Page 95 of The Savage Queen

“Save us,” they sang, louder and louder, eager to kiss her boots, her legs, the pelt of the mount that guided her to Bludhaven’s threshold. If only to glean a morsel of her magic.

In the eyes of mortals elsewhere, Aisling was a traitor. But to the druids, Aisling was hope. A sign that perhaps mortals could take back what was taken from them so long ago. To undo the crimes of the Sidhe.

They worshiped her. And Aisling found she relished it.

Despite the hordes, Galad encouraged Sorcha onward till at last they broke through the mobs and raced across the drawbridge, Peitho, Filverel, and Gilrel shortly behind.

Lir stood waiting at the entrance, wet with blood and the head of the phuka draped over his shoulder. Dagfin to his left, mercifully still alive.

Aisling exhaled in relief, watching as Lir tossed the head of the phuka at Veran’s feet.

A beast slayed until the next woke to haunt them.

Just as it had in Annwyn, the feywilds of Fjallnorr came alive the deeper and further they traveled. Pearl pines speared into the misty veiled clouds above, as large and sharp as Oighir’s highest towers. Boulders and rock faces slept like bears atop a carpet of crystallized leaves while caves huffed clouds of fog into the forest’s corridors. A realm of whispers, of music, of shadows and light that moved in the periphery only to disappear as swiftly as they’d arrived. Indeed,Samhainwas as tangible to smell as it was to taste. An odor of winter spices—anise, buttered nutmeg, cloves, and tea cardamom—and the taste of ice on the tongue. Of slick glacial waters and burning wood.

Aisling rode Sorcha alone at the center of their procession. Lir and Filverel rode at the front, Galad last, and Peitho, Gilrel, and Dagfin at the center, surrounding Aisling. Galad humming melodies Aisling remembered from her time traveling alongside Lir’s knights in Annwyn: “Niamh’s Crown of Rain”, the “Memory of Tir Na Gog”, and the “Sidhe Knight’s Oath”.

“Another northern song and the Forge might reap my spirit,” Peitho said, wrinkling her nose at Galad. If it weren’t for Peitho’s sun-bright mane, her gilded eyes, or her richly bronzed skin, Aisling would’ve forgotten she hailed from the southern Sidhe kingdom of Niltaor.

Ever since Aisling was introduced to their fae world, Peitho had lived in Annwyn, having traveled there with every intention of handfasting Lir on account of inter-political strife between the Aos Sí. Conflict Aisling was growing to understand after her time with Fionn.

“By all means, grace us with a southern lament, Peitho.” Galad raised a brow. “We all know how well you sing.”

Peitho rolled her eyes. “Princesses are the muses of song. Never the composers themselves.”

“Tell us of Niltaor then,” Aisling piped, knowing the risks of speaking directly to Peitho but speaking, nevertheless. There was a time Aisling feared, or at the very least, trod with caution while in Peitho’s presence. Now, their dynamic had flipped. Peitho never freed Aisling from her regard, often sneering, often cursing, often flinching when in her presence. Wishing to serve Lir out of honor or interest, and in so doing, forced to be near she who’d scarred her with flame and, in Peitho’s eyes, stolen Lir.

“I’d never waste my breath telling you of its glory.” Peitho tossed a strand of honeyed hair over her left pauldron, intentionally or not, reminding Aisling of the lesions across that side of her face.

“Easca,” Lir hissed from upfront.

Peitho shifted, wrapping her wrists in the mount’s reins.

“Go on, Peitho,” Filverel chimed. “If Aisling is to be the true queen of Annwyn, this is the sort of education she needs.” And while the words were not explicitly cruel, Lir’s advisor bore an unnatural talent for steeping all and everything he spoke to Aisling with undiluted malice.

At the words, ‘queen of Annwyn,’ Dagfin held his breath but said nothing. The Roktan prince bore enough wisdom to know a verbal fight with Filverel, or any of these Sidhe knights for that matter, was not worth the battle. A wisdom Aisling was, once again, grateful for.

“Niltaor was an obelisk of gold, whittled into a kingdom of everlasting sunset.”

The crunch of the horses’ hooves on earthen twigs echoed into the surrounding forest. As though every holly, pine, and cypress, hung to each of Peitho’s words. Seemingly as invested in her tale as the beating hearts around her.

“Was?” Aisling asked.

Peitho swallowed her snide remark.

“It was gloriousbeforethe Wild Hunt,” she said. “Centuries of competition, of war, of battle, and a resolution that left Niltaor with nothing but destruction. My people left to rebuild the year the conflict between Sidhe and mortals began. And so, Niltaor never recovered.”

Aisling bit the inside of her cheek.

Peitho’s desire to marry Lir wasn’t only borne out of personal interest, but survival. A need to bind Niltaor with Annwyn, the only Sidhe kingdom in possession of adragún, Racat. A union that could’ve seen the long last renaissance of Niltaor. Until, that is, Aisling became involved. Chosen to wed Lir for the sake of all the Sidhe and mortals alike. Given preference over any single kingdom.

“Was Niltaor ever in possession of adragún?” Aisling asked.

Each Sidhe knight perked up, appraising Aisling, seemingly surprised she knew that detail of their history.

“No,” Galad said from behind. “But legend says Muirdris, thedragúnof prosperity, sought refuge in the dunes of the south, near the shores of Shuilan. Many have sought it, but the landscape that far south shifts, moves, dances, swallowing whosoever dares venture through its keep. Even the Sidhe. And so Muirdris is still lost.”

“And Aengus?” Aisling asked.

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