Chapter XVIII
CHAPTER XVIII
As the dawn cast rapids of lavender across the horizon, each member of the fae party unpacked their bags and squabbled over the most comfortable place to rest their head. The grass here was soft, long, and interrupted by tufted beds of wildflowers. It was in this glade, pressed against a mound of boulders, that they would rest, feed their stags, and themselves, until the early evening.
Three nights had passed and still there had been no sign of the Unseelie. Even the trees were evasive, reluctant to share more information with their fae king than was necessary.
“Tonight they will show themselves,” Rian encouraged, flopping onto a particularly fluffy mound of greenery.
“ Nikulic sef net tall esca mell,” ,” Aedh added in Rún. Aisling looked up and met Gilrel’s eyes. The pine marten translated for Aisling in hushed tones whilst still tending the fire at the center of their camp with Liam.
“ We’re near fomorian land. I can smell them ,” Aedh had said.
“ So long as the mortal queen rides with Lir, they’ll remain elusive. As will all the Unseelie. They aren’t so stupid as to leap from their dwellings before Lir and his men ,” Filverel argued. The court advisor stood at the brim of the glade, squinting between the surrounding columns of pines.
“ And a fire shan’t help either ,” Hagre whined. “ They’ll smell that smoke for miles . ”
The lady’s maid and squire hesitated, looking to Lir for direction.
“Would you prefer your queen freeze?” Lir said in Aisling’s tongue.
“She may be mortal but surely the daylight will warm her enough,” Cathan said, sneering at Aisling over his shoulder. Aisling stood by Saoirse, feeding her the blend of hay and molasses Liam had prepared for the trip. The beasts ate ravenously, already collapsing to their knees to feel the cool edge of the pasture beneath their round bellies.
“The night is cold, Cathan. Mortals need warmth and comfort for optimal survival,” Gilrel chided.
Hagre staked his sword into the earth beneath him. “ I thought we were bringing her along as bait. Not a liability. ”
“Come nightfall, we’ll take a different approach to ensnaring any Unseelie,” Lir said, leaning against a tree with his arms crossed. “For now, rest and think no more of it.”
And as though prompted, Galad emerged from the surrounding woodland, five rabbits hanging limply by their ears in his right fist. Aisling stared at their bloodied hides as Galad skinned and prepped the hares to be cooked over the flame. The mortal queen had enjoyed rabbit before, but Aisling knew these rabbits would taste nothing like what she’d experienced in the mortal world. For fae spices, their manner of baking, their treatment of the creature was unlike anything mankind did to similar dishes. Aisling began to wonder: if she weren’t here, would these fae knights have eaten the rabbits raw, considering how they griped about the fire? But Aisling realized to her own horror, she was just ravenous enough to eat the creature raw if she must.
As best she could, the mortal queen ignored the fae king, deigning to glance in his direction. But she felt his eyes on her, watching her from across the glade. Those feline jades stalking her every step.
“ Not quite mortal. Not quite Sidhe .”
“ The trees never lie .”
Aisling shut her eyes. The smoke burned and blurred her vision. It billowed in great clouds of grey, carrying with it the scent of cooking hare and whatever fae herbs Galad had spread across its back.
Gilrel sat beside Aisling now, fiddling with a bowl of mashed leaves.
“The sun has burned your face,” Gilrel said when all the fae knights were too distracted to eavesdrop. Now, each of them sat around the crackling flames, their faces lit with orange firelight and cheeks pink with warmth. Everyone except for Tyr and Hagre; they stood at opposing ends of the glade, hands wrapped around the hilts of their weapons. These were the first of the knights to stand guard. And in a few hours, Einri and Aedh would take their shift. The males would continue to rotate this way until nightfall when it was once more time to pack up and venture onward.
“This is perhaps the most time I’ve spent beneath the open sky since I was a small child,” Aisling replied. “The majority of life in Tilren takes place beneath the shadow of our walls, unless you manage to sneak away with evening’s help”—Aisling considered for a moment—“and a brew just strong enough to put the guards to sleep.”
Gilrel dabbed the balm onto Aisling’s cheeks; despite the slimy texture, the mashed leaves indeed soothed her skin, cooling and seeping into her pores. But Aisling hardly enjoyed the respite for the look on Gilrel’s face told the mortal queen the marten pitied her. Aisling nearly scoffed aloud. When had Gilrel turned the corner from pure resentment to sympathy? Especially when it was she who’d lost her sister so tragically.
“Regardless, I was never a fan of the sun, always having preferred the moonlight,” Aisling said, watching the fae knights pass around a large flask, adorned now with a sticky rabbit’s foot.
“And yourself? What do you make of your own childhood?” Aisling asked as Gilrel set aside the bowl of mashed leaves.
“Marten kits born during the age of the Forge maintain their youth far longer than humans. The same applies to the Sidhe. Our childhoods are decades of whimsy and bliss. I was blessed enough to grow old with a member of my litter. As rare as it is for either Sidhe or Forge beasts to bear children, it is even rarer for them to raise two children near the same age. So long as Nuala was there, loneliness was as distant as Fiacha’s Southern Star. By the time she was gone, I was well into my first century.” Gilrel swallowed. “Nevertheless, I’ll never truly regrow the wilted roots she left behind.”
Aisling knew not what to say. Only that Gilrel’s own sorrow seemed to pool within the mortal queen. Bottomless, cold, and silent. To carry such misery for an eternity was a burden Aisling couldn’t begin to imagine.
Against her own volition, Aisling reached out and took hold of Gilrel’s paw. In the first breath, Gilrel tensed, straightening as stiff as a rod. In the second, Gilrel slowly exhaled whatever tension had taken hold, slackening her muscles. And in the third, she smiled at the mortal queen.
“She is in the Otherworld now,” Gilrel said, more for herself than Aisling. The mortal queen knew not what the Otherworld was. She’d heard tales. Used the expressions. But didn’t know what it truly meant. An afterlife of some kind, she gathered. And although the mortals believed death was final, it only made sense that the Aos Sí, with their religion and gods, would have faith in another place. Another time. Another world where the long passed could rest.
“ There are no gods, do not let the religion of the Aos Sí deceive you, plague your mind. This world is an earthly one, designed by mortals and for mortals .” Nemed’s words found her when she least expected them, warring with the Aos Sí even in his absence.
“Nuala was a beloved member of our society,” Filverel interjected.
Had he been eavesdropping this entire time? Of course, he had. How had Aisling expected anything less from the advisor?
“One of countless kin lost at the hands of mankind. A sister of the Forge. In fact, just around this very fire, there are stories of similar loss to be told.” Filverel raised his voice, gathering the attention of the rest of the group. One by one, the knights hushed their conversations and dragged their gaze towards Filverel.
“Hagre,” Filverel addressed the knight specifically. “I’m certain our mortal queen has yet to hear of yours.”
Hagre tore a large chunk of meat from the bone he gnawed, flashing his pale eyes at Aisling.
“I’m sure the mortal wench is fully aware of how the fire hand spends his days,” Hagre growled, “but I’ll tell it in case you’ve forgotten.” His lips peeled back in a cruel smile, boasting wickedly sharp fangs painted pink with blood. Aisling clenched her jaw, willing herself to meet his eyes. The knight wished to intimidate her. To give him the satisfaction was to surrender what pride she hoarded.
Lir lounged on the other side of the fire, eyes wrought with something dark as he glared at his knight.
“Your father had just set fire to the southern edge of the forests. The sky was black for the days following, as myself and others of our kind searched those scorched forests. We turned over the burnt remains of centuries-old trees, sifted through the ash that lay like blankets of brittle, grey-clad snow. Nearly drowned ourselves in soot, smoke, and leaping embers in search of the Sidhe who weren’t able to escape in time. Among them Sidhe children.”
The group held their breath, glaring into the licks of flame flaring at the center of their circle. Aisling bit her tongue, clenching her fists at her sides. He was lying. And if he wasn’t, Nemed would’ve never burnt down forests had he known innocents remained within their keep. To kill an enemy soldier was one thing. But to kill a child? No. That was the sort of evil the Aos Sí participated in. Not the mortals. Not her father.
Aisling flicked her eyes away from Hagre, meeting Lir’s own looking back. He sat across the circle from her, elbows resting on his knees.
“I went after him. Forge be damned the consequences; I went after the fire hand myself. To make him regret lighting that torch until his dying breath.”
Aisling tried to swallow but couldn’t.
“I found him soon enough, fleeing towards your precious mortal walls, afraid of the vengeance snapping at his heels. So, I attacked. Striking at that bastard with every morsel of my Sidhe strength. But it wasn’t enough. There were too many of them. Too many mortals defending the fire hand till they were able to shackle me down with your iron chains.” Hagre lifted his wrists, revealing scarlet scars, bubbling like fossilized blisters. “And if that weren’t enough, they tied me to their horses, dragging me for miles. Hooves embellished with iron horseshoes, nicking at my skull for—I don’t know how long.”
Aisling’s eyes betrayed her, wandering towards the scars she’d noticed when she’d first laid eyes on this member of the fair folk, hundreds of red scrapes around Hagre’s shaved head.
“If it weren’t for Lir’s intervention, I’d be dead,” Hagre spat, turning from the mortal queen as though she were scum beneath his boot.
Aisling’s hands trembled so she hid them at her sides, clutching the rock on which she sat till her knuckles grew white. But her attempts were thwarted by the fae king who’d already witnessed it.
“Rian?” Filverel turned to the red-haired knight, gesturing for him to go next.
Rian sighed, passing his flask to Einri. “Before Lir’s reign, Sidhe villages were spread throughout the Isles of Rinn Dúin. Only the capital, Annwyn, stood where it does now, surrounded by a humble kingdom. Your great-grandfather took advantage of this. The Sidhe could overpower the mortals but against your endless iron fleets…they could overtake our small, divided villages. So, they did. Your great-grandfather ransacked my village, taking and destroying all they could before Sidhe retaliation. In a single morning, everything I had was gone.”
Aisling’s ears rang. Her skin was uncomfortably hot. Aisling felt like an insect trapped beneath a glass, the sun glaring through the center, threatening to scorch her alive. There was little she could say. Little she could do. And even if she attempted to speak, she didn’t trust herself enough to withhold the flood of tears glazing her eyes. No, she’d transform herself into stone. Strong and resolute. Immovable. But within, Aisling was cold fury and insatiable sorrow.
“After that, Lir brought all of the villages under his immediate protection. Brought them all into Annwyn, where we cannot be outnumbered.” Rian snatched the flask back from his comrade, speaking those last words as threats. As though Aisling herself planned to lay siege on their fae home. Didn’t they understand she was a harbinger of peace? That her very presence in Annwyn and amongst the Aos Sí was not a declaration of war but of peace between their kinds? But of course, they would not trust her. How could they after centuries of rivalry?
“Galad?” Filverel tipped his head to the knight beside Aisling. The mortal queen bit the inside of her cheek. She couldn’t handle, couldn’t take another tale especially if it left Galad’s lips.
“She’s heard enough, Fil,” Galad scolded mercifully.
But Filverel had not. The advisor flared before speaking, “Allow me then.”
For a moment, Aisling wondered why he bothered torturing her so. There was little purpose in rehashing the crimes of mortals after Aisling had sacrificed everything for peace between the races. But then Aisling realized this was Filverel’s small form of vengeance. To humiliate her, to hold the mortal queen accountable for her race. Even if it meant nothing. Did nothing, it was enough to witness Aisling squirm.
“Galad’s caera was a knight, Morrin. Could best any one of us in hand-to-hand combat,” Filverel said, moving closer to where Galad and Aisling sat side by side. “And in any conflict with the mortals, she fought valiantly, sweeping through more of your kind than any soldier I’ve yet to meet.” Filverel grinned.
“She was the reason for our victory on the Hills of Hidris. She fought for the Sidhe on this continent and beyond for the Sidhe’s continued survival in this realm. Without her, the Sidhe may’ve met a different end. Without her, none so many knights would be sitting around this very circle.”
The Aos Sí exchanged glances, speaking without uttering a word. All except Lir, whose attention remained latched to the mortal queen. What loathing he must feel for her, Aisling realized. She knew of the horrors centuries of war had rendered on both races, but to hear the individual stories aloud…Aisling felt ill.
“And after this fateful battle, along with a handful of others, Morrin stayed behind to tend to the injured, aiding the healers in all they required. But of course, the mortals felt nothing of honor. They spat at the foot of integrity when their surviving battalions captured the Sidhe who remained, outnumbering and binding them with iron. Morrin among them. For decades, Galad searched for a way inside the walls of Tilren. Into Castle Neimedh. To find Morrin and lay waste to that mortal pot of filth.” Filverel was behind Galad now, hovering above him like a vulture. “And in the depths of one night, Galad managed it. Snuck his way into Tilren, through your city streets and towards Castle Neimedh, only to be caught and held prisoner for years. And Morrin—poor, brave Morrin—was never found. ”
This was not true. Had a Sidhe been harbored in her own castle for years, Aisling would’ve known of it. Would’ve been aware that Galad, one of the few Sidhe who’d shown her some fleck of kindness, was held captive in the dungeons. These are lies , Aisling repeated in her mind.
“Show us what marks those years left,” Filverel commanded the knight.
Galad looked straight ahead, a cord snaking down his forehead.
“What matters is that Lir sacrificed greatly in return for Galad’s life,” Gilrel piped, “and we’re grateful he sits amongst us now.”
Filverel ignored the marten, eyes burning a hole through the back of Galad’s head.
“Show us,” Filverel repeated, his tone growing impatient. Still, Galad didn’t flinch, only clenched his teeth.
“Enough, Filverel,” Gilrel growled.
“Very well.” And with that, Filverel bent down and raised Galad’s shirt, so quickly, Aisling had scarcely seen the advisor lunge. But it mattered not, for what Aisling looked at, took her breath away. Across the knight’s rib cage was an enormous branding. The symbol of mankind. The fist gripping the flame. The same shape that was carved into the pommel of Iarbonel’s dagger. The image etched into his skin, bubbling the flesh with nasty red lesions that interrupted his slick, fae markings. As fierce as though it had been burnt into his flesh yesterday.
Aisling gasped, clasping a hand over her mouth. And now, there was little Aisling could do to prevent the tears from spilling down her cheeks till they dripped from her chin.
“A token but not from your father as you might’ve guessed,” Filverel continued, his dark eyes burning like coals. “One of the king of the greenwood’s first Sidhe knights branded by the heir to the Tilrish throne. Starn of Clann Neimedh. ”
Aisling was grateful for the crackling of the fire, the woodland gale, the whistling of songbirds perched in the canopies. For these sounds masked the grinding of her jaw as she lay at the center of the glade. The rest of the fae knights already dreamed or drank by the stags. All except for Einri, Aedh, Filverel, and Lir. Einri and Aedh paced the clearing’s edge, eyes locked on the realm of greenwood. The fae king and his advisor, on the other hand, whispered for hours, plotting their revised approach to ensnaring the Unseelie, Aisling assumed.
But Aisling couldn’t sleep. Rage kept her an arm’s length from rest, her blood boiling.
To hear her eldest brother’s name on Filverel’s lips struck Aisling like a blow to the gut. Starn had always been Nemed’s favorite: the only one of all five siblings allowed to escort the mortal king on his weeks-long missions. Favored to fight beside Nemed, to take his place at court when Nemed was too preoccupied. Because Starn was the heir to the kingdom. Starn had always been fierce and cruel and cold, but a king needed to be if they wished to rule. And a king Starn would one day be.
These fair folk knew nothing of her brother, her father, the struggles that mankind endured, or Nemed’s reasons for burning the forests. Tilren and all of the mortal nations were overpopulating, bursting at their kingdom’s seams and because of the Aos Sí’s monopoly over the wilderness, mankind couldn’t hunt or gather sufficiently to provide for the growing demand. So Nemed burned the feywilds to spread Tilren’s walls. To make room for his multiplying realm.
On the other hand, the Aos Sí carried the opposite dilemmas. Their primordial race was dwindling, dancing on the cusp of extinction, Aisling realized. A result of the fair folk’s inability to birth enough children to compensate for the casualties of war. They were far outnumbered and crippled by their susceptibility to iron. How much longer could the Aos Sí survive in a world where man demolished the wilderness to carve out their bastions, their roads, their cities, their overeager goals of conquest?
And if rage were not enough to keep the mortal queen from resting, her pity overwhelmed her. Swelling from within like a cold shadow, both sadness and guilt extinguished the irate flames she tried desperately to stoke. She wouldn’t allow herself to feel sympathy for them, Hagre and Rian’s accounts, all the knights’ stories that had yet to be spoken. Not even Galad whose branding was etched into her memory forever. She couldn’t. Wouldn’t. And yet she did.
Without an approaching sound, a figure stretched themselves down beside the mortal queen. Aisling rolled from her position as quickly as she was capable, Iarbonel’s dagger in hand. But her attempts at self-preservation and privacy were futile for Lir caught her wrist easily.
He lay on his side, considering her and she him, the perfume of the wildflowers swirling around them like pink clouds of cologne.
“You’ve been crying,” he said, eyes tracing the saltwater stains around her swollen cheeks. Aisling wiped her face with her sleeve, scrubbing away the tears. Still, he regarded her like a riddle, taking Aisling apart before reassembling her in his mind.
“Wasn’t that your intention? To torture me?” Aisling bit, jerking her hand back.
“Filverel’s intention. Not mine.”
“Yet you did nothing. And because you did nothing you are just as much to blame,” Aisling simmered, speaking in angry whispers lest she wake the rest of the Aos Sí. Normally she wouldn’t care but as it currently stood, she bore no desire to interact with any of them quite so soon. Regardless, it didn’t matter if Lir involved himself or not. He didn’t owe her anything more than preserving her life for the sanctity of the union. A union Aisling felt more and more was made of glass.
“You needed it,” Lir said.
“Needed to be humiliated?”
“Needed to hear from the mouths of the Sidhe their stories. Their perspective,” he said, rolling onto his back. His hair fell away from his face, his striking features bathed in the shadows of the yews hanging over.
“You didn’t know of any of it, did you?” he asked, turning his head to the side, sage eyes flashing brilliantly. “You didn’t know what your father did— does , do you?”
Aisling thought for a moment. The mortal queen wasn’t certain how to articulate the truth nor if she should speak of such things with the sovereign enemy of her father.
“I know some. I know he tortured your kind. I know he destroyed forests for the sake and protection of mankind. He described himself as a guardian from the savages who stole our land. All his crimes were fulfilled in the name of goodness and thus, in Nemed’s eyes, not crimes at all. But no. I wasn’t aware of the extent of his––” Aisling hesitated. “I didn’t know the details. Political discussions were forbidden to me at my age as well as the majority of Tilren. As was, as you know, the Lore.”
“You only know what your father told you,” Lir gathered.
“And my tuath, my tutors. What reason would I have to doubt them? They’re my kind, my family, my clann.”
“And now?” he asked. “Do you doubt them now?”
Aisling opened her mouth to speak, but the words eluded her. Much of what Nemed had told her was wrong, inaccurate, or a misunderstanding of the truth. But surely such misinterpretations were common in feuds and wars. The embers of rivalries. Aisling couldn’t believe Nemed had lied to her. Her clann was all she knew. All she had.
“ None are innocent in war. But, if a centuries-old Aos Sí 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 .”
Filverel’s words were salt in a wound. They spun in her mind, swirling alongside the image of Hagre’s scars and Galad’s branding. Painful and terrifying yet perhaps, Lir was right. Perhaps despite the torment they brought her, it was necessary that she look, to refrain from averting her eyes.
Aisling wished she could assume every word that parted from fae lips were lies and manipulations. Exactly as Nemed had taught her. But the mortal queen had heard the sharp edge of trauma in their voices, seen the scars, the physical remains and proof of their accounts, herself. How could she deny that? What reason did the fair folk have to lie to the mortal queen? Her opinion of them meant little. If only Aisling could receive word from her father. One conversation could clarify everything. He’d have a reason for all of this.
When Aisling didn’t respond, Lir continued, “You’re the only creature on the Earth that’s been given the opportunity to view this war from two pairs of eyes. Don’t blind yourself to one to uphold the lies of the other.”