Page 89 of The Savage Queen

He moved toward her, a question in the tilt of his brows. Gilrel hadn’t allowed him into her quarters but, at the veryleast, he’d known Lir hadn’t returned to his chambers till early morning, if at all.

The familiar scent of him, of childhood memories, of summer chases, of salty seas, and adventure, wracking her chest with guilt. Dagfin felt like a home she could never return to. One she thought of often, a piece of her still living in its simpler memories.

“I purchased horses for travel,” he said as they walked outAbhaile’s doors side by side. Today, his posture was straighter, his eyes brighter, his voice stronger. The knicks, bruises, and scratches from Oighir, gone. Vanished and replaced with vibrant, warm skin, and renewed energy.

“The rest are already prepared to leave,” he said.

And as though conjured, Lir, Galad, Filverel, Peitho, and Gilrel, sat on restless horses at the center of the thoroughfare, the rest of Bludhaven not yet awake.

Lir spoke with Filverel at the front of their group, dressed again in his leather, pauldrons, and hood, yet he found her eyes at once. Drifting to Dagfin at her side.

“This one is yours,” Dagfin said, leading Aisling to an ivory mare. Its coat was longer than most, hooves thickly feathered and obscured by snow-white hair.

A Tilrish highland horse, in the likeness of a mare she’d grown fond of in Castle Neimedh’s stables but was never permitted to ride.

“Sorcha.” Aisling smiled, remembering its name. And as though this creature bore the same spirit, it neighed, leaning into Aisling’s palm as she stroked its side.

Dagfin’s expression lit like Odhran’s constellation, a heavy breath exhaled.

“Enough dithering,” Filverel hissed from upfront. “We need to ride till evening if we wish to reach Lofgren’s base by nightfall.”

Dagfin lifted Aisling onto the mare with surprising ease. With enough strength to lift the entire horse if he wished. Aisling hesitated, watching as Dagfin leapt onto his own mount behind her. Lithe and agile. The gaunt Dagfin from the day prior, suffering from the consequences of Fionn’s imprisonment and a trek across the north, gone. Replaced by a radiant warrior, rivaling the strength of the fae. A transition occurring overnight.

LIR

“Blood seeps beneath the soil, drunk by our roots,” the forest whispered, still and solemn. Cursed to remember the sins committed beneath the shadow of their branches but eager to protect its beasts.

Lir wrapped the reins around his gloves. Mortal mounts weren’t as quick, as obedient, as silent as Sidhe stags. But for now, they’d do.

Lir could smell thedraiochtofSamhainripening with each new day. The cologne of an approaching storm, threaded through the overcast skies in webs of light, making pregnant the clouds above. He could feel Lofgren’s Rise stirring, rolling in its sleep like a bear in the distance, and preparing itself to be met. And once there, Lir would achieve, at long last, complete dominion of the mortal race, sealing their fate in the Forge. For the sins of his mother to be made permanent—etched into forever.

The gates of this godsforsaken mortal town groaned open, unveiling the wilderness beyond.

Lir was glad to be gone from this place. Made useful only for Aisling’s sake: to allow her a respite before continuing their trek.

Still, the toll of their separation hung heavily on both their shoulders. Yet, close to her, he felt hisdraiochtstretching and gasping for breath after months without air. And he damned himself for it. For the desperate need of her. Every new breath, a prayer Aisling was not his damnation but his salvation. Not his destiny to repeat his mother’s crimes but a forging of something new. Something powerful. Something to change the course of Danu’s prophecies and the Lady’s alike. His hope to weave a tapestry of their own. To not yield to fate, but to master it. To change the course of everything.

But even if she were his damnation, Lir found to his horror, he’d relish damnation if only wielded by her hands. And Lir was concerned he was already experiencing it, too bespelled to realize it. That’s what Filverel and Peitho claimed.

Once all were set to leave, Lir nudged his mount onward. The feywilds stirred in anticipation of him.

“Halt!” a voice cried from behind.

A cloaked figure appeared, wrapped in linen robes and crowned by a circlet with stags’ antlers on either side. A poor imitation of Lir’s own crown, given to the high chief of the druids that worshiped him as well as the feywilds and their beasts. Fifteen or more followers dressed similarly and huddled around him.

Over the centuries, Lir had come across several settlements like Bludhaven. They made offerings and sacrifices, copied Sidhe runes, and christened their children with Sidhe names. All in hopes of Lir’s blessing. Lir dismissed their prayers, for the only blessing he’d ever bestow upon them would be to spare their settlement his wrath when he purged this realm of mankind. Of the blood that had maimed, tortured, stolen, and burned his land, his people. Brought about by his firstcaera, Narisea’s, undoing. This despite carrying his child and the heir to the greenwood throne.

Lir cringed at the memory, glaring at the druid.

“Your Majesty, crown prince of Roktling.” The druid addressed Dagfin, bowing his head in greeting. The priest, a spiritual guide for the druids, nevertheless unable to see through the simplest of Lir’s glamours.

“I, chief and high priest Veran, intended to request an audience with Your Majesty, not realizing you were to leave as swiftly as you arrived.”

“Apologies,” theFaerakreplied. “Our business here was short-lived and our time of the essence.”

“Please, Your Majesty, I only beseech you to stay until the end ofSamhain. Our people have caught word of your heroism elsewhere, slaying the beasts that plague our kind despite our mortal tendency to ignore all that is Other. To recognize the magic of our realm as anything more than stories. It is an honorable service.” The priest bowed, the bones hanging from the circlet, clacking.

“And so, I request such heroism on behalf of my people.”

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