Chapter IX
CHAPTER IX
Afternoon bled into evening. Only the moon and the stars and the firelight illuminated the night, a night that seemed to never end. The Aos Sí had yet to exhaust their energy, dancing to rhythmic, feverish music till Aisling believed their feet bruised beyond recognition—perhaps if they were mortals this would be the case.
Resisting the smells of the feasts spilling over the dining tables beneath the tents, the mortal queen followed the engorged squirrel scampering over every plate. Aisling considered allowing herself to indulge in such delights with Gilrel as her guide. Some foods were more dangerous to humans than others, more likely to form an insatiable addiction amongst her mortal kind. But despite her insatiable appetite, anger fueled her, the memory of their games burned into her mind. And where Aisling believed she’d be scarred, tormented, traumatized by the act of slaying the trow, she was not. The strange sensation of the axe beheading the trow was indeed now ingrained in her mind. The immediate gratification of power she’d garnered from watching its life slip from its blind eyes. Sweet vengeance a lingering taste on her tongue.
And for the most part, the fair folk continued to avoid Aisling as she did them, watching her warily from a distance. Aisling’s slaying of the trow garnering her no approval from the Aos Sí.
As for Lir, all Annwyn was eager to catch a moment of his attention. He obliged, spinning around the Snaidhm effortlessly. He didn’t rule from a distance as did Nemed. He ruled amongst them. So much so that, Aisling herself believed the respect of this bloodthirsty monarch’s subjects to rival her father’s own, their fear of their king to rival Nemed’s.
“Have you tried the wine?” a female voice piped from across the width of the dining table. Aisling lifted her gaze to find one of the fae staring back, her expression feline. Cornellian beetles lining her throat like precious gems and the crisp smell of autumn blooming in the air as she spoke. Peitho.
She’d peeled off her armor, instead sporting a gown of sparkling ginger, honey, and marigold cobwebs.
“I’ve been told it’s unwise.” Aisling softened her tone, relaxing her shoulders despite the stress bundling each of her muscles. Such pain only worsened her fury for the fair folk. Her resentment a bitter fog circling her every conscious thought.
“For mortals, it is indeed,” Peitho purred. Aisling made to walk away, to continue her perusal of the feast but Peitho matched her pace, walking parallel to the mortal queen.
“Forgive my manners, mo Lúra ,” the fae princess persisted. “I am Peitho, princess of Niltaor, a southern Sidhe territory. Have you heard of it?”
“I’m familiar,” Aisling said, ignoring the proficiency with which Peitho spoke her tongue.
“It’s a pleasure to at last make your acquaintance, mo Lúra . For months we’ve anticipated your arrival. How are you faring? Your display during the tournament today was quite entertaining.”
Aisling bit the inside of her cheek. For although she’d successfully beheaded the trow with Lir’s axe, her wielding of Iarbonel’s dagger was lackluster at best. Especially when compared to the warrior beside her.
“I’m doing well. Thank you,” Aisling replied, glancing over her shoulder to ensure Gilrel was still following closely behind. And indeed, the marten trailed the train of her gown, her tail sweeping the grass below.
“You must be quite frightened. I can only imagine what it must be like for you.” Peitho plucked a grape from within a roasted pig’s mouth, popping it into her mouth.
“I’m not afraid of your kind.” It was a lie, but the mortal queen would rather be fed to a trow than admit the fair folk frightened her.
“How brave of you, a mortal amongst all these Sidhe. If it were I, I’d be convinced death waited around every corner. Although, the longing for my home, my own kind, would far outweigh the fear.”
“In that case, how fortunate for both our races that it is I who is married to Lir and not yourself,” Aisling quipped, aware of the poison that laced her words. Peitho’s smug expression wrinkled with annoyance before she collected herself once more.
“May I call upon you one of these days, mo Lúra ?” Peitho asked, recovering the sweetness in her tone. “Many of the trooping females are simply dying to make your acquaintance and an afternoon together would be an honor.”
Aisling hesitated. “Trooping?”
Peitho simpered, “Pardon, mo Lúra , despite your clear mortality, I’ve somehow managed to forget how little you know of our world. Much like the humans, the Sidhe are divided by class—what mankind may refer to as the ‘aristocratic’ class, we refer to as trooping .”
Aisling swallowed her annoyance. She’d already known, had already witnessed a social hierarchy at work but the moniker was indeed useful .
Trooping , she repeated to herself.
“What do you have in mind?” Aisling asked, turning to face the princess once they’d arrived at the end of the dining table. Peitho towered over Aisling, appraising her like a cat considers a rat.
“Many of the female Sidhe enjoy archery when our schedules allow for it. I’m aware mortals are far weaker, more temporary , so we’ll be sure to lessen our enthusiasm in your presence, mo Lúra. ” Peitho tucked her silken mane of ribbons behind a pointed ear, studded with hoops of amber.
Unsolicited, the image of Rian’s arrow puncturing the trow flashed violently across her mind’s eye.
“I look forward to it,” Aisling managed, offering her politest smile. And this time, it wasn’t a lie. For although her skills in combat were embarrassingly absent amongst her family and now the fair folk, she’d rather fall ill than refuse a challenge.
“Till then, mo Lúra .” The princess at last curtsied before vanishing between the folds of fair folk.
“I’ll pad your gowns more thickly before such an outing,” Gilrel chimed once Peitho was out of earshot. “Perhaps even a petticoat of chainmail will be appropriate.”
Gilrel scampered closely behind Aisling’s heels as the mortal queen aimlessly navigated through the Snaidhm . They weaved through the torchlight, through a sea of gowns made of petals, weeds, animal furs, and feathers, inhaling the cool evening air, air steeped in spells, enchantments, and charms. For the fair folk smoked their pipes, puffing wispy clouds that spun overhead in the shape of winged serpents, screaming mortals, and dancing toads. Smoke that smelled of overripe fruit and syrup. Flyaway bubbles found Aisling’s nose and drifted inside .
Aisling had long since tossed off her slippers, thrilled by the texture of the slick grass beneath the soles of her feet.
The queen had little idea what hour it was, only that sleep was a distant dream. She may not have had the stamina of the Aos Sí, but this world was undoubtedly intoxicating. Adrenaline had fueled her since her wedding night, yet to run dry. Propelled by the sensation of the axe’s blade slipping through the trow’s neck, haunting the hollowed realm of her most reluctant yet persistent memories. A phantom winding through the fair folk and their animal friends who danced as if the morning would never arrive, gulping the night like a bottomless chalice of champagne. A spirit bubbling with starlight.
“I wish to be alone,” Aisling told the marten. This was a lie. For while half of Aisling longed to be with her family––Starn, Iarbonel, Annind, Fergus, Dagfin––the other part craved absolution, to dissolve into the masses till all that plagued the shadows of her mind vanished like nightmares come dawn.
“It’s my honor to accompany you, mo Lúra ,” Gilrel said, longingly witnessing the beginnings of a group dance forming at the center of the Snaidhm . Fair folk hand in paw with their animal companions. But Aisling knew escorting her was no honor, rather a duty the marten was obliged to uphold, ensuring Aisling didn’t go off exploring as she’d done earlier that day inside Castle Annwyn.
“Go, Gilrel,” Aisling encouraged. “I won’t shatter from a few moments left alone. Nor should I wander too far while enwreathed by your world.”
Gilrel studied the queen’s expression, perhaps wondering if indeed the mortal wouldn’t fall and break into a thousand irreparable pieces. At last, Gilrel curtsied enthusiastically, hardly capable of walking towards the commotion, small paws prepared to leap into the mischief that awaited.
And once Gilrel’s furry form was safely out of sight, Aisling exhaled and relaxed her posture, wandering through the festivities both alone and surrounded by strangers. These predators could tear her limb from limb without hesitation. The very fiends who whittled her childhood dreams into terrors. Who now pared new frights: the image of the trow’s head rolling away from its body frosting the joints between her bones. But now, as fate would cruelly have it, these fair folk were her people—by law, not blood. And she’d prefer to walk among them alone than perpetually chaperoned.
Hopefully and given time, the Aos Sí would come to respect Aisling’s place in Annwyn. Yet the mortal queen bore no illusions they’d ever revere her as they did their fae king. Fear her as they did Lir. And so, Aisling couldn’t help but wonder what power, influence, had she sacrificed in marrying the fae king instead of Dagfin?
Aisling tiptoed further into the Snaidhm , charmed by the steady beat of the drums. The lightning bugs floated above their heads to the melody of the song. The Aos Sí whirling wildly, moving with an elegance matched only by their ferocity. And not without guilt, Aisling believed this scandalous, sensual dance that transfixed the mortal queen was beautiful. The smell of fermented strawberries rendered her dizzy. The kaleidoscope of color showered her, soaking her in a tune whose pace mirrored every lustrous star above. The rhythm was as hungry as it’d been when she’d slain the trow. When the Aos Sí chanted her name. Her skin was warming, as warm as the blood that’d so recently speckled her cheeks.
Aisling followed the music deeper into the hordes. Brushing past pelts, bare skin, silken gowns, and cotton tunics. Stepping on bare feet and paws and tails. She’d never been around so many people, let alone fair folk, in all her life. Unguarded and unwatched. Almost forgetting how many Aos Sí surrounded her. Neglecting that she was at the mercy of these barbarians. She’d never be safe again. Not fully. And the thought of trembling, shivering, being as perpetually frightened as she’d felt in the presence of the trow made her angry. Made her want to behead the crown of fear till she was soaked in its black sap.
Aisling clumsily stepped to the tempo. Her movements were ungainly compared to the Aos Sí. Growing more and more engrossed by the purling incense around her, the splashing of wine at her feet, the smell of the fair folk and their sweat as they twirled. Absorbed until she saw where Gilrel danced. Where a fox grabbed the handmaid’s paws and spun her. Where the Aos Sí formed a large circle, the air thickening around them. As dense as syrup. The luminescent flowers humming more brightly. The stars grinning from their bed of black above.
It would be easy, simple, to join them. To leap into their circle and frolic alongside them. In fact, Aisling wanted to do nothing more than just that: to lose herself in the pounding of the sheep skins, the plucking of cords, the hollow breath of the flute, the voices of the Aos Sí singing louder and louder and louder. The glazed eyes of the trow strangling her memory, desperate to be remembered. So just for tonight, she’d forget her heart was made of fire and iron. She would dance amongst these beasts. Spin until her feet were bruised and the image of the trow was lost to sweet oblivion. To forget her family and the ache the memory of them elicited. Forget Tilren. Forget she was mortal. Forget how powerless she was. Forget her fear. Forget how it felt to kill. A sensation that confused her. Made her mind tilt along with the dancers.
So, Aisling stepped forward, into the circle of Aos Sí.