Page 15 of The Savage Queen

“Fifteen dead and twenty-five alive.”

Dagfin’s chest constricted, a weight pressing down on his shoulders. He forced himself to record the numbers, every pen stroke carving their deaths into the fabric of reality. Before they’d been written, Dagfin could shove away the truth. But when it glared at him from the parchment, the ink wet and winking, he could no longer deny what’d occurred.

“Feradach will understand,” Killian assured. He moved toward Dagfin’s desk, throwing himself into a wingback chair. “In times like these, death on the high seas is inevitable.”

“My father’s reaction is the last thing that concerns me.”

“Then it’s the faerie.”

Dagfin’s mood darkened at the name.

“Don’t call her that.”

“It’s what she is,” Killian continued, opening the pouch strapped to his bandolier and pouring the powder into a flask. The smell of it, of volcanic rock and charred edges, flared Dagfin’s nostrils and quickened the pace of his heart. Ocras. “As I understand it, your memories of her are only just that now: memories.”

“Nemed paid you for your services in protecting his sons. That’s where your experience lies. As for the rest, you know nothing save for beast and mortal, but nothing in between.”

“Because there’s no such thing. We all saw what she did out there.”

“Are you suggesting mortals are not capable of mass violence?”

“Not with magic,” Killian said, leaning forward in his chair. “Magic makes the violence too easy. Disconnects its wielder to the crime for they don’t feel the sensation of a blade against flesh.”

The sound of the Roktan crew burning alive screeched inside Dagfin’s mind, scratching at the flesh of his conscience. Dagfin shook the memory away. Now, the wholeStarlingtreated her like a disease, scorning her when she was within earshot and avoiding standing too close. Their memories of the murúch and Aisling hanging heavily overhead, rotting and vegetating in the salt-ridden air. Weeping for their lost brethren when anger temporarily dissolved into sorrow.

Still, although they hadn’t truly known what they’d signed up for, there was no turning back. Not when they were this near to Fjallnorr.

“She had no choice. TheStarlingwas careening toward the rocks and the murúch were multiplying. Those of us that still live wouldn’t have made it out alive had she not intervened.”

“We could’ve found another way. One with less ruthless measures.”

“I agree, yet I can’t judge Aisling for, at the very least, making a choice. What action did any of the rest of us make other than succumbing to the murúch?”

“There was still time,” Killian said.

“She did what she believed she had to. Whether or not it’s what I would’ve chosen is irrelevant.”

Killian exhaled, shaking his head.

“And that’s the difference they’ll chronicle in the legends when tales of you and her are spoken around fires. You and I are heroes, Dagfin. Don’t justify the crimes of your villain because you’re capable of love and she is not. You’ll never change her, Fin. No matter how much you might want to.”

AISLING

“Tell me, has thedraiochtalways burned you this way?” Killian asked, stepping into her cabin. Aisling knew it was Killian without turning. She could smell the iron strapped to his narrow waist, his sweat, and the mortal blood crusting the backs of his hands.

“You’ve got a sharp eye.” Aisling glanced at him over her shoulder, willing herself not to wince while she bandaged her hands with linen. “Is that why you became aFaerak?”

Killian paused, turning her words over in his mind.

“It appears I’m not the only one with a sharp eye.”

“It takes less than vigilance to determine the iron at your hips is made to carve fae bones and the fangs around your neck were wrenched from their screaming mouths.”

Killian lifted his hands in mock surrender.

“I mean you no harm, faerie.”

“I couldn’t say the same.” Aisling turned to face him, clenching her fists at her sides. Her blood was hot, near scalding, as it bled through the linen and dripped onto the floors. Killian’s attention drifted from Aisling’s scowl to her hands, then the crimson puddling around her boots.

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