at Aisling that Starn, her brothers, and her father were still alive. No doubt thanks to the intervention of the Lady, aiding their escape. An unintentional gift to Aisling, for now, she couldn’t help but look forward to the day she’d relish the gore of their deaths.

As for Fionn, Aisling doubted he’d died. Winter froze Fjallnorr into solid ice with his living rage, biding his time till he found her or Lir again.

Aisling’s eyes burned as she darted into the woods. Her vision blurred by tears as she mounted Saoirse, the stag Lir had gifted her after their union. And they raced through the trees, the forest where she’d been hunted by the Cú Scáth, where she’d summoned her flames for the first time, where she’d been confronted with her tuath’s lies. Where she’d found a sense of belonging at long last.

And she screamed.

Yelled until her lungs were stripped. Until the trees whipped madly on a windless night. Mourning Aisling’s second death.

Yet even when Aisling scarcely bore the breath to weep, she kept racing, flying through Annwyn’s corridors and toward Lir’s castle.

Aisling didn’t know where she was going. Only that she couldn’t stop moving. Couldn’t hesitate lest the grief inside catch up to her, pin her to the earth and devour her, body and soul.

The bear sentinels opened the doors for Aisling as she tore through Castle Annwyn, unknowing where any staircase led save for her bedchamber. But she couldn’t retreat there. A den of restless thoughts, of memories, of silence where everything that’d occurred atop Lofgren’s Rise would be given space to be remembered. So, she let Saoirse guide her through a castle that was meant to be Aisling’s own. She, a queen of the Sidhe and yet she knew not her own castle. Was despised by her subjects. Wanted dead by hercaera. And loathed even by her blood. Alone and lost, in a world of her own making. The answers she’d coveted hadn’t been what she’d wanted. Galad had been right. The answers she craved were not answers that could be given to her. They were moments yet to unfold. Choices, memories,experiences happening all around her, making her who, why, and what she was to become. Be it for better or worse.

Saoirse burst through two mighty doors and into a great hall.

A room of stained glass portraits, of cross-vaulted ceilings supported by eight colossal ash trees, winding their branches to the ceiling and veiling the murals painted above. Ivy clinging to every surface, made brilliant by the precious gems and stones clipped and cut into the walls, the floors, the pillars, and the arcade. A world made by fae hands and fae hands alone. Where a colossal tree sprouted at the end of the hall, a throne made from its roots and crowned by mighty antlers.

Aisling dismounted Saoirse.

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