Page 62 of The Savage Queen

Lir cleared his throat.

Thiswas a declaration of her loyalty. A glimmer of hope written in the fabric of her gown; Aisling hadn’t strayed nor aligned herself with Fionn even if hers and Lir’s motivations were at odds. An end to Lir’s knights’ speculations.

But the glory that was Aisling was rapidly eclipsed by Fionn’s presence. The ice crawling up Lir’s boots at the son of Winter’s audience.

Lir hardened, shaking his head as though it could shake out the image of her. To forget Aisling was in the same room. And yet, he knew before he’d tried, the effort was futile.

“Before you is a collection of seven tinctures made with the herbs local to the seven continents,” Greum said. “The Isles of Rinn Dúin, Centar, Bethel, Lilina, Fjallnorr, Shuilan, and Rolum. Each gifted by the twelve fae sovereigns before the Wild Hunt.”

A dwarven hare stepped down the dais with a tray in hand. Atop it were the seven tinctures Greum spoke of, nimbly set before Lir on the table.

“For the second test, the king of the greenwood is to dip the tip of an ivory arrow in only one tincture. Six are poison save for one. He must shoot his target, and should the target survive, Lir proceeds to the third and final test. Should the target die an instant death, he loses.”

“Easy enough,” Lir said as another dwarven hare laid both a single reed and bow before him. Lir tested the weight of both, studying the frozen tip of the arrow, its shaft slick and slender, and its fletching made of owl feathers cut to perfection. The bow was a longbow, carved from the trunks of felled or rotted junipers. The soul of the tree whittled into the longbow still beating like a heart without a body, drumming through Lir’s fingers and caressing his spirit.

All of Annwyn’s knights were trained with a variety of weaponry before they came of age. Only then would they select their preferred weapon. A blade bound to their soul and eventually used to determine the bond of theircaera. So, while Lir was always destined to choose the axes gifted to Bres by both the Forge and the gods, he’d trained with weapons of all make and size before. Including the longbow.

“Then let’s begin,” Fionn said with a devious smile. The son of Winter snapped his fingers and six or so Sidhe sentinels escorted a shackled creature into the room.

Aisling stood from her chair. She saw past the folds of spectators from her seat atop the dais. But it wasn’t until the creature emerged from the crush that Lir gleaned who or what it was with his own eyes.

Gilrel, head bowed and ashamed, stopped before the staircase of the dais. A wolf on either side.

“Your target,” Fionn said, every syllable stifling laughter.

Lir scowled. If he guessed the wrong tincture, not only would it mean losing Aisling to Fionn, but it would also ensure Gilrel’s death. A poison arrow was fatal. Especially for a creature as small as the pine marten.

“Let’s begin, shall we?” And at the wave of Fionn’s hands, the wolves left Gilrel alone, Lir’s target. Lir rolled back his shoulders, channeling his frustration into the task at hand.

The seven bottles glittered, singing a different melody desperate to appeal to Lir’s ears.

Lir unstoppered the emerald brew and brought it to his nose, lured by its color. The room grew silent, all eyes fixed on the Sidhe king as he considered the first tincture. Aisling, still standing, was lowered to her seat by the gentle press of Fionn’s hand on her arm. The sight of his brother touching her seizing Lir’s chest in a shadowed grip.

Lir blinked, doing his best to ignore his temper and failing. Grisly thoughts clawing at the walls of his mind despite needing to concentrate on the test.

Initially, the emerald bottle smelled of a paste left behind by silk slugs and harvested to soothe wing wounds. But the scent shifted, transforming into something far sweeter. More like custard and stewed peaches.

Poison was sweet, Lir reminded himself.

Lir set the bottle down and tried three more.

The crimson tincture smelled of yule pudding, the white tincture of sugared teas, and the blue of burning nettle boiled in a pot of maple sap. All sickeningly sweet and overwhelming to the senses.

So, Lir’s hand drifted to both the violet and clear tincture.

The violet bottle reminded Lir of dusk. Of the forest earth cooling come evening, heralded by the lavender haze of an approaching night. The clear bottle was far more grotesque, the same consistency as troll saliva and equally as nauseating in smell. Lir’s brow furrowed. Neither smelled particularly sweet and to decide beyond doubt which was the sweeter of the two would mean tasting both. A costly gamble.

Nevertheless, Lir needed to make a choice. One was Nimhe, the other poison.

He smelled them both several times, a bottle in each hand. His audience stood still, studying his expression. The room so quiet, one could hear a snowflake’s descent.

Lir’s eyes wandered, inevitably finding Aisling’s own.

His throat grew thick.

She held his gaze, violet eyes sinking their fangs into his heart. The shade of heartbreak, of venomous kisses. Of dreams and visions.

Lir took his reed and dipped its tip into the violet brew.

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