Page 41 of The Savage Queen

“So the spirits ofSamhainwon’t remember your face,” Fionn had said when he’d gifted her the mask outside her chambers. The counterpart to his headdress, Aisling had quickly realized. But it wasn’t only Aisling who wore a mask. The whole of Fionn’s court wore one as well, beasts of all shape and form pinned atop their fae features.

“Enjoy the inception ofSamhain, Aisling,” he said, bowing his head. “I’ll call upon you shortly.”

And with that, he disappeared into the crush of his court, Greum lumbering shortly behind. The Sidhe’s attention bobbed between Fionn and Aisling, skeptical eyes narrowing behind their masks. For Aisling, the fire hand’s daughter, the not-so-mortal queen of Annwyn, the bride of the forest, was clearly no ill-cared for prisoner and not yet dead.

“Ash.” Starn navigated through the crowd lithely till he stood at her side. Her other brothers, Killian, and Dagfin, were interspersed throughout the ballroom, eyed by every Sidhe guard and armored beast.

They each wore new clothing. Garments from Oighir, obvious by their style and make: luxurious robes, cross-collared shirts, and a ribbon around their waists. Masks made in the image of forest beasts: Starn’s a lion, Dagfin’s a raven, Iarbonel’s a badger, Fergus’s a rabbit, and Killian’s a fox.

“We leave tonight,” he said with no further introduction. Aisling couldn’t see his eyes well, but she saw the curve of his mouth well enough. The distaste he tried and failed to conceal. Indeed, the image of his younger sister, arm in arm with another fae king, one who’d imprisoned him easily and effortlessly, while he stood in a room filled with hundreds of Sidhe, was enough to heat all their father’s fires in this lifetime and the next. But he composed himself, as every mortal soldier was trained to do in the face of battle, and swallowed his loathing.

“Where’s Annind?” Aisling asked, feigning flippancy considering an armored boar glared at her across the room, its mace already at the ready. As though thirsting for an excuse to flay her alive.

“He’s being cared for as we speak in a palace room, enjoying every mortal food and tea the kitchens have available.”

Aisling glanced at Fionn across the room. He spoke with a group of trooping fae, elegantly interacting with his subjects. He was clever, Aisling was quickly realizing. She shouldn’t have surrendered her feelings so recklessly. Inquiring about her brothers’ and Dagfin’s whereabouts had informed Fionn that the most efficient way of buying Aisling’s affections, trust, and allegiance was through her companions’ good treatment. Meaning, all and any information Fionn had gleaned fromAisling thus far, he’d used to his advantage. A fact she both admired and damned all at once.

“It reeks here of cattle and overripe fruit.” Starn wrinkled his nose, ensuring no Sidhe accidentally brushed against his shoulders. Aisling didn’t need him to elaborate further. She knew Starn spoke of the bipedal animals woven into Sidhe culture and court life. Yet they didn’t smell the way Starn described them. To Aisling, they smelled wild.

“I’ll be sure to tell father exactly where to find this abomination. He’ll burn it to the ground along with every Aos Sí and their beasts gallivanting inside,” Starn said, and now he did grin. “And I’ll be glad to be gone from this place before this feral occasion is done with.”

“How do you intend to escape?” Aisling asked. “And what of Annind?”

“There are five entrances to this ballroom. Iarbonel, Fergus, Dagfin, and I have each studied where each door leads. See that one? To the left of the main entrance?”

Aisling nodded her head. A smaller threshold guarded by two white bears near as large as Greum.

“That one leads straight to the palace courtyards. One need only navigate through a series of gardens before leaping over the wall and finding freedom once more.”

“And the guards?”

“Killian’s been dousing those bears’ flasks with twisted honey: sap from a petrifying plant, harvested by theFaerakfor use on those Unseelie they wish to keep alive. He found it in Annind’s healer’s satchel, mostly used as an anesthetic. Dim-witted hare,” Starn spat, crossing his arms.

Aisling shook her head.

“Annind is too injured to slip through guarded passages, navigate through labyrinths, or scale castle walls. He’ll not survive the trip home without proper care.”

“You’ve been away from your clann too long, Aisling. Annind would rather die a free man than live amongst the fae.”

Aisling worked her jaw.

“Watch your tongue. You speak ill of nightmares while still asleep.”

At this, they both glanced around the room. Indeed, every member of the Sidhe whispered amongst one another when they believed themselves out of earshot. Glancing at Aisling and Starn with potent hatred. Children of iron.

“We leave tonight, Aisling. Father will send the mortal fleets to Lofgren’s Rise in our stead.”

“And those mortal sovereigns who’ve already attempted and failed?” Sigewulf’s death flashed in Aisling’s mind.

“They’ll try again, this time with more men. None will stand a chance against iron in so great numbers. Prepare yourself for the signal.”

“Why the sudden hurry, brother?” Aisling stole a goblet of fae wine from a passing badger’s serving plate. A gesture that didn’t go unnoticed by Starn, who eyed the chalice of fae wine as though it were poison. And to him, it was. “Shouldn’t it be I rushing you onwards? After all, you’ve accompaniedme.”

Starn’s laugh was without humor as he forced the next words from his lips.

“I only care for your best interests, little Sister.”

Aisling glanced up at her eldest sibling, studying the familiar scar along his jaw. One he’d collected chasing Aisling through the woods and to Hannelore’s Linn when they were children. The wound that had ultimately outed them and their adventures to Nemed.

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