Chapter XII
CHAPTER XII
Another two days dissolved in the northern wind and still Lir hadn’t returned from wherever he’d vanished after the Snaidhm . Aisling hadn’t intended to count the days he was away, nor had she intended to peer over her balcony every few hours, awaiting his return. Her idle mind searched for a distraction, anything to halt the endless rehearsal of the past several nights. For she was locked away in this mountain castle with nowhere to explore, save her own mind, a perilous terrain, threatening to unravel her fully as Gilrel insisted she rest, insisted she sleep and eat without distraction so she would recover with the aid of Leshy’s tears. But her physical wounds paled in comparison to the mental scars she now bore. Terrors that salted the healing lesions, soaking her thoughts with blood and teeth. And something else. Something far worse that gnawed at Aisling. Made her hungry. Made her lie awake when the sky turned obsidian and the forest whispered her name.
Meanwhile, Galad was tasked with overseeing the mortal princess while Lir was away. He stood outside her door from dusk till dawn. And no others, not even the rest of Lir’s knights, were permitted to enter Aisling’s chambers.
So, Aisling set to writing at the vanity, an ivory quill poised in hand, made from the feathers of a three-eyed owl, Gilrel explained. The handmaiden fussed over her magpies braiding Aisling’s hair too tightly as they weaved through, up, and over one another, curls pinned between their beaks.
Aisling nodded her head vacantly as Gilrel spoke, dipping her pen into the pearly inkpot. Her handwriting, clumsy initially, softened as she scribbled each sentence with utmost concentration. Penmanship was of course one of the many courses offered throughout her tutelage. One she’d find useful before and after political marriage. For she’d already written and re-written this letter several times over, tossing out those with the slightest of imperfections. Had spent her morning either pacing back and forth in her chambers, counting the fish that leapt in the gorge beyond Annwyn, asking Gilrel endless amounts of questions, or ripping sheet after sheet till she resolved to finish a single letter.
Dearest Father,
I hope this letter finds you well. I write to chronicle all that I’ve seen and experienced. What the Aos Sí are like and not like. What their world is like. But to describe such thoughts would be to fill an opus worth of pages. So instead, I’ll tell you the direst of news: during the short time I’ve spent amongst the Aos Sí, I’ve become privy to a threat. A threat that jeopardizes the safety of our people despite the treaty. The Aos Sí call them Unseelie, archaic races that live within the wilds, growing more formidable by the day. But do not take the Aos Sí’s word for it. Take mine instead. I’ve seen them. I’ve ? —
Aisling hesitated. Paused long enough that the quill bled into the parchment. The mortal queen crossed out the last word, shaking her head and continuing .
I realize the degree of responsibility and change you must be overseeing in the mortal world. But please, write back to me at your earliest convenience so we may discuss this in greater detail. I think often of Tilren. Of Clann Neimedh and of home.
Home.
Aisling’s chest tightened.
With love
—she continued, steadying her hand once more?—
Your daughter, Aisling
Carefully, she folded the letter and slipped the parchment into a parceled envelope: an emerald sleeve sealed with lavender bramblebee wax harvested from fae honeycomb gardens. And hopefully, her letter would arrive swiftly enough to prevent any further tragedies. After all, the mortals believed their only enemy, the Aos Sí, to be bound by a peace treaty. Inevitably, they would relax their guards, potentially venturing into Unseelie-infested feywilds.
Aisling blanched. She could and would protect her own kind. Could prevent tragedy if only the mortals were informed quickly enough. This was her responsibility to bear and not another’s. For she alone was able to ensure this information reached the appropriate ears.
Aisling stood from her chair and carried the envelope across the room, the sweeping of stray leaves catching the hem of her gown. And despite her eagerness to deliver the letter as soon as possible, the mortal queen hesitated before opening the chamber doors. For, on the other side, Galad leaned against the stone walls, idly flipping a reed between his fingers.
Aisling steeled herself, lifting her chin and jerking the door open.
“ Mo Lúra ”—the knight straightened lazily—“how are you faring?”
Aisling frowned, biting the inside of her cheek. “I’m afraid I harbor little interest in empty concerns for my welfare.”
“What would give you the impression my concerns are empty?” Galad grinned, flashing his canines. His hair was braided differently today, tugged away from his face and beaded with fragments of bone. His sapphire eyes glinting marvelously as he leaned towards the mortal queen.
Aisling bristled. “Need I remind you I was nearly devoured by a Forge forsaken trow and then a Cú Scáth or do the fair folk enjoy misremembering their crimes against mortals?”
“Ah, but you were not actually eaten by the trow nor the Cú Scáth. The only real harm that befell you had nothing to do with what I or any of the Sidhe partook in; the Unseelie can be unpredictable. As for the Snaidhm , you were promised someone would reach you before the trow and its intentions. That promise was kept.”
“What heroism,” Aisling bit, uncertain why she’d chosen this battle with Galad instead of Lir other than the fear she still harbored towards the fae king, “to place a helpless maiden in danger only to expect praise for releasing her from said perils.”
“Helpless?” Galad dipped his head lower so his words were but a shadowed whisper between them. “Am I misremembering, as you claim, or was it you who raised Lir’s axe and behead the Unseelie yourself?”
Aisling hesitated, tongue-tied, as the memory of the trow’s rolling head resurfaced. The ease with which the blade cut through the beast’s bone. Aisling shivered, a wave of nausea rising in her gut, inspired not by shame nor disgust, but pride. Aisling wrenched her eyes shut, disgraced by her own gratification. Blinking open and willing such feelings gone. Gone and away so that the knight before her might not catch a glimmer of such pleasure in her violet eyes.
Galad laughed, still studying her. “Was there something you needed, mo Lúra ?”
“A letter to be delivered with haste. Gilrel informed me you’d be able to aid me in doing so. If not, I can find?—”
“I’m assuming to Tilren?” the knight interrupted, cunning eyes darting towards the envelope folded in Aisling’s hands.
The mortal queen hesitated. “Yes, a letter for my father.” Father to Aisling. Villain to all the fair folk.
Galad slipped the reed into the quiver strapped against his back.
“I can take care of it for you , but Lir’s court advisors will need to read it before it ever leaves Annwyn.”
“For what reason?” she asked, but Aisling already knew.
“Despite being mo Lúra , your heritage obviously suggests certain blood loyalties. Loyalties, that at least initially, the Sidhe should be wary of. If you write to your tuath, our court advisors will need to inspect more than your penmanship to ensure it doesn’t contain any sensitive information. Information that could jeopardize your union with Lir or Annwyn itself. So, any plans to poison your betrothed, steal his axes, exchange incriminating details or the like should be erased now, mo Lúra. ”
“You’re suggesting I’m a spy? That my intentions to protect my own kind are not pure?”
“I’m suggesting you could be a spy, mo Lúra .” Galad grinned, not ashamed in the slightest of his accusations implied or not.
“Was this Lir’s idea?”
“Aye, it was, and if anyone can understand it should be you. I’m confident your kind would do the same in our position.” Aisling didn’t disagree. Nevertheless, it remained a nuisance that, each time she corresponded with her family, her words would be sifted through for a betrayal on her behalf.
“If I must comply with your precautions, may I, at the very least, accompany my letter to ensure its hasty delivery?” But Aisling was already closing the door behind herself. Asking for permission was more of a courtesy. She’d follow him whether he agreed to it or not.
“Have you recovered sufficiently?” Galad’s eyes darted towards the gauze peeking beneath her sleeve.
“That furry little nightmare may have a fit but I’m in no mood to be stuffed in my chamber for yet another day,” the mortal queen huffed. Galad eyed the door firmly shut behind Aisling, where just beyond, Gilrel would eventually return in search of her lady. Would inevitably scold her magpies for not keeping the mortal queen contained for the second time.
“Lir instructed?—”
“Tell me, do you always do what you’re told?” Aisling interjected, holding the door’s wooden knocker tightly between her fingers.
“The better acquainted you become with your caera , ‘doing what you’re told’ becomes the more appealing option,” he said, gesturing for Aisling to fall into step beside him. “Nevertheless, I don’t envy your solitude, especially after last night. Walk within my shadow at all times. The castle is no place for a mortal wandering alone.”
At times, travelling through Castle Annwyn felt endless. Rooms, hallways, doorways, staircases were susceptible to moving, shifting, rotating when they believed none to be looking. Ghostly laughter floating on the sails of every passing draft. Paintings that were thrashed, portraits of a great maiden and her three-eyed owl. Chambers whose doors were chained and bolted shut. Yet the corridors smelled of the flowers that hung from their vines and the further they travelled up the mountain, the colder the air grew.
The castle’s staff scurried past the knight and Aisling, forcing themselves to bow or curtsy while in the queen’s presence. Aisling did her best to ignore their ogling, memorizing the names Galad used to address them as they passed by. Back in Tilren, Aisling had only ever bothered to learn a handful of the staff’s titles. Those who directly served her. But here in Annwyn, everyone was familiar, a result of centuries of working alongside one another. Surely if Aisling had been ages old, she would know her staff’s names. Wouldn’t she?
“How much farther are these court advisors?” Aisling asked, breathlessly climbing yet another winding staircase.
“Not much farther, mo Lúra ,” Galad assured, unfazed by the boundless upward trajectory. A trail visited by strange insect-like creatures, some charming and others grotesque, scampering by her slippers as she passed.
“I’m assuming the Aos Sí don’t tire of these steps?” Aisling paused to catch her breath. If she’d boasted any stamina or muscle, perhaps this wouldn’t strike the mortal queen as such a feat.
“Rarely, and those who do, use their wings instead.”
Aisling blinked.
“Do all of you bear wings?” Perhaps it was rude to ask but Aisling found her curiosity far outweighed her manners. So, Aisling tilted her head to inspect the knight more closely as he climbed higher. No wings flared from his armor but perhaps they were tucked away somewhere beneath. Somewhere far below his finely forged plating, his artfully braided chainmail, the skinned leather, or his painted skin.
Galad exhaled a laugh, the sound echoing through the tower in which they stood.
“Not all, no. It’s a subspecies of Sidhe, some among us born with the ability to bloom wings on a whim.”
“Does Lir have them?” Aisling blurted, immediately wishing she hadn’t spoken his name aloud. There was something about those letters on her tongue that felt strangely intimate to let spill from her lips. Perhaps even to think within the privacy of her own mind.
“Shouldn’t you already know the answer to that?” Galad asked.
Aisling’s stomach dropped. If only she’d kept her mouth shut. Had Aisling and Lir consummated their marriage, were truly husband and wife, she would know. She should know, had they disrobed before one another, seen one another in their full glory. She would know. But alas, Aisling was as ignorant as a passing stranger, for no such ritual had occurred nor did she believe it ever would.
“Do you bear them?” Aisling countered, changing the subject as quickly as she was able.
“Yes,” he confessed while turning to continue up the staircase, “and so does your caera .” Aisling nearly tripped on the hem of her gown, awkwardly straightening herself. The thought knotted her stomach as she swatted away the image now invading her most vivid imaginations. But there was no indication, no sign of strange appendages she’d noticed yet. Perhaps they truly could grow them on a whim—another variable that, despite their beauty, made them so cruelly inhuman.
“Why do you conceal them?” Aisling continued, palming the stone wall for balance. Her thighs protesting every step higher.
“Unlike the rest of our bodies, our wings don’t heal quite as efficiently. If one were torn or injured, it could never restore itself fully. Even if mended correctly. In which case, for a knight or a king, it’s unwise to sport them regularly. To sport any vulnerability regularly.”
Aisling didn’t doubt it. The wings she’d already spotted amongst the populace appeared as thin and as delicate as a fly’s, nearly translucent if it weren’t for the way they reflected both light and color.
“They’re lovely,” Aisling confessed, the words spilling from her tongue before she could intercept such words of flattery.
“Is that a compliment to the Aos Sí, mo Lúra ?” Galad glanced back, extending a hand to aid the mortal queen climb a series of dilapidated steps. Steps chipped away by the chisel of time.
Aisling ignored both his offer of help and his comment, heaving herself up on her own instead. “Where does such a trait originate?”
“From the mountain kingdom, Iod , originally ruled by Ina,” Galad said, glancing at the mortal queen following shortly behind. Aisling remembered Cathan’s song, Rian’s translation, and the narrative it described. “At her conception, it’s said Ina was forged with wings, a gene passed on to her original kin. Those of us born of at least one parent of Iod often carry the trait. Although, such unions no longer occur.”
“So, both yours and Lir’s parents are subjects of both Annwyn and Iod?” Aisling asked, struggling to maintain Galad’s pace. “But how can Lir then be king?”
“It’s more common than you’d think. So long as the child is the offspring of a monarch belonging to the lineage of one of the original twelve sovereigns, they have claim to the throne. Lir was the first-born son of his father, the last king of Annwyn, so it matters not where or who his mother was.”
In that case, the last king of Annwyn bore a child with a subject of Iod, the mountain kingdom, and that union led to Lir. How strange these fae lineages were. Starn, the rightful heir to Tilren, would one day marry a noblewoman. Preferably one of Tilrish nationality for the purposes of birthing pure-blooded Tilrish children. As it’d always been done in the mortal world with few exceptions.
At last, Aisling and Galad arrived at a narrow door, owls etched into the splintering wood, appraising all who greeted their threshold. The knight pushed open the door, waking the world beyond with the hollow groan of its hinges. A cloud of mildew released from the heart of the dark chamber.
Aisling followed Galad closely, eyes adjusting to the shadows when she spotted the ash tree leaning against the far wall of a lofty stone cathedral. Growing at the core of the mountain, its colossal branches reached for the cross-vaulted ceilings, dripping with jeweled leaves and bulbs of light from the center of blooming elderflowers.
“Those are sylphs ,” Galad whispered, following Aisling’s line of sight. For indeed, wispy creatures, made of mountain fog, flew among the highest branches, stealing bites from bundles of ripe samara.
“Are they Unseelie?”
“Not quite; most claim they’re spirits of the mountain, long-since deceased Sidhe of Iod, searching for Ina in the summits instead of carrying on to the Other.”
One sylph in particular caught Aisling’s eye, lounging at the end of a branch. Its wings sparkled against the glow of the elderflowers, fluttering open the moment it spotted Aisling from its perch. Lazily it lifted its ivory head, twinkling eyes considering the mortal queen carefully before gesturing for the others to come and inspect Aisling for themselves. As though she were the creature made of magic and not them.
“This way,” Galad said, drawing Aisling’s attention back towards the task at hand.
At the base of the tree stood a steepled door embellished with a knob carved in the likeness of an outstretched hand. The twin knob to the one Aisling had found while wandering the castle alone, leading to the fountain room, creases at the knuckles and palm, indents where nails should be, a hand large enough for Galad to take hold of and press his own palm against the wooden one.
Aisling opened her mouth to speak but before she could utter a word, the oddest thing occurred: the whittled hand came to life, groaning as it curled its stiff fingers around Galad’s own.
Aisling gasped, flummoxed at the spectacle.
Galad, on the other hand, grew still as a windless wood till the whittled hand, satisfied with whatever it intended, retreated, molding back into the lifeless appendage poised to meet its next guest.
And had it not been for the several clicks and the budging of the door, Aisling would’ve stood there for hours, inspecting the whittled hand beneath the light of the elderflowers.
Aisling cursed under her breath, for the chamber was so silent, it felt intrusive to speak louder than a whisper.
“This ash prefers to make the acquaintance of whosoever passes its threshold, for the sake of ensuring none shall pass who shouldn’t be privy to the information or the people beyond this door.”
Magic amongst the Aos Sí, Aisling was realizing, was effortless. Indeed, the fair folk seemed to inhale magic and exhale fantasy. All of Annwyn pulsing with this tempestuous opiate. Feeding the enchantment and in return it fed them.
“And what does lie beyond this door?” Aisling continued, cringing as the door shut of its own accord behind her.
“The other side of the mountain.” Galad’s eyes flashed in her direction, gauging whether his sardonic reply had dampened her curiosity. It hadn’t, for the more they withheld, the more Aisling couldn’t help but pry.
To Galad’s credit, the ingress had indeed revealed the other side of the mountain. A steep drop looming on the right of a parapet walkway. And as Aisling searched for whatever land lay far below, she saw none, the earth eclipsed by a sea of clouds.
“And how does the tree recognize your touch from others?” Aisling asked, more so to distract herself from the potential of one fateful misstep than genuine interest.
“Trees are knowledge keepers. They know every ash, rowan, hazel, and willow by name, a title branded into the rings of their trunks. Know more languages than either Sidhe or man are familiar with. Know the faces of all those who enter their woods.”
“You speak of them as though they were sentient.”
“Because they are. The trees are always watching, listening. Nosy creatures. The eldest, most ancient of trees the most formidable. And the most judgmental.”
That was impossible. Not because Aisling doubted its truth—she’d already seen enough to understand how strange the Sidhe world truly was—but because Aisling couldn’t fathom what that meant for her father. For her clann. For every chieftain, tiarna, flaith, and king who’d burned, chopped, laid waste to acreages of woodland.
Aisling’s tongue turned to ash; hadn’t Lir referred to Nemed as the fire hand of the North?
“ He who wears the blood of the forest on his hands. ”
Is this what Lir meant? Was the whole of the forest as sentient as Gilrel had described the great Leshy? Aisling’s father had burned miles of woodland, creatures as conscious as Aisling was herself. No, that wasn’t a fair comparison. These trees, like the fair folk, lived for centuries. How many memories were lost when Nemed charred kingdoms of forest? Starn alongside him, stomping out the ashes of these sentient beings on the tattered old rug by the kitchen entrance in Castle Neimedh.
“ He who wears the blood of the forest on his hands. ”
Aisling, suddenly grateful for the cliff should she fall ill, struggled to abate the nausea. Nemed didn’t know. Couldn’t know. Wasn’t aware of what truly comprised the feywilds. So, she would tell him. Once he replied to her letter, she would help him. Help the North. A thought that sobered her, warming her complexion once more.
Galad paused before the last door on their left, pressed into a corner of the mountain. The knight knocked three times before the door creaked ajar, revealing a thin, tall chamber. The room was framed by scrolls, parchment, and books. Shelves that seemingly stretched to the tips of the summit, where three tawny hawks perched amongst the highest of tomes. A room that reeked of animal skins, of dried ink and dust, of the birds whose windswept feathers ruffled at the sight of newcomers.
But no aspect of the chamber was quite as interesting as he who sat behind the desk, haloed by the sunlight dyed resplendently in the hues of stained glass.
“Filverel,” Galad greeted the fae male.
Filverel lifted his head, peering past the ivory strands, hardening his already angular features. And despite donning the appearance of one thirty or so years of age, Aisling knew from one glance at the primeval edge in his moonstone eyes that he was much, much older.
“Galad,” the Aos Sí replied, grinning broadly. “I’d heard you’d been tasked to guard the mortal queen. But I hadn’t expected to see you until Lir returned.”
“Has he sent word?” Galad asked.
“Only that he’ll be longer than usual this time.”
Galad nodded his head. “I anticipated it wouldn’t be as simple as it once was.”
As what once was? Where had Lir gone? Aisling opened her mouth to ask but before she could utter a word, Galad glanced at Aisling over his shoulder.
“Aisling requests to correspond with the—her father ,” Galad said, on the verge of referring to Nemed as something Aisling assumed would only inspire her temper.
“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.” Filverel stood from his seat, moving like a ghost and gliding across the carpets with eerie elegance. An impossibly tall, grey-clad phantom. Of course, he didn’t sport the usual tunics, inars, trousers, or léine , the mortals usually did. No, like all other Sidhe, he wore a far more interesting counterpart, one woven and embroidered masterfully by Sidhe hands. Attractively cut and, at times, imaginatively embellished with all manner of woodland accessories: petals, leaves, pine needles, bugs, stones, feathers, and furs. But as startling as this Aos Sí was, Aisling had already crossed his path twice before. Once during the night of her wedding and again at the Snaidhm , sitting a few seats over in the private box with the rest of the trooping Sidhe.
“I’m one of Lir’s oldest court advisors,” he said, bowing and never once releasing Aisling from his gaze, the stench of lavender and thyme, dusting off his robes and clouding the room.
“Pleased to meet you,” Aisling said, donning the etiquette Clodagh had branded into her every muscle, bone, and breath since she bore the wherewithal to eat with a book balanced on her head. “Aisling of Clann Neimedh. The?—”
“The almost-beheaded mortal princess.” Filverel bared his pointed canines. “Forgive me, I’m still reeling from the reality of it. I was among those opposed to your union, considering it was nearly an execution bound to exacerbate mortal and Sidhe tensions. But alas, here we are. The princess lives.”
Aisling snapped her mouth shut, considering her next words carefully. He’d read every thought she’d harbored over the last several days with alarming accuracy but hearing an Aos Sí speak of it as though her human life were as frivolous as a flower to be plucked from the earth, was unnerving, to say the least. A product of their immortality, it shouldn’t shock Aisling that her mortal life would indeed be considered insignificant by comparison.
“Aye, nearly headless then and heedful now for, not only did I keep my head, I’ve added a crown.”
“Of course, mo Lúra .” Filverel hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty flashing across his opalescent orbs, appearing as quickly as it had vanished. The tone with which he said “ mo Lúra ,” a knife, gliding across his tongue .
“Aisling’s letters need to be revised before they’re delivered,” Galad interjected, stepping between the mortal queen and advisor.
“Yes, I recall Lir mentioning as much should the princess fancy herself nostalgic. Where’s the letter?”
Galad considered Aisling before offering Filverel the envelope.
For what felt like an eternity, the Aos Sí inspected the parchment, combing through each word, dangling the page in varying lights—even over the beams striking through his window—perhaps for some clever ink with which the mortal queen could slip a message.
At last, he set down his magnifying glass and his quill, folding and slipping the parchment back into its parcel.
“As far as secret codes or treasonous slurs go, the princess is innocent,” Filverel said, melting the seal anew. “But, mo Lúra , I must ask: what gives you the impression your father isn’t already aware of the Unseelie?”
Aisling met Filverel’s stare, annoyed he’d read her letter at all. For not only had he thoroughly devoured every stroke of her penmanship, but now he’d pried into the content even after determining it innocent.
“He’s never mentioned them before. No one in the mortal world, as far as I’m aware, has ever mentioned the Unseelie.”
“And you believe that reason enough?” Filverel challenged, narrowing his eyes.
“I have no reason to doubt him.”
Nemed was her father. Sovereign to Tilren and high king of all the isles. He wouldn’t deliberately lie to her. Everything and all Nemed had done, however cruel and ruthless it may appear, was done in the name of mankind. In the name of sparing her race from the heathenous dominion of the fair folk.
Filverel touched his slender fingers to his lips, scouring every inch of the mortal queen till she felt naked before him. His regard was frigid. As though his spirit had once been bespelled and frozen but never fully thawed. Even his fae markings trailed his flesh with caution, thin bands tiptoeing around his lanky frame.
“It was some decades ago that I met your great-grandfather. It’s been even longer since I met one of your ancestors—Barhan, I believe his name was. The man who built your Castle Neimedh and its walls, stone by stone. One of the first of your kind to scorch the earth, making way for more land than he could possibly do with.”
The words hit Aisling like a physical blow. Aisling bore a handful of memories of the fires the mortals lit. She would stand atop Tilren’s walls to witness the gilding of the horizon by flame. Breathing in the ash already staining the skies black. Ash that showered the North for several days after, choking her with the dust of all those slaughtered trees.
“Cellach, who bound Sidhe females in iron shackles and forced himself upon them. It was then Finnlug, your great-great-great-grandfather who killed fae children for sport. All of these fabled mortal sovereigns, keepers of those violet eyes you yourself have inherited.” Filverel leaned forward, as if considering cutting the hue from Aisling’s irises. “Tell me, mo Lúra , did you also inherit your father’s silver tongue?”
“ Est mire lend ,” Galad hissed in Rún, taking a step forward.
“She’ll learn sooner or later the true nature of her kind, if she doesn’t already know. This way will be far less painful than witnessing it for herself.”
“You speak as though the Aos Sí are innocent. As though the Aos Sí have not laid waste to mortal villages, terrorized from within the shadows of the wilderness till no mortal dare venture past their settlement walls, even for food for starving children. As though the Aos Sí did not steal, kill, or enchant innocents. As though the Aos Sí have not stolen our land,” Aisling said, her pulse quickening with the rage clawing like hands in a tomb for escape. The hawks squawking madly from above, blowing loose sheets of parchment with the flap of their wings.
“You are worse than ignorant. You are foolish,” Filverel said, laughing beneath his breath.
“ Coirrigh dol beanga nó ,” Galad snarled but again Filverel ignored him.
“None are innocent in war. But, if a centuries-old Sidhe may impart some wisdom, I suggest you find the truth for yourself instead of parroting the words of your kind. Of your father. All of us claim to know the truth; only some of us do. Find it for yourself before you stake your life and your loyalties on unchallenged lies.”
Aisling’s face flushed with fury, digging her nails into the palms of her hands. But Galad was already tugging her out the door, pulling her away from Filverel before Aisling could protest.
“Your letter will be delivered before the sun sets… mo Lúra .” The corners of Filverel’s lips twitched as Galad swung the door shut. The only sound, the hawks screeching madly from their shelves.