Chapter VII
CHAPTER VII
Even when the sun was swathed in black, come evening, or bathed in pink, come morning, Lir never returned to their quarters.
Aisling picked at the breakfast Gilrel had fetched for her. As with all else fae, their food was impressive: artfully knotted pastries, colorful sweet cakes, emerald gelatins, potent teas steeped with strange leaves. Spoons that stirred sugar into her teacup of their own accord and teacups that resembled large foxglove flowers. The teapot was a bundle of cabbage with a handle, lid, and spout, one the hare skipping across the room eyed hungrily. All of which intrigued the queen no end. Aisling didn’t believe she’d ever become accustomed to this world. Not fully.
Aisling was ravenous, as she found she always was in this new world. But she missed the taste of the milk in Tilren even if it was sourer, the hard breads, the fire crackling in the corner of her chamber, the familiarity of her old home. For every corridor, every room, every stairwell of this castle was imbued with the northern chill, the fae refusing to warm their walls with flame.
Aisling wondered what her brothers would make of this world; would they be equally as impressed or more capable of seeing past the fae deception that Aisling was too naive to detect? For more and more Aisling found herself guiltily enjoying the quirks of this fae land. Whatever the case, Fergus certainly would enjoy the food. Even if the tales claimed fae fruit, meats, and wines were all bewitched.
“Is there something wrong with your meal, mo Lúra ?” Gilrel asked, sorting through a pile of silk, chiffon, and organza with the help of several magpies fluttering enthusiastically around her paws.
“Legend claims men have gone mad after having tasted a single peach from your gardens, plagued with an insatiable hunger till the day they met their end.” Even if Lir had promised the food would be safe for her, she couldn’t help but doubt. In fact, she’d be a fool to trust the fair folk and whatever pleasantries they sweetened the air with.
Gilrel laughed. “You believe this is an enchantment? I’ve seen for myself the men you speak of. It is nothing more than humans struck with a pleasure they’d yet to experience. It is not the Sidhe’s fault mortals are easily seduced by bodily pleasure.” Gilrel smirked, mumbling something beneath her breath in Fae.
Aisling considered the tray of food for a moment, “But you are capable of magic? Spells, enchantments, curses?” Had that part of her education been true? Lir had, after all, extinguished all the floral light in their wedding tent, bud by bud. Even the sentient spoon before her, and Gilrel herself and the animals that frolicked so near to the Aos Sí, so unlike the infinite chasm that lay between man and beast in the mortal world.
“Aye, the Sidhe do possess a certain ability or power. Mortals may refer to such a spirit as magic but to us it is essential to our being, a part of our making.”
“It is in your blood then?” Aisling stood from the cloud of quilts to stretch her legs.
“No,” Gilrel said, “just as humans reap their breath from the trees around them, so too do the Sidhe obtain and inhale their ‘ magic ,’ as mortals would understand it. Just as the air fills your lungs, gives you breath to live, magic nourishes the Sidhe, passes through us, in us, for us.”
Aisling considered asking her marten to demonstrate such abilities but thought better of it. It would be wise of the mortal queen to establish certain boundaries between herself and the fair folk, especially those who washed her clothes, prepared her food, and accompanied her throughout the day. Aisling didn’t, and perhaps never would, fully understand the Aos Sí and their abilities. And despite her curiosity, she shouldn’t lick the blade she feared.
“You are dangerous creatures,” Aisling said, padding barefoot towards her private balcony.
“Mortals would do well to remember it, lest they fancy themselves thieves or trespassers again,” the handmaiden sneered.
“That’s enough, Gilrel,” Aisling snapped, holding her beasty gaze. Gilrel stilled, her lips pressing into a thin line of contempt. Whiskers startled straight.
“ And remember, Aisling: even in your dying breath, never give them the satisfaction of seeing you wilt, witnessing your fear .”
The memory of Nemed’s words was all that kept Aisling from relenting. From not appeasing the handmaid even if this creature could drink her blood from the floors.
Had Aisling not been stunned by the view from her terrace, she might’ve been tempted to further counter her handmaiden’s claims. After all, the fair folk had been the ones to steal northern land and trespass on mortal territory, a world that was not theirs to begin with.
But standing on the balcony was like floating amongst the trees, suspended hundreds of feet in the air in the tangle of flowers and branches and leaves like chips of Connemara. Out here, it smelled of sweet sap, fresh pines, and the northern wind. Aisling could see all of Annwyn from this vantage point: the edge of the castle and its winged statues admiring the lovely kingdom knitted into the forest, the gorge where Aisling had entered, and the great expanse of woodland, cliff, and mountain.
And just as Aisling leaned her head against her palm, she spotted movement, a crowd fussing over a group of armor-clad men entering Annwyn.
The mortal queen perked up, leaning over the terrace to catch a better glimpse of the commotion.
Fifteen fae knights, perhaps more, travelled through and up Annwyn towards the castle. At the center of their cluster, two knights were cautiously carried by their comrades. One appeared well enough to hang from another’s shoulder, limply trudging on. The other was unconscious, carried by his comrades soaked through with red.
“Gilrel,” Aisling called, “what’s happened?”
The chambermaid dropped whatever she’d been busied with, the magpies leaping into the air startled, and joined the woman atop the balcony.
Gilrel inhaled sharply. “It appears there’s been another attack.”
Attack? But there was peace between the mortals and the Aos Sí as far as both races were concerned. Aisling’s marriage to a fae king was evidence of that. Who would possibly launch an offense two days post a political union?
And, as if sensing her thoughts, Gilrel spoke. “This is no mortal attack. I can smell their blood from here and their wounds reek of Unseelie.”
Unseelie .
Aisling blinked.
Gilrel, understanding Aisling’s confusion, continued, “The Unseelie are all the creatures inhabiting the feywilds, the forests belonging to the Sidhe. They are like the Sidhe, forged alongside them, but far more chaotic in nature. This includes great monsters and?— ”
“The dryads?” Aisling interrupted, remembering her encounter in the forest.
“Aye, the dryads, among others,” Gilrel said.
Aisling bit her bottom lip. Why had she never heard of these Unseelie? Why had her tutors, Friseal, her father never spoken of these creatures? Perhaps they were unaware of such dangers, in which case, someone must warn them. Warn all of mankind of these other races, beings that could harm the fair folk themselves. Even fae knights. And the possibility that Nemed, her tuath, the northern kings, chieftains, and tiarnas had known of the Unseelie and kept it a secret…such a possibility was unimaginable. What reason was there to lie to the northern people? To Aisling herself?
The knights raced up the steps to the castle’s front entrance, near enough that Aisling caught sight of Galad and Lir among the flurry of fae warriors. Even from this distance, Aisling could see the dents in the fae king’s armor, the dirt caking his joints, the scarlet bleeding across his hands and neck. Was it his own, the blood of his men, or the blood of his enemy?
Had they gone chasing after the dryads? Or some other Unseelie Aisling didn’t yet know of? If Lir and his knights had gone in pursuit of such creatures, it could only mean they were a direct threat to the fair folk and their land. In which case, mortals hardly stood a chance against such enemies. They needed to be warned. Aisling shook away the thoughts of Starn, Fergus, Iarbonel, or Annind stumbling upon such demons. They would be defenseless, doomed before they’d realized what unknown threats lie just outside Tilren’s walls.
“Come, mo Lúra ,” Gilrel said, shattering Aisling’s trance, “You’d do well not to dwell on it. We must prepare you for the Snaidhm .”
Aisling sat before her vanity alone.
Gilrel had dressed Aisling in that emerald gown, trimmed with white forget-me-nots, a point of contention between the mortal queen and her marten, for the fair folk dressed so differently than the mortals. Humans were forbidden to wear color lest they draw too much attention to themselves when near the wilds. But here in Annwyn, among the Aos Sí, it was normal, if not expected.
That morning, Gilrel had done her best to encourage Aisling to wear her hair undone but the mortal queen required more time to adopt their customs. Even wearing these sparkling, jewel-tone gowns with their flowers and leaves had been a leap of courage. Aisling wasn’t yet prepared to unpin her hair in public. Not yet.
It had been several hours since the chambermaid had said she’d return. This was after a mouse had come squeaking about a broken cage. Gilrel had appeared reluctant to leave Aisling alone, especially before the Snaidhm but had done so regardless to address whatever the small rodent was alarmed about. So now Aisling sat in silence, listening to the soft chirping of the songbirds hovering around her head at Gilrel’s command. It was becoming more and more clear Aisling wasn’t trusted.
But the door to her chambers whispered her name as the sun’s crown turned gold, inviting her to explore Castle Annwyn. To prowl around its seemingly infinite spiral stairwells as she’d done as a child in Castle Neimedh. After all, these night-time explorations had been just as forbidden then as they appeared to be now. The only difference was Dagfin at her side, encouraging her mischief as she encouraged his. Not to mention, the vast and darkly enchanted corridors that awaited her here in Annwyn.
“ Castle Annwyn was not designed for humans to traverse unaccompanied ,” Gilrel had once said when Aisling had inquired why she wasn’t allowed to leave her rooms without an escort. The thought bothered her, fanning the embers of her curiosity.
So, Aisling abruptly stood from the vanity, grabbed Iarbonel’s dagger, and slid it beneath her corset. She rushed towards her chamber doors, shutting the heavy threshold as quickly as she was able, so as to trap the magpies in her rooms. Three slipped through a small crevice in the nick of time, refusing to allow her the privacy she craved. Aisling cursed them beneath her breath, straightening herself and continuing down a corridor.
The halls were narrow but crowded with glowing flower bulbs. Silence grew potently here, interrupted only by the whispers of the wind slipping through the castle or the fluttering wings of the magpies clouding around Aisling’s head. Of course, no servants or guards or fair folk traversed these halls now. Most likely they were already at the Snaidhm awaiting her arrival.
Aisling travelled through the castle, tempted by every bolted door, every poorly lit chamber, every portrait rotting away beneath the oppressive vines. Leaves that curled in her direction, inspecting their mortal passerby.
And just as Aisling made to return to her rooms, unamused by the endless winding of Castle Annwyn’s passages, did something slither by in her periphery.
An onyx serpent glided across the stone floors, lifting its head as though in greeting. Its amethyst eyes locked onto her own, before proceeding through the window of an arched doorway, a wooden threshold whose knob was whittled into the shape of a hand, poised to shake palms with whosoever wished to enter.
The magpies, still tweeting nervously, pulled on Aisling’s braids in the direction she’d come, unravelling Gilrel’s handiwork till curls framed her face.
Aisling ignored the birds, instead tugging on the strange knob.
The door groaned open easily, presenting several dim chambers, each smelling of mildew, of duchess fungi, of dust left to settle.
So, Aisling followed the sinuous shape of the serpent as it continued on, glancing backwards as though ensuring the mortal queen indeed followed. It wasn’t until they both entered a round chamber that Aisling diverted her attention, setting eyes on a large fountain pressed against the far wall. A forest of thorns and bone ivy clung to the structure, climbing up the wings of fair folk molded by stone. Creatures who, frozen in time, all strained to reach an owl at the apex of the sculpture. The owl’s three eyes inlaid with twinkling jewels and wings outstretched.
The snake journeyed up the fountain before disappearing into the gaping mouth of the owl, reflected in the inky waters below.
Aisling shivered. The owl’s opalescent orbs gleamed as if studying her, the sensation of meeting another for the first time and forming a first impression. An eeriness capable enough to spin Aisling on her heels and shuffle her out of the room. But as she turned, she collided face to face with another.
Two emerald eyes looked down at her. Aisling staggered back in surprise, nearly losing her footing. The magpies knocked into one another in their attempts to flee.
“A princess and a thief,” the fae king said, already closing the distance between them. “Who taught you to bypass our locks?”
Aisling shook her head. If he was referencing the arched threshold from the corridor, it bore no lock she was aware of.
“The entrance was left open,” Aisling managed, forcing herself to meet his eyes, as potent as touch itself and as intimate as a stroke of the finger on bare skin. That was what his gaze felt like. Deeply personal. Like the heat of the sun warming and dying the canopies of the forest gold.
Unconvinced, he pushed on. “What is it you wish to take, little thief?” His clouds of breath mingled with her own as a result of the cool, damp room.
Aisling swallowed, her mind clawing for an explanation. For this was the first time the fae king’s voice was not the soft ripple of milk, cream, or silk it usually embodied. It was sharper now. A sonorous growl that chilled Aisling’s core.
“I took to exploring the castle and grew lost,” she lied. Aisling wasn’t certain why she’d refused to divulge her experience with the small serpent. The way it guided her to this very room and vanished into the mouth of the owl frozen mid-flight behind them.
Lir considered her. His otherworldly features reminded Aisling who stood before her now: he, the muse of the nightmarish legends that haunted her kind.
“You should already be at the Snaidhm .” At last, he released her from the sage grip his eyes held and ambled past her.
He’d stripped himself of his armor, instead donning finely tailored leathers, gilded chains around his neck, and the twin axes across his back, the very blade she’d pulled from the earth at their union. His hair was damp, and the blood she’d witnessed from her terrace cleaned up as though it had never been.
“Very well, M’ Lord,” she said, bowing her head. She took this moment as an excuse to leave as swiftly as she was capable and lengthen the distance between herself and this wicked lord.
But the fae king stopped her in her tracks, “I’d prefer you call me by my name.”
Aisling turned to find him standing beside the fountain, dipping his fingers in its murky depths. Seemingly satisfied with her excuse for finding her there at all.
The mortal queen nodded silently in response, held captive by his attention.
“Tell me, do names bear power in mortal tradition?”
Aisling watched the fountain waters slip between his fingers, hurrying back into the pool from which they came.
“Symbolically, yes. But, from what little I know of your religion, they do not enslave the one who gives it as they do in your culture.”
Lir’s eyes flashed with mischief.
“You believe yourself enslaved to me?”
“Would you prefer I call it imprisonment? Most marriages wouldn’t seclude their brides to their rooms lest accompanied by another, never free to explore her new home unguarded or unwatched.”
The corners of Lir’s lips curled, the edge of his fangs glinting in the reflection of the owl’s jeweled eyes. Aisling’s stomach knotted, tightening the intangible cord that lay between them, a reminder of the bloodthirsty monster his beauty would have her believe he wasn’t.
“Tonight, at the Snaidhm , do not be frightened,” he continued, his voice a purr, rubbing against the shadows that clung to him, “for there will be moments where you question your safety amongst the Sidhe. But I implore you to never surrender to such fear. When danger abounds, understand it is powerless while in my presence. There is little in this realm or the next that isn’t within my control.”
Aisling, disoriented by the change in topic, struggled to regroup her thoughts. The magpies buzzing around her head, a mirror to what warred within her. After all, there wasn’t a moment Aisling hadn’t questioned her safety amongst the Aos Sí.
“A name given freely and another received in return is not to enslave but to bind. The Sidhe call this ensorcellment . I am as much linked to you as you are to me.”
Aisling bundled her trembling hands into fists, hoping the terror, the uncertainty she felt now didn’t betray her efforts to steel herself. If the fae king was implying that she should trust him…the thought was inconceivable .
“Come,” the fae king said at last, shattering the momentary silence, “the Snaidhm awaits.”
Aisling and Lir rode their stags as two sentries walked alongside them. Bear sentries whose names Aisling learned were Duibhin and Alastair, titles gifted to them by the fair folk after the creation of all things by the Forge. Guards tasked to protect the mortal queen, she surmised, from the rest of Annwyn. From those who wished her harm. From those too angry to care of treason or peace between the races. Aisling could feel their hatred. Feel it as if it were a tangible flock of hands, clawing at her skin.
Afternoon was quickly dissolving into evening, blanketing Annwyn in a feverish firelit glow. Aisling was beginning to realize that the fair folk were most alive at night, running barefoot atop the flagstones, swimming in the waters of the gorge nearly nude, and going about their strange chores.
Most, if not all, stopped what they were doing to watch the mortal queen pass. Their faces twisted with palpable disdain. Aisling fought the urge to shift on the saddle, to squirm beneath the heat of their regard. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.
A large clearing sat a stroll’s distance from Annwyn, lodged into the forest among its mighty trees. Trees that, as with all the forest thus far, seemed to bear a life of their own. As though they studied her. Waiting to see what she would do next. Whispering to one another the moment she came into view.
Within the approaching glade, torchlight gleamed, tents were erected, music flavored the air and flags billowed. The smell of broiled meat, freshly baked bread, and sparkling wines wafting in the breeze. Aisling could spot, even from a distance, the dream-like dances of the fair folk, twirling barefoot in the grass. It was a vision. a hazy, stupor of a celebration, a pyretic gathering where the fireflies lit the clearing with hundreds of small bulbs of light, floating aimlessly.
Aisling, the fae king, and the guards slowed their stags’ gait, indulging the view of the Snaidhm beneath an overcast sky. A great, colorful festival filled to the brim with bipedal beasts, fae nobles and commoners alike, intermingling casually, an oddity in Aisling’s mortal eyes. Such neglect for class and the hierarchy such classes naturally demanded was strange. Aisling didn’t believe she’d ever spoken to a commoner other than her chambermaid. The more Aisling saw of these fae people, the more she understood how different her life had been from the one she was embarking on now. Her mortal life—the life pent up between Tilren’s walls, the one she wept over when she believed none to hear or see her tears—felt like a distant dream as she stepped into another.
To one side of the glade, stood an arena whose seats were already being filled. A stadium Aisling had only ever witnessed be used for jousting or sparring. One where spectators lined the seats to behold whatever competition took place at its center.
This was no ball, Aisling realized.
The Aos Sí parted as Aisling and the fae king entered the clearing. Aisling heard their whispers, the snickering from the fae people around them, but even when she was in earshot, she couldn’t understand their fae tongue. Rún , Gilrel had called it.
Duibhin and Alastair guided Aisling towards a large, raised box, positioned for perfect viewing of whatever spectacle they’d be witnessing at the center of the arena. Aisling sat in the throne to the left of a much larger, empty seat. A space clearly designed for the king of Annwyn and the greenwood.
And to Aisling’s surprise, Gilrel was already making herself comfortable in the little chair beside Aisling’s, politely nodding to the other nobles placed in the box.
As soon as her eyes fell upon the mortal queen, her muzzle wrinkled, eyes narrowing. Aisling knew the pine marten would be more than vexed she’d run off into the castle on her own, but it had hardly deterred the mortal queen. Let the furry chambermaid stew in her own anger, Aisling thought to herself.
Twelve or so other lords and ladies occupied their box, accompanied by their animal servants, sitting either behind or beside the thrones designed for the king and queen. They wore gold, ivory, crimson, violets, emerald greens, and vibrant oranges, tunics and gowns embroidered with gleaming threads of every hue, lace so delicate Aisling believed it would tear at the slightest of stretches, and chiffon so resplendent perhaps it would dissolve in water. Fluttering wings mirrored the colorful palettes of their dress. But despite their breathtaking attire, it was clear from their palpable disdain that none were too eager for a mortal, an enemy, to sit at the highest position of honor only second to the king.
Aisling and Lir took their seats, the fae king quietly, arrogantly soaking in his subjects’ praise. He smiled at her. A radiant beam that threatened to ignite the world around them. But Aisling knew it wasn’t truly intended for her. It was for them. For his people. For riding into Annwyn on his stag, and even his grin now was a performance for all the Aos Sí to behold. So that they knew the mortals and the fair folk were no longer at war. So that they felt safe. Aisling knew this. Understood this even as Lir took the mortal queen’s hand and kissed the back of her palm. As cold as a river glazing the rocks in a woodland stream.
Chills ran down Aisling’s spine as she willed herself to stay put. To not snatch back her hand and rub away his touch.
Once the Aos Sí decided where and how they’d like to enjoy their viewing, squirming amongst one another in the common rafters, Galad stood from where he sat on Lir’s right-hand side and cleared his throat.
“ Is lócáid an-áragh minniu !” the knight shouted, capturing the animals’ and Aos Sí’s attention. Graciously, Gilrel translated Galad’s words for Aisling:
“Today, we celebrate a joyous occasion! The Sidhe welcomes our new queen, and we pray to the gods for the arrival of an heir!” The fair folk roared, stomping their feet, pounding their fists, and shaking the rafters, the air igniting with their excitement.
“The union of our beloved king is not only the marriage between two caeras but the union between the Sidhe and the mortals. An end to centuries of rivalry, bloodshed, and the spite with which mortals have haunted our kind.”
At that, Aisling whipped her attention to Galad. The rest of his speech was blurred by the anger smoking in her gut. Had he truly claimed it was the mortals that reaped violence on the Aos Sí? Haunted their race? As if the mortals held a single flame against the wildfire that was the fair folk.
Aisling bit her bottom lip. She wouldn’t stand for any disrespect against her kind even if she were surrounded by these creatures, a race she would do well not to forget were the devils her father had claimed them to be.
“ A member of the Aos Sí could devour a little girl like you whole if it so desired ,” Nemed had told her once after she’d been caught trying to escape Tilren’s city gates. “ An Aos Sí wouldn’t hesitate to skin you alive and bathe in your blood if it had the opportunity .”
The Aos Sí cheered again, inevitably shaking the entire arena with their excited fervor. Galad finished his speech and took his place on Lir’s right-hand side once more.
From the corner of her eye, Aisling was aware of Lir’s persistent gaze. His need to study her, to watch her, exploring every curve of her expression.
“Does it make you angry?” Lir whispered, tipping his head down to address her. Even seated beside one another he was vastly taller.
“I am already angry. It simply awakens such rage.” Aisling simmered, scowling at the fae king behind her thick lashes. These words were unwise, dangerous, lest Aisling have a death wish. But, in that moment, the mortal queen cared not for her own neck.
“I could have you hanged for such confessions,” he said coolly, smiling like a wolf grins at a cornered hare.
“Not eaten? Disemboweled? Roasted over a spit? Or do you prefer mortal flesh raw?” Aisling quipped, her voice raising above a whisper. He was a savage after all.
Lir laughed darkly, leaning closer till they were nearly nose to nose, “I prefer to toy with my mortal princesses first: chase them, play with them, and only then are they satisfying to eat.”
The fae king bit the air between them. Aisling willed herself still. She couldn’t flinch. Couldn’t expose the rapid beating of her heart, her pulse drumming around her throat. It was an empty threat she knew, his own desire to watch her squirm. To intimidate her. To ridicule her. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
“And you?” Aisling challenged in return, lifting her chin and steeling herself before this barbarian king. “What makes the king of the greenwood angry?” Her voice was steadier than she anticipated.
Lir ran his fingers through his tousle of hair, avoiding the braided strands. His hair was shorter than most of the Aos Sí, curling around his ears thanks to the sheets of mist gathering in the clearing.
“You,” he said. There was a tightness in his voice, repressed, tempered anger. Aisling knew the tone well enough. “Everything about your kind, your blood, your bones, your spirits.” His eyes flickered towards the neckline of Aisling’s gown before flitting back to meet her eyes. “Your hearts.”
Aisling swallowed the stone in her throat. But where she thought her anger would grow, swell, and expand to its full capacity, she found herself unable to unlatch her eyes from his own. Ancient jadeite eyes that struck fear in her. A fear she wished to explore. To know. To master. After all, he had more reason than most to despise mankind; he was ultimately responsible for the casualties dealt by the mortals after centuries of warring. A king was always responsible for the death of his men even if by the hands of the enemy. Even Nemed couldn’t claim to have experienced such loss in his comparatively short lifespan. Aisling didn’t blame him for his prejudice against her kind, nor did she expect him to blame her for hers.
“You are all the same,” Lir added. Aisling considered him, the press of his lips where his fangs scraped on occasion. The way his brows shadowed those emerald eyes. The posture of his head, his hands lazily settled on either arm of his throne.
“ He is the worst of them, ruthless, merciless, no more than a beast 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 .”
Abruptly, silence befell the arena and Aisling held her breath, unsure what to expect from these fae customs. But it was also a relief, a reprieve from that tangled, tightened cord pulling her away and towards Lir simultaneously.
To her surprise, thirty or so fae females swept into the arena. Dressed in pale lilac, pink, tea, and cerulean gowns—one made of owl’s feathers, another thistle, and another snap pea—they arranged themselves at the center of the grass. Sparkling circlets framed their brows, cinching clouds of wild, loose curls where berries clung to each ringlet. And from their backs sprouted wings. Bewitching, translucent wings like spring beetles.
Music arrived with the rain, showering the festival with a sound so lovely, Aisling’s heart was struck with an ache-like longing. And despite the cloudburst, the torches were not extinguished, the fae people did not shrink away nor flee, and the women at the center of the arena began their dance.
Aisling forgot about the cloudburst that soaked through her gown, the chill of the northern air, the hordes of fair folk surrounding her.
“This is an ancient fertility ceremony,” Gilrel whispered into Aisling’s ear, startling the mortal queen and tickling her ears with her whiskers. “They’ve summoned the rain to bless your womb.” At that, Aisling looked to the groaning sky above, flashing with lightning. The crack of each bolt was as much a part of the music as the beat of the drum or the blow of the flute.
Aisling had danced in the rain once before. Alongside Dagfin, she’d climbed the stairwells of her fortress in Tilren. Fergus was the first to find them, reprimanding them for their carelessness, their stupidity. But the exhilaration was an opiate Aisling struggled to resist.
The dancers took one another’s hands and formed a circle. Like this, they twirled, rotating in an endless loop around the arena, never dizzying, never falling.
And as they moved, the earth began to shift. The high risen flags quivered, the stands shook, the tents flapped, the forest moaned, as something at the center of the arena began to…grow. Aisling leaned forward, squinting and rubbing her eyes to ensure she wasn’t hallucinating. Wasn’t dreaming up the leaves, the bubbling flowers, the thorns rising from the earth in great, miraculous hedges. Large bushes bejeweled with roses perfuming the arena till the badgers sneezed and the bumblebees hummed excitedly.
Aisling inhaled sharply. This was impossible and yet here it all was. This magic, this forbidden, ages-old magic mortals considered wicked and perverse and wrong. All of it was more breathtaking than Aisling could’ve ever imagined. For within the span of a few heartbeats, the hedges had grown into a labyrinth at the center of the arena .
Just as abruptly as the dance, the music, and the rain had begun, it stopped. Aisling watched the fae performers curtsy before the noble box and take their leave. Her eyes followed them as they dissolved into the crowds of spectators praising the performance. It was sorcery. All of it. Everything. Everyone here. And Aisling should hate such sorcery. Despise it as much as Nemed.
As the mortal queen whispered in her handmaiden’s ear, Aisling was caught off guard by various fae entering the arena. But these were unlike the dancers who’d just performed. No, these female Aos Sí were strapped in fae armor, leather, and more weapons than Aisling could count. They stood with lethal poise. Their immaculate sheets of armor and twinkling chainmail, flattering their otherworldly forms. One among them, more impressive than the rest.
She was a vision: her hair the hue of autumn’s climax, framing her delicate face, a face embellished with suns for eyes and full, rounded lips. Drenched by the recent rain, she maintained her mighty glamor, her feminine strength, and grace-like ease. Even her fae markings wove airily around her long, distinguished form, like a flower’s roots or trails of a passing comet. But her regard was cold if not cruel as she and the other fae ladies drew their weapons.
“That is Peitho,” Gilrel whispered, following Aisling’s line of sight. Peitho leaned into another lady’s ear and gestured towards the private box. Both their feline eyes flicked towards the mortal queen before erupting into hushed chatter.
“Who is she?” Aisling asked, straightening her posture.
“She is a princess from one of the Sidhe territories in the southern continents.”
“Then why is she here? In the North? ”
Gilrel hesitated, brushing invisible lint from her furry shoulder before replying. “She was betrothed to Lir, mo Lúra .”
Against her own volition, Aisling’s eyes spun to the fae king, waiting patiently for whatever these female warriors would eventually perform. It hadn’t occurred to Aisling that just as she’d been intended for Dagfin, Lir had been intended for another as well.
“Then it was my union that interrupted their affairs?” Aisling continued as three, enormous bipedal hedgehogs took their places before the fae females, one in front of the other. Oranges delicately balanced between each of their ears. Peitho tested the weight of her sword in her hands, swinging her arms in preparation for whatever was to take place.
“Aye.” Gilrel nodded. “It is my understanding that once your father suggested a union, the first of the mortal kings on any continent to offer such a treaty, there were many councils held over whether the Sidhe would agree to such an arrangement and if they did, which of the six Sidhe kings would volunteer. The risks were great, for if the king and the mortal bride were not caera , beheading her would only exacerbate the feud between mortal and Sidhe.”
“And Lir volunteered?” Aisling asked.
“Once the Sidhe had agreed to take the risk, to satiate your father’s demands, it only made sense that the northern mortal princess would unite with the northern Sidhe king.” Gilrel clapped for the warriors on cue.
“But if you claim myself and Lir to be caera , how could Lir have ever married Peitho?”
“Centuries ago, they were raised together. Peitho’s father, the fourth Sidhe king, believed them caera . Most of us did. Not to mention, the Sidhe have interpolitical strife of their own to sort through. Their marriage would’ve been a unique alliance all of its own. One Peitho was desperate to seal,” Gilrel said.
Peitho laughed at one of her comrade’s comments, tossing her glossy locks over her shoulder. Strands braided through with orange poppies and yellow buttercups.
“Can Sidhe have more than one caera in a lifetime?” Aisling asked.
“Some claim it to be possible. Others do not. However, I suppose those who insisted the latter have already been proven wrong.” Gilrel sat up straighter, a smile spreading across her features.
“Watch, mo Lúra ; you’ll want to prepare yourself for what’s to come next.”
Aisling turned her attention back towards the arena, avoiding Peitho’s daggers for eyes, burning into her flesh. But it was not Aisling that Peitho watched now. It was Lir she regarded from the corner of her eye as she pulled back her blade and launched it towards the hedgehogs. Her arms and legs rippled with muscle, visible even beneath her leather garments.
The tip of the sword flew like a sparrow, straight and true, puncturing the three oranges sitting atop the beasts’ heads. Juice exploding and spraying the nearest spectators with its citrus blood.
Aisling swallowed. She’d never witnessed such skill before. Deadly skills she’d practiced all her life yet never bore the talent to perform.
Each of Lir’s knights stepped onto the field, positioning themselves to one side of the great labyrinth the dancers had summoned. They wore their armor, strapped with blades and shields, and contraptions Aisling knew not the name of, raising their arms and baiting the crowd to cheer more wildly.
“What are they doing?” Aisling eyed them warily, familiar with their many faces after having journeyed with them once before .
Gilrel’s muzzle stretched into a thin smile.
“It’s tradition. The male caera will fight to prove he is worthy of you and the strongest among his circle.”
Aisling blanched for there were twenty knights to one. The task appeared impossible. But before she could respond, Lir was standing, the fair folk bursting into wild praises, chanting the king’s name to the beat of their stomps as he held out his hand, gesturing for Aisling to take it.