Chapter VI
CHAPTER VI
Lir’s cavalcade of fae knights greeted Aisling, Galad, and the fae king himself on the other side of the waters. Aisling rode, once again, on Lir’s stag as they entered Annwyn’s corridors. The fae king held the queen’s waist with one arm and the reins with another. A gesture, a physical contact that heated every inch of Aisling’s skin. It was a performance. A showcase of their political union.
The streets spilled over with fae subjects, each craning their elegant necks to catch a glimpse of the mortal queen. Males, females, few children, large and mighty and beautiful. Tangled in black, knotted runes, braids, and symbols tattooed into their iridescent dark or gold, pink or pale skin. So unlike the ghoulish aberrations she’d anticipated. In fact, it was difficult to believe mortals lived under the same grey-clad sky as this preternatural civilization. That they shared the North’s breath. Its wistful sighs and verdant earth.
And just as the cave’s threshold implied, many of Lir’s subjects bore wings. Large, nearly translucent appendages, resembling those of a wasp. But these wings bore no color of their own, rather reflected the light around them as the fair folk danced barefoot, sang sweet tunes, puffed clouds of pollen, carpeted the flagstone streets with thistles, heathers, and frosty avens.
“How many of you are there?” Aisling asked Lir, the fae king waving at a female who’d called him by name. A female whose long tresses arrived at her hips, braided through with bluebells. Or perhaps the bluebells were her hair, sprouting from her scalp. Her angled cheekbones shelving a kaleidoscope of butterflies.
Lir was silent for a long moment, until he, at last, spoke: “A couple thousand here in Annwyn.”
Aisling surveyed the crowds, the fair folk filling the glistening streets, pouring from the strange shops and houses, running through the surrounding forest, peering from their homes in the treetops. To Aisling, it seemed there were so few. Nothing compared to Tilren’s overflowing thoroughfares where peasants and commoners burst at the seams of their northern kingdom. Where commonfolk trampled one another to navigate the cobbled paths.
In addition to the fair folk, there were other creatures who populated this city; animals that interrupted Aisling’s beating heart. Furry beasts the queen recognized, whether it be their likeness on parchment or over Tilren’s walls: badgers, foxes, rabbits, bears who, here in Annwyn, did not crawl or growl but stood and walked on two feet, clapping their paws and speaking through their muzzles. Magic. As distilled and potent as the fog rolling in from the highland peaks.
Aisling did her best not to gawk, instead averting her attention to the stores lining every corridor, the same sort of shops and services one would encounter in mortal territory—tailors, smiths, bakeries, homes—but somehow laced with fae taste, skill and culture. Apples, peaches, plums, and berries bubbled from the vines and cloaks of green that smothered everything in their reach. In fact, many of the cottages were carved into the trees themselves, spindly, spiral staircases winding around the girthy trunks and into the canopies. The highest branches braided in colorful ribbons and cylindrical chimes that sang with every passing breeze. A breeze that smelled of hogweed seeds, ramson capers, powdered peppery bolete, spignel leaf, and scarlet incense. Nothing like the rot vegetating in Tilren, a product of mass waste from overpopulation.
Some cheered as the royal procession entered. Screamed their king’s name. Most scowled at Aisling, regarding her with disgust and contempt. Even loathing, tightening their fists around their weapons or at their sides as if they’d like nothing more than to harm the mortal invading this stolen ground. As the procession passed, they were no doubt already dreaming of the ways they’d nail her head to a pike to avenge what the mortals had stolen after years of warring. But said reaction was perhaps the only aspect of the fair folk and Annwyn that Aisling had accurately predicted. For everything else left her speechless, searching for words.
One Aos Sí, in particular, caught her attention, a male bent below the awning of a silversmith. He tempered a thin stretch of metal, pausing only to follow the crowd’s gaze to the royal procession. His blonde hair was braided away from his face. It lay across his broad back like a fox’s tail, revealing an ugly scar that cut diagonally across his seething expression. The wound had removed his right eye, leaving an angry, knotted lesion. But that was not the only injury he bore. His left arm had been severed at the elbow, a wound to match his lost eye. Both were marked by crimson, expanding like an open hand till the wounds dissolved further up his appendage and across his nose.
Was this what iron did to fae flesh? Were these the marks iron left if such blows didn’t kill them in the first place?
Suddenly Iarbonel’s dagger, hidden away by Aisling’s hip, felt heavier. It weighed heavy on her arm, threatening to fling her to the ground and off the stag’s back. The fae smithy’s knuckles grew white, clenching his tools as his glare deepened. Aisling knew he wished her dead. Nemed was right. Here in this odd world, Aisling represented all of mankind and in so doing, bore all the fault for the crimes of mortals, in fae eyes at least. Every morsel of their hatred was now concentrated into a single person, Aisling. A queen who was the newfound symbol of their enemy, prancing into Annwyn.
Aisling didn’t blame the Aos Sí for their blatant disregard. Her father had slaughtered hundreds of their kind, tactfully finding ways to rid his land of the fair folk without engaging in direct combat, for mortals would sooner perish than claim victory on a battlefield, face-to-face with the Aos Sí. But Aisling had seen Starn return, his clothes covered in soot and ash, a day spent paving the earth for mortal expansion. Nemed was clever. Although he couldn’t match their strength or power in direct combat, he could outsmart them. Which is exactly what he and all the mortal kings and chieftains before him had done for centuries.
And now, a mortal girl arrived to rule them. All in the name of peace. But that was a mere illusion. Aisling had no power here. Only the appearance of it. She was more a slave than a queen amongst the Aos Sí and she would always be considered as such. To think otherwise would be foolish.
Aisling swallowed her sympathy, reminding herself that the Aos Sí had laid claim to Clann Neimedh’s land, built this fae civilization on stolen northern territory, forced mankind from the rivers and highlands and groves to hide behind their iron walls. Nemed and the other mortal sovereigns had protected their race. Generously, gallantly sheltered humans from the fury of this savage, barbaric fair folk whose nature was to reap violence.
“ They will try to deceive you. They will spin lies as easily as they spin their thread ,” Aisling repeated to herself, savoring the memory of her father’s voice.
The architecture in Annwyn differed from anything she’d experienced in the mortal lands, each beam and pillar and vaulted roof, carved with elegant detail––flowers, animals, fae faces etched into the pale oak or stone. And the wattle and daub homes that lined the periphery of Tilren were nowhere to be found here. Only the work and materials fae fingers could both manipulate and craft, Aisling was realizing. Perhaps through magic and magic alone.
Through the hollowed-out trees, atop the undulating flagstone paths, beneath the trickling waterfalls, the procession wove itself up the mountain and towards the castle, admiring its kingdom below. Moss, algae, roots, and other flora clung to every surface of the summit like a lovely, sentient disease, infecting everything it beheld. Not even the altitude nor the chilled northern air could strike fear in these forests, growing as strongly, as potently as they had below.
Lir was sovereign to an immense dominion, so much larger than Tilren. A society occupying even the canopies of the trees—limitless space and freedom. So unlike the mortal lands spilling over with man, woman, and child; kingdoms whose subjects lived atop one another in narrow, congested alleys, spreading diseases like wildfire.
Lir’s castle itself was sculpted from the summit. A mountain cutting through the greenwood, white stone notched into turrets whose peaks were blanketed either by clouds or prehistoric elms, covered parapet walks suspended in the air, a steepled chapel whose stained glass windows glittered in the evening light, and walls dressed in vines and flowers.
Six sentinels stood guard on either side of the drawbridge to the castle. A drawbridge that connected the mountain to the forest earth, separated by a steep drop where frothing rapids swam far below. But these sentinels were no fae. They were great, bipedal bears, strapped with fae armor and equipped with greatswords and shields, bowing to Lir as he approached in near-perfect unison. What did they protect the castle from, Aisling wondered? Were the Aos Sí a threat also to themselves?
“Are these sentinels from your military?” Aisling asked over the clack of the stag’s hooves on stone, surveying their intricate yet elegant armor, armor that matched the knights surrounding her, their thick, umber coats, their long muzzles snapped shut to hide a collection of razor-sharp teeth, Aisling had no doubt. Did her father know of these animals? These familiar creatures that stood and acted like men?
“They’re trained soldiers, yes, but our military comprises all of Annwyn,” Galad replied before Lir, nodding to the sentries as their procession passed.
“You mean even the”—Aisling hesitated, unsure what to call these strange beasts—“ commoners fight?” Aisling asked, aware that perhaps these were not the most appropriate of questions considering her position. Nevertheless, if she were to live here, she would want to understand how their society worked. To understand the fae themselves.
“Aye, the commoners, the noble people. Everyone, save for the children,” Galad said. Aisling considered the fae knight, meeting his sapphire eyes. The mortal queen had never heard of such a society, one where every member was born for battle. What had she expected? The fair folk were savage. A folk the Forbidden Lore was said to describe as a tribe of legendary heroes. Warriors forged in enchantments, curses, and the bending of the elements.
“Where do you think their markings come from?” Galad asked rhetorically, turning to face the castle.
The doors to the fortress were perhaps fifty men tall, embellished with enormous stag-head door knockers, whose muzzles gripped the rings. Such rings were not needed, however, for the threshold opened of its own accord, revealing the inside of both the mountain and the castle itself.
Aisling gasped as they entered the fae bastion for even the interior of the castle burst with wildlife, a forest growing from within the heart of the fortress despite the immaculately polished floors and gilded ornamentation. The walls were masterfully sculpted with large, epic narratives. Pots bubbling over with flowers sat on glass tables, on staircase steps, along the walls, hanging from the ceilings. In fact, large pillars molded into the image of winged fae females held up such ceilings. Bluebirds and sparrows fluttering from pillar to pillar, foxes skittering up the winding staircases on two feet and chasing rabbit tails. A room cast in the breath of the woods. Hardly the bestial den or monstrous cavern she’d imagined a day prior. No, this was something different. A palace spun on a spindle of dreams and enchantment.
Once Aisling, Lir, Galad, and several other knights had stepped inside the castle, the knights dispersed themselves, melting into the colossal fortress, either tending to duties unbeknownst to Aisling or enjoying some rest after their travels. They slipped into the corridors, travelled up the numerous staircases, or spoke to one another. The fae king was one of them. For nearly the moment their group stepped into the fortress, Lir was abruptly requested by one of his court advisors—Aisling assumed the role based on the Aos Sí’s dress—leaving Galad to accompany the mortal queen. Perhaps, Aisling thought to herself, the urgency with which the advisor had pulled Lir from Aisling’s side was related to the dryads they’d encountered passing through the forest.
Still, the queen found herself staring after the fae king, watching as he vanished further into the castle without a word or glance in her direction. She was glad for it. He, more than all the rest combined, unsettled her. Struck fear into her core, a fear that inspired both dread and a bizarre sort of thrill she knew was best stifled and not entertained.
As Galad guided Aisling through the castle, they passed several fae servants, what appeared to be cooks, musicians, masons, and falconers, amongst others, cursing the mortal queen beneath their breath. All taking the form of those strange, bipedal animals she’d seen loitering about Annwyn before. And they were each lovely, dressed in finely sewn servant attire draped neatly over their gleaming pelts or feathers. Nothing like the faded robes and frocks the help wore in Tilren.
“ Ba hadith rekka dú fuile a lur ,” Galad addressed the staff as they swept by, gesturing between Aisling and the bestial servants around them. They bowed as he did so, eyeing their new sovereign beneath hateful expressions.
“This is the primary staff for the castle,” Galad explained. Aisling schooled her expression but within she was shocked there weren’t more. Castle Neimedh was half the size of this enormous bastion, and yet their servants tripled what Lir possessed here. “In time you’ll become familiar with both their names and their individual responsibilities. For now, know they are all eager and willing to serve you.”
Galad eyed each of them as he said the last words. None dared counter his statement nor did they have time as the fae knight travelled further into the keep with Aisling following shortly behind.
There was seldom a moment Aisling forgot about the pointed canines hiding behind both the fair folk’s and these bipedal animals’ calculated, smiling lips. Fangs that could rip out her windpipe at a moment’s notice. Not to mention their otherworldly strength. Even the fae commoners she’d seen in the streets. Aisling was a fly in a spider’s nest, offered by her own tuath.
“This is Gilrel,” Galad said at last, gesturing to an obscenely large—large for its species—pine marten crouched on the floor as they rounded another corner. Its paws were cushioned in clouds of bubbles as the beast wiped the checkered floors in consistent, shapely circles. By the look of it, the marten had already buffed an entire hall, the marble glossy enough to witness one’s own reflection. But it was not alone. Kestrels fluttered high above, making use of their wings to sponge the highest panels of stained glass while the squirrels dusted the rafters, and swabbed the vaulted ceilings.
“She will be your handmaiden. Your comfort and all that you require is Gilrel’s concern.” Aisling hid her surprise. So, she would not spend her remaining years in whatever loathsome pit they called their dungeons after all. Even if that meant being waited upon by a furry little beast like the one who glowered at her now.
The marten unfurled herself, standing tall before curtsying, her small apron wet with suds. She was hardly the nervous chambermaid Aisling had employed in Tilren. Gilrel was as lovely as a marten could be, adorned with the same tribal markings all the fair folk sported beneath their clothes, but brandished solely on her paws and ears.
As well as scars and nicks, Aisling could spot a slender scrape along her jugular, a cut across the bridge of her muzzle, and a jagged line across the back of her paw. Memories of violence whittled into her skin.
“Does she speak my tongue?” Aisling asked Galad.
“I’m fluent in most mortal dialects as well as, of course, my mother tongue, Rún , also known as the ‘divine language,’” Gilrel said, her voice as lovely as a songbird, perverted by her bitter disapproval of the human woman before her. Aisling audibly gasped, stepping back instinctively. If their ability to walk and behave like people weren’t enough, the clarity with which this beast spoke was enough to send Aisling to her grave in fright.
Aisling cleared her throat, doing her best and failing to cloak her surprise; for other than the obvious enchantments performed before her eyes, it was not common, at least in mortal society, for a servant to be so educated. Perhaps it was their lengthy lifespans that awarded them centuries to acquire the knowledge an educated mortal gained in one measly lifetime. In fact, these Aos Sí most likely lived various lives between the time of their birth and the date of their death. Did these strange bipedal beasts live so long as well? The marten handmaid had obviously––based on what Galad had said about all citizens of the Aos Sí serving in their armies as well as her scars––fought in several wars. This chambermaid had more experience, knowledge, than Aisling could begin to imagine. And yet, she would serve a human. One whose only education and experience were that which her court advisor deigned to provide her.
“Gilrel is an honored member of the staff, mo Lúra . You’ll be well taken care of,” Galad encouraged, perhaps sensing the tension vegetating in the air between them.
“Very well,” Aisling huffed, refusing to wilt before a servant, and an animal one at that, for Gilrel still shot daggers from her beady black eyes. That’s what her father would want. Had asked of her. “Will you show me to my chambers? I’m in desperate need of a meal and good rest.”
Gilrel nodded, her brow furrowing.
“This way, mo Lúra .” The handmaiden acridly gestured for Aisling to follow, waddling up ahead on her two paws.
The queen glanced once more at Galad, already immersed in a conversation with another servant. One of the many creatures busily scuttling in every direction, carrying bundles of roses and strawberries in baskets hooked into the crooks of their arms, piles of freshly laundered drapes, and delegating order after order. They were preparing for something. Aisling knew the signs of an approaching royal event.
“Is there a reason you don’t use fire to light your passages?” Aisling ducked beneath various flowering ramblers reaching for the crown of her head. Florets glowed with warm bulbs at the heart of their gown of petals. The same breed of plump buds responsible for illuminating Aisling’s tent the night of her wedding.
Gilrel’s gaze sharpened. “We prefer no flames in our interiors.”
Aisling nodded her head but she already knew this. Had already noticed the absence of flame when inside any fae dwelling. Aisling was rather concerned with why that was, but Gilrel was clearly in no mood to answer, her furry face taut with resentment, making Aisling all the more curious.
“Have you ever gotten lost in these halls?” Aisling continued, admiring the complex labyrinth that was this fae palace. A bastion Aisling would’ve believed, days prior, to exist only in her most wild machinations.
“Not for many centuries, no,” Gilrel said, considering the castle herself as they travelled through its passages.
“Perhaps when you were young?” Aisling wondered if the servant had indeed lived in Annwyn when she was young. The queen knew the Aos Sí had arrived centuries prior to the day she herself was born, but no one knew the exact year or date. Only that since this strange race stepped foot on mortal land, the humans and Aos Sí had been at constant war; Nemed was one mortal king among hundreds before him who served to protect mankind. To protect the mortal world from these abominations. Imposters. Fair folk. So perhaps their furry friends lived equally as long.
“I’ve not been a child for quite some time,” Gilrel said, her gaze growing distant. How old could the marten handmaid possibly be? It was strange to think the young marten before her, appearing no older than Aisling herself, was ages old.
“And when did you learn to speak?” Aisling bit her tongue for she knew the question was a risk. Perhaps it was rude to ask but she wanted to know.
The corner of Gilrel’s lips curled.
“You mean to ask me: ‘how can a lowly beast speak your mortal tongue?’”
“That’s a bold assumption.” Aisling stiffened.
“But a true one.” Gilrel lifted her muzzle triumphantly. “Sidhe territory is imbued with the same power that once stirred in the Forge. Ancient, archaic forces vibrating through even the marrow of the Sidhe. An energy that has blessed those beasts born during the forging of these lands, with the ability to speak, walk, communicate, sing, even fight as do the Sidhe. And the longer we live, the more civilized we become.”
Aisling’s mind spun as she considered all of this. Question after question bloomed within her mind as she debated which to query next. But none of the boisterous musings ever left her lips. It became clear that the information she would acquire would be given gradually and not all at once. After all, she had a lifetime to understand all these strange creatures.
As soon as Gilrel pushed open the doors to the mortal queen’s chamber, Aisling’s mouth fell open. The room was exquisite; opulently furnished and decorated with precious metals and stones, polished marble floors, and a rounded balcony floating amidst the plush, emerald canopies of the surrounding forest, the same wood that hugged the mountain in which the castle was carved.
This was so unlike her home in Tilren—a gothic fortress of stone and iron, an impressive bastion by mortal standards. But this, this fae palace was not the barbaric pigsty she’d always imagined. Aisling didn’t know what to make of it or if she’d ever come to believe it truly existed. For it felt more like a dream, a hallucination, an enchantment than anything she’d laid eyes on before. This world was certainly made of magic but not the twisted and wicked charms she’d anticipated.
“Your belongings arrived before you and have already been unpacked and stowed away in these cupboards.” Gilrel opened two large wardrobes, filled to the brim. Flocks of mint green moths burst forth from cabinets, richly cloaked in opulent garments fit for nobility. A fragrant, sweet, and powdery cloud followed in their wake, dusting Aisling’s clothes.
“The other end of the chamber houses all your caera ’s belongings.” Aisling assumed that meant Lir’s possessions. She hadn’t even considered the possibility that she and the fae king would share quarters. Nemed and Clodagh had always slept separately in opposing wings of their Tilrish fortress.
“What does that word mean?” Aisling asked, cautiously stepping further into the room.
“ Caera ?” Gilrel’s brow pinched, thinking of an explanation. “In mortal terms, I believe you call them husbands. Spouses, perhaps. But it is more to us. All mates in our culture are only wed if they are caera . Soulmates, in your tongue. The bonding of two hearts in the Forge.”
How superstitious these fae creatures were.
“This applies to even political unions?” Aisling asked, biting her tongue as soon as the words slipped from her mouth. Perhaps she shouldn’t speak of such things with just anyone, much less a commoner. She needed to remember to trust no one. No one and no thing. These creatures were beasts and her enemy despite their beauty, despite their attempts at hospitality.
“The Sidhe cannot wed if they are not caera ,” Gilrel insisted. “You wouldn’t have been capable of choosing the correct blade otherwise.” Aisling remembered the test the night of her union, the three blades staked into the earth before her. Two swords and an axe. Logically, there was a one-out-of-three possibility to select the correct blade. Unless, Aisling realized, Gilrel was implying enchantment was involved. The mortal queen laughed at the thought. Iarbonel had claimed such a marital custom meant nothing. In fact, he’d insisted it was no more than a ritual, and she’d no reason to trust a member of the fair folk over her own brother.
“And had I chosen wrong? What would’ve become of the peace treaty between our kind?” Aisling pushed, focusing on Gilrel’s reaction. This, considering Aisling would’ve been forced to duel Lir to the death and been executed as a result.
“I’m merely a handmaiden, mo Lúra . I’m not privy to such discussions. However, having served beneath the king for several centuries, I can confidently say Lir would risk a great deal for a chance to protect the Sidhe. If the mortals requested a political union, Lir would stop at nothing to achieve his ends.”
In another world, another reality, Aisling had chosen the wrong weapon the night of her union and had been beheaded by Lir. The mortals and this savage race were still at war, battling atop the ground where Aisling’s blood ran deep. All for a silly, fae superstition. Superstition fostered by childish fireside tales and unfounded religion. A religion with no logical bearing. Although, what logical bearing did a talking marten boast as it stood before her now?
Had Nemed known of any of these customs before agreeing to the union? Before trading his daughter for peace? Had he known the risks to her life? Of course, he had. But Aisling knew as well as he that her life was nothing in comparison to the thousands that would be spared as a result of her sacrifice.
As for Lir, Aisling expected no less. If anything, it was a relief knowing he was as wicked as she’d always imagined. As her father had always described.
“ He is the worst of them, ruthless, merciless, no more than a depraved fiend driven by hunger, need, and power. But, unlike the wolf, he is insatiable. Never let your guard down around him, Aisling. Never give him an opportunity to choose between you and what he covets .”
Nemed’s words echoed in her mind, hardening her resolve. Her purpose here.
Aisling wandered towards the vanity facing the four-poster bed.
“This is to be your gown for the Snaidhm tomorrow afternoon.”
Gilrel hung an embroidered gown beside Aisling’s new wardrobe. A gown woven with leaves like chips of emeralds and threaded with strings of pearls.
“ Snaidhm ?” Aisling asked.
“It is customary in our culture to host an event the day following a union. However, for obvious reasons, the event has been postponed until tomorrow.”
“An occasion to celebrate an occasion?” Aisling turned her back to Gilrel, allowing, although reluctantly, the handmaid to pull the muddied and wind-hardened frock over her head and dispose of the trousers now steeped in the scent of stag’s pelt. For nothing pricked Aisling’s nerves more than the thought of the marten’s calloused paws or weather-worn claws stroking her bare flesh.
“A wedding celebrates the union. The Snaidhm celebrates the consummation of said union,” Gilrel said, untangling Aisling’s coronet with impressive skill, careful to avoid tugging at her scalp or splitting strands of hair. The result of centuries as a handmaid, Aisling assumed, or perhaps the benefits of finely pointed claws in the place of blunted mortal fingers.
The mortal queen blushed, immediately reminded of her wedding night. Shame or perhaps embarrassment washed over Aisling at the thought, for she had not yet fulfilled her promise to Rinn Dúin. As far as Clann Neimedh would be concerned, she was not yet queen if the marriage hadn’t been consummated. And if a consummation was as important in fae tradition as it was in mortal tradition, Aisling’s suspicions had been correct. Lir barely deigned to speak to her, much less touch her. Perhaps there was something to be grateful for there. The lack of consummation would be their secret, for Lir was bound to uphold the image of their marriage as much as Aisling was.
“Fret not, mo Lúra ,” Gilrel said, misinterpreting Aisling’s palpable anxiety. “It is merely a day to bid the caera good fortune in producing an heir.”
A murder of silver-eyed ravens let loose in Aisling’s stomach. Clodagh had warned Aisling of this responsibility, for Clodagh too had borne a similar duty upon her union with Nemed.
“ Eventually, you will be expected to gift your betrothed an heir. Do it quickly lest he uses you till your belly is swollen and the responsibility completed. That is, if he’s willing to settle for a child of mixed race. Your father would rather forsake such a bairn than dub it his heir, but perhaps the Aos Sí do not hold themselves to such pureblooded standards .”
Aisling did her best to swallow but her mouth was dry and her tongue brittle. She could almost see Clodagh’s black braids tightly spun into a low bun, her spidery fingers adorned with iron rings smoothing out the skirts on her lap.
“Quite a fuss over an inevitability,” Aisling mused, avoiding Gilrel’s beady eyes as Gilrel slipped a dressing gown over the queen’s shoulders, only possible if Aisling lowered herself enough to be within reach of the little beast.
“A mortal mentality,” Gilrel snarled, spitting the word “mortal” as if it were a curse. However, the servant quickly and wisely softened her tone before continuing. “To the Sidhe, children are rare. A thousand years may pass between a female’s first pregnancy and her second. That is, if she’s capable of bearing a child at all. Most of us are not. For that reason, Sidhe children are precious.”
This made sense to Aisling considering there were far fewer Aos Sí than there were humans despite their long lifespans. While the mortals continued to overpopulate their towns and expand their walls, the Aos Sí were dwindling, made worse by the casualties of war. At least, that’s what she’d overheard her father’s counselors discussing while she finished her tutoring, proven true by what she’d already seen of Annwyn.
“And what of a mortal bearing a fae—a Sidhe child?” Aisling asked. Gilrel considered, brushing Aisling’s cloud of onyx spirals. A hue that separated Aisling, if she was not already different enough, from the fair folk and their gilded coloring. Even those who bore darker locks and complexions still glittered like marvelous, deep gold in the sunlight. Aisling’s on the other hand was so black it was nearly blue in direct light.
“As far as I’m aware, such a union has never been. The Forge be willing, you will be the first caera to bear a mixed-race heir, mo Lúra .”