Page 40 of The Savage Queen

Aisling accepted the goblet and brought it to her lips. The same euphoric wave rippled through her, encouraging thedraiochtwithin to writhe and hum a gleeful tune.

“Lir instills obedience but wouldn’t have punished a member of the Sidhe without cause. So, tell me what you’ve chosen to exclude from your tales. Why would Lir punish Oighir?”

“You’re cunning.” Fionn licked his fangs, considering Aisling before speaking. “Bres and Ina weren’t the only ones to break their vows to the Forge; vows promising never to love another Sidhe sovereign.”

“Delbaeth,” Aisling conjectured. Fionn’s father.

Fionn’s expression tightened as he set down his chalice. The perfection of its rounded edge now corrupted by a single crack.

“Aye, my father. But that’s enough about politics and history. You shall soon see why you and I are cut by the same shears.”

Aisling nodded, keeping to herself the Lady’s words.

“You blunt my shears.” Aisling’s fate was outside the Lady’s control and all others for that matter.

“Come, select a gown to be delivered back to your quarters for this evening. I’ve commissioned every seamstress and tailor in Oighir to craft a dress for you.” Fionn gestured at his horde of dazzling gowns. “It’ll be an evening you won’t soon forget.”

CHAPTER XV

AISLING

Fionn’s lips were cold. At the slightest touch, they nearly froze Aisling’s hand, numbing her palms to the pain of her most recent burns.

Aisling shivered. He watched her closely as he looped her arm through his, eyes lined with sparkling white dust. A foil to the bear headdress he now wore with teeth exchanged for shards of ice. The same moon-white shade as his robes, his cross-collar shirt, his embroidered trousers, or the satin ribbon tied around his waist.

He, a pale crystal glimmering in a palace whittled from winter. Burning too brightly to look directly in the eyes.

“Shall we,mo Lúra?” Fionn asked, gesturing to the gargantuan mirror before them, lined with sculptures of bears as large as Greum and Sidhe knights, all brightened by fae light.

Aisling clenched her jaw but nodded all the same.

“How does it work?”

Fionn held his palm before the mirror.

“Every mirror is linked to thedraiocht. So, you must first ask thedraiochtto enter and only if it allows, will it grant you access.”

“Has it ever stopped you from entering or leaving?”

“Rarely. Only when I use the mirrors as a looking glass instead of a gateway. A window instead of a door. Thedraiochtcan be unpredictable and, at times, even harbor an agenda of its own. That’s why it’s important you master it, Aisling.”

Fionn closed his eyes, moving his lips as though speaking a silent spell. And perhaps he was. The mirror turned to liquid as they passed through. Aisling felt cold, then soaked, as though she were submerging herself in water. Her body shuddered of its own volition, tasting Fionn’s magic-ripe influence: a deep freeze, crushed wolfberries, and freshly thawed rapids.

They appeared atop another imperial staircase, washed over by both music and light. This chamber was large, exploding with snowdrops, frozen lilies, and virgin-pale gypsophila. Another throne sat here as well, embedded with Fionn’s longsword just like the last.

Each stairwell twisted toward a ballroom of impossible size and make: rib-vaulted ceilings paneled in silver stained glass so the evening stars could peer down at their celebration, mimicking the sheen of the petrified dew clinging to every salt-rock surface, the chandeliers like upside down trees iced over and made everlasting, all multiplied a hundred times over by the mirror standing at the center of the dance floor and the fair folk that slipped in and out of it, traveling from all across Oighir to attend Fionn’s masquerade.

Aisling inhaled sharply, struck by the sound of fae music. The melodies whisking her to Annwyn once more. TheSnaidhm. The wild, provocative, emotional melodies braided together till Aisling felt most alive. Instruments mortals bore no names for, breathing to life the voice of all that didn’t sing or speak or weep. The trees, the rivers, a snowstorm, an ocean’s tempest. Sounds Lir had opened Aisling’s ears to.

But the moment Aisling and Fionn appeared at the top of the imperial staircase, the ballroom stilled. Every Aos Sí inattendance, pausing their dance and craning their elegant necks to see for themselves: the bride of the forest linked arm in arm with the son of Winter. Among them and amidst the crush of guests was Starn, Iarbonel, Fergus, Dagfin, and Killian. Annind was nowhere to be seen.

Aisling swallowed her concern. Despite this, Fionn studied her every nuance. The way her eyes brightened or dimmed, the tension in her shoulders, the pursing of her lips.

So, Aisling swept down the staircase at his side. Her gown an intricate masterpiece of silver thorns and cape sleeves that dusted the foggy floors, trimmed with white furs. The skirts billowing at her waist, expanding into a blizzard and clouding around both her legs and slippers.

Fionn escorted Aisling down the final step, waiting till the music resumed to speak with her.

Aisling released her arm from Fionn’s hold, adjusting the mask that sat atop the bridge of her nose. The top half of a bear’s head, made entirely of verglas.

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