Chapter XI
CHAPTER XI
Aisling swiveled, coming face to face with a beast, a spectral hound, washed in shadows of deepest black. As large as one of Nemed’s destriers, larger, it wrinkled its muzzle, peeling back its lips to boast an impressive collection of fangs. A snarl so ugly it occurred to Aisling it might be grinning. And as the tentacles of darkness formed and reformed, Aisling peered into the skeletal interior of the hound. Lightest white against darkest black.
The queen couldn’t scream. No, her throat was sealed shut. Her muscles were petrified. Even her hearing had resorted to a distant, muffled ring.
Aisling stepped back, snapping a branch beneath her bare heel. The sound, swaddled by white noise, still pulsed through the forest, catching the beast’s attention, its ears flicking side to side. Aisling stifled the urge to gasp, realizing the beast wasn’t glaring at her but rather past her. At Lir. As though she were invisible.
A glamour.
“Don’t run,” Lir said, his voice resolute, the only sound that wasn’t smothered by the enchantment.
The hound took a step forward, inching towards Aisling. It raised its muzzle, nose to nose with the queen, and inhaled, savoring the warm, fleshy perfume of mortality.
It was too late. Even if she were to run, it already knew she was here. Her presence could no longer be denied even if Lir had glamoured her.
A great force flung Aisling to the side. The queen flew, landing further into the forest on a cushion of leaves and rolling until she collided against a pine. As quickly as she was capable, Aisling staggered to her feet. A brief inspection suggested she suffered no broken bones, fractured limbs, sprained joints, or otherwise serious injuries. Unless the adrenaline was doing a fine job of subsiding the pain.
At the lip of the woods, Lir wrestled the wolf, a knot of vines and shadows.
The beast pinned the fae king, limiting access to his twin blades, its muzzle chomping at the tip of the fae king’s nose. Nevertheless, Lir managed to free one arm, pushing back the hound’s jaws with roots he’d freshly summoned. Roots the creature shredded when they threatened to burst its windpipe, forcing Lir to peer down its gaping throat until he could fling the creature off himself. Strength the fae king made appear effortless. The wolf collided against the sharp edge of a boulder, lending Aisling clear sight of the beast for the first time since Lir had attacked.
Before she could think twice, Aisling drew Iarbonel’s dagger from her corset, tossing the blade as hard as she was capable. To her surprise, the dagger found its target, sticking the beast below its rib cage, a pitiful whimper echoing into the forest.
But it was far from vanquished, instead, reminded of Aisling’s potency nearby. For although the wolf couldn’t see her, its nose would be guide enough.
The beast abandoned Lir where he stood paces away, racing instead for the woman. More interested in satiating its appetite than encountering its inevitable demise at the hands of the fae king .
Aisling picked up her feet, heavy beneath the pressure of Lir’s glamour, and ran. She leapt over stones, across logs, through icy streams, weaving through the labyrinth. Aisling had never ventured this far into the forest. It was a vast maze of chittering trees, each craning to get a good look at the mortal woman dashing for her life. Aisling felt their sighs, the groans of their primeval bodies waking to the sound of her feet brushing the undergrowth. In other circumstances, Aisling would’ve enjoyed losing herself in the woodland. A realm of feral enchantment, the antithesis to her father’s stone and iron world. But, as it was now, fear charged her. Nourished her race through the feywilds.
The mortal queen ran quickly but her predator was quicker, nipping at her heels with increased fervor. As though the chase rendered it more esurient, more desperate, more capable of ‘seeing’ her with its nose and appetite than its eyes ever could.
Close enough now, the creature nipped at Aisling’s legs, sending the mortal queen tumbling against spidery roots and unforgiving stones. The world was a blur of black, brown, wet and cold, as Aisling slid through slush on the forest floor. She clamored to her knees as the wolf sprang for her arm.
Aisling screamed. She’d never felt pain like this before. Never endured anything worse than scratches, scrapes, and bruises. Now, red flowed freely from the wound, dying the sleeve of her emerald gown. A throbbing, blistering pain that, despite Aisling clutching the tender flesh, worsened as the seconds passed. But the monster wasn’t finished. The wolf padded nearer to Aisling, savoring the frenzied beat of her heart, the sweat beading against her pale skin, the smell of her blood, and the excited trembling of her hands and knees. After all, she couldn’t fight the creature. Couldn’t outrun it.
Help , she said wordlessly, recognizing the futility of such a cry. Flames of panic and anger scalding her from the inside out.
The wolf leaned back on its haunches, preparing to lunge forward. And just as it did, a small, black creature snapped between its eyes.
A snake. Not just any snake. The sable serpent that had guided Aisling through Castle Annwyn, or at the very least the same breed.
It stiffened its neck, belly tightening before striking the monster’s eyes. And although this obsidian friend could do little more than deter the hound, the distraction was lifesaving for it afforded Aisling a breath. A single exhalation before a weight tackled the wolf to the ground, skewering its chest to the dirt with a thick, razor-edged branch.
In a flash, Lir was atop the creature, driving a stake into the ghostly spine of the hound. It released a blood-curdling cry. Enough for Aisling’s skin to crawl, but the mortal queen was unable to pry her eyes from the violence, the puddling beneath the monster’s now-limp corpse, the meaty sound of punctured flesh, Lir’s eyes void of any morsel of humanity. For in this moment, there was none of the whimsy of the Aos Sí in his expression. It was all barbaric. All savage, come to claim its kill and relish in its death.
The demon still twitched so Lir grabbed the hound’s head.
“Close your eyes,” Lir said, his voice an otherworldly growl. But Aisling ignored him, forcing herself to witness this death. A silent agreement sealed between Aisling and Lir as the fae king nodded, twisting the neck of the beast. Aisling’s ears popped in time to hear the crack of the wolf’s bones.
The glamour was done. The demon collapsed, heaving one last wicked puff. And its fiery, ruby eyes simmered into nothing more than glassy, black coals .
The next several hours were a blur.
Lir climbed off the corpse, white rage possessing his features, eyes capable of devouring anything and everything they beheld with the wild breath of the wood. The next moment, Aisling and the fae king were surrounded by Aos Sí, the music and lights of the Snaidhm flashing forcibly.
Lir, having carried her from the forest, his hands sticky with her blood, handed her to Galad. They spoke their Rún angrily, voices rising over the commotion, the confusion. Then suddenly, Aisling was in her chambers, busily fussed over by Gilrel, her magpies, and several other nameless creatures Aisling had yet to meet: two hares, an otter, a fox, and a particularly scrupulous hedgehog.
They stripped the queen of her gown and bathed her, washing the mud, dirt, and blood from her hair and skin. But Aisling felt fine. In fact, the pain hadn’t settled until the following morning. And when she awoke, the ache in her arm was unbearable, despite the bite wound cleaned and wrapped tightly, bandages replaced every so often.
Several of her fingers were purpled and swollen while her hands and feet were riddled with flesh wounds. Aisling hadn’t recalled receiving those.
“You’re in shock, mo Lúra ,” Gilrel said, accepting a teapot from a flock of magpies hovering beside her. “What do you remember?”
To the best of her ability, Aisling chronicled the night to her chambermaid. The images flashed across her mind, recoiling as if having been burned by the memory alone. The sound of the hound’s baleful growl vibrating through her body still.
“The Cú Scáth,” Gilrel interrupted her tale. Aisling wasn’t familiar with its name. How could she be? Clann Neimedh had never once mentioned the Unseelie. They were either blissfully unaware or they’d pretended they were. Aisling couldn’t decide which was worse. Either way, she needed to write to Nemed and clear this all away. Rid herself of the burden of this knowledge.
Once she finished reciting the memory in its entirety, Gilrel frowned. The room was silent. Even the doors to the balcony had been firmly shut, shunning the morning breeze, the songbirds, the badger that crawled in to feed on Aisling’s scraps from time to time. And whichever maids had come to assist Gilrel the night prior were nowhere to be seen, perhaps already having returned to their usual responsibilities throughout the castle.
“You’re fortunate your caera was there, otherwise…” Gilrel trailed off but Aisling knew the implication. She’d be dead, half-digested within the belly of that foul beast by now.
But despite her shock, the horror of the memories, Aisling found herself strangely exhilarated. Aisling had scarcely spoken the words to herself, guiltily keeping them at bay. Even so, the queen had never endured anything half so exciting in all her life, confined to the walls of Tilren lest her and Dagfin escape. But now, she’d felt it for herself, experienced it herself.
Aisling repressed such excitement, stuffing it into some cobwebbed corner of her conscious mind. It was foolish to delight in danger. In violence. A lifeforce of its own, pulsing through her as though her bones, her body, had been lulled into a hollow sleep. Until she’d dropped the axe on the trow’s head and faced the Cú Scáth.
The mortal queen considered the teacup in her hands, tilting the liquid from side to side. It smelled both bitter and of some unfamiliar foreign spice.
“Tears of Leshy.” Gilrel set the pot on Aisling’s bedside table. “A forest spirit. Drink, for it will heal you quickly and efficiently.”
“A wraith?”
“Not quite. Leshy is amongst the oldest of trees, his roots said to cut near the center of the Earth. Unless he wishes to run, to dance; he travels through the woods. A great guardian to the feywilds.”
“And these are his tears?”
“Aye. Leshy is near impossible to find, to chase. To extract his tears is an unthinkable task save for the king of the greenwood. And such tears are reserved for his knights when targeted by their vulnerabilities. And now his queen.”
Aisling swallowed, avoiding Gilrel’s eyes. So, this was how Lir’s knights had miraculously recovered after iron’s kiss, for their unique ability to heal swiftly only applied to wounds dealt by non-iron means, this much Aisling knew. And this new knowledge, knowledge of Leshy’s power…well, Aisling only wondered what Nemed would do with such insight, a potion capable of eliminating one of the mortals’ only advantages against the fair folk if harvested in great enough quantities.
“Leshy’s tears may be somewhat repulsive, even by mortal standards, but it will quicken your recovery. By tomorrow morning, you will feel as if you’ve been freshly cast in the Forge.”
Aisling gagged after her second whiff, its acrid stench trailing through the whipped, billowy puffs of steam atop its milky surface.
Gilrel climbed up the chair beside Aisling’s bed and sat, adjusting her tail so it sat neatly beside her. Her scars were caught by the rays of sunlight filtered through the castle’s stained glass windows. There was seldom a moment Aisling didn’t wonder how the marten handmaid had received them. Did these familiar beasts fight beside the Aos Sí? Had Gilrel faced her father before? Encountered Starn on the battlefield? Aisling would quite enjoy watching Gilrel wield a sword. In fact, she’d be fascinated to witness these furry beasts fight. How radiant they must be, fully dressed in armor of their own. Perhaps one day she would. After all, even if the Aos Sí and humans no longer opposed one another, it was quickly becoming clear that another threat lurked throughout the wilds.
“Has it always been this way?” Aisling asked abruptly, studying the marten’s reaction. “Have the Unseelie always been a threat to even the Aos Sí?”
Gilrel met the mortal queen’s eyes.
“Yes,” she said sharply, stroking her whiskers, “but never like this. They’re becoming bolder, stronger, angrier. Our forests weren’t always so at odds.”
“But the Unseelie are motivated by human flesh?” Aisling thought of what Lir had spoken the night before: the Unseelie hunger for mortals . A notion that continuously baffled the mortal queen the longer she considered it.
After all these years, how was it possible her own kind was unaware of their most insatiable predator? Had they been so focused, so distracted by the Aos Sí to understand what lurked between the trees? Aisling’s fingers twitched, the memory of a quill in her fingers drawing her towards the parchment at her vanity. She must write to her father. Especially if the fair folk bore reason to fear their own woodlands. A world they, the elms, and the ashes staked equal claim to.
“Half a century ago, a member of my litter was maimed by an Unseelie.” Gilrel said the words so flippantly, Aisling near choked on Leshy’s tears, but the marten’s expression grew severe.
“My sister was protecting a mortal. A young child she’d found lost in the woods. Nuala was a silk weaver, skilled with sewing rare thread sourced only from a rare Unseelie species known as the neccakaid .”
Spidersilk, Aisling conjectured. She’d heard tales of the material, its pricelessness, but where or how it was harvested was never, if rarely, disclosed.
“The Sidhe and the Unseelie are indeed rivals,” Gilrel continued, “but we’ve found ways over the centuries to coexist . For the most part. Nuala traded mortal trinkets—jewels, clothing, objects manufactured by human hands—in exchange for yards of neccakaid silk. I’d always despised the transactions. Warned her that no good could come of dealings with the Unseelie. Obviously, she ignored me and on one unfortunate day, she’d encountered a human boy aimlessly wandering near the neccakaid caves. Why the mortal child was there, no one knows, but it hardly matters. Nuala wished to warn the boy before the demons caught his scent, but it was too late. They descended upon the mortal child, and instead of fleeing herself, Nuala stayed behind.” Gilrel’s voice caught in her throat, deepening as she forced herself to continue. “To this day, I can’t bring myself to understand why she’d chosen to sacrifice her eternal life for a life so fickle, so sickly, so small.” Gilrel laughed a dark, humorless chuckle.
“The child abandoned my sister, left her to die. When Nuala didn’t return that night, we went in search of her. We found the mortal boy first, covered in Sidhe blood, running through the trees. A quick interrogation revealed Nuala had indeed slain one of the neccakaid to save the boy. But my sister was dragged along with it into death’s hollow.”
Gilrel blinked as if batting away the memory. She cleared her throat and shook her head, smoothing out the creases in her apron.
“Lir wouldn’t let me kill the boy for abandoning my sister in fears it would only exacerbate the conflicts between Aos Sí and mortals. But there isn’t a day I wish I hadn’t torn that child to shreds. So, you see, mo Lúra , even the Sidhe are not immune to the bloodthirst of the Unseelie. You are fortunate to be alive.”
Aisling set the cup aside. She could offer her condolences, apologize for Gilrel’s loss but none could truly assuage the grief that no doubt swelled within the marten before her. Especially from the lips of a mortal, the same race that had forsaken her sister. Gilrel wouldn’t want Aisling’s sympathy. So, Aisling sipped her tea, ignoring the burn of its waters on her tongue.
Several moments passed before Aisling set down her cup, its base cushioned by the saucer.
“Perhaps, the mortals and the Sidhe have at last found common ground”—Aisling held Gilrel’s gaze—”a common enemy.”