Chapter XXIV
CHAPTER XXIV
This far into the wilderness, giants were born. They sat on their haunches, stony faces glaring down at their own sleek, snowy ridges dappled in evergreens and persistent field flowers, in the Oxheim Highlands, Aisling was told.
The Isle of Mirrors was close. Out here, magic seeped through the forest, the mountains, the fog that clouded around the fair folk’s weary, horned creatures. The nearer they approached, the thicker it became. Like a potent perfume rippling from the source.
Aisling rode ahead, enjoying Saoirse’s burst of energy after a lengthy day of rest. By now, the strict precautions Filverel had instilled initially for the mortal queen had slackened greatly. And although Aisling knew it was wise to save Saoirse’s strength should they need to outrace a horde of Unseelie, she couldn’t help herself. Riding as swiftly as Saoirse was capable was an opiate: the cool caress of the mountain breeze, the fragrance of wildflowers, the steady thump of Saoirse’s hooves on the grass, and the beast’s own excitement charged her. That and the mortal queen’s need to escape Lir’s advisor.
Filverel hadn’t missed an opportunity to scold his fae lord for teaching the mortal queen to use her abilities. Small lessons every day, concentrating on summoning the draiocht . An hour or so each night that Aisling savored, looked forward to more than anything else. And with each passing lesson, the mortal queen was improving. Slowly. Gradually. But improving, nonetheless. She could now summon a flicker of flame without risking her life, enough to light a candle. Enough to stoke and begin their campfires come daylight.
The fae knights watched her warily as she practiced, eyeing her with increased suspicion. There were days Aisling believed them to be friends. Days that were quickly replaced by the fury in their eyes each time her fingers lit with claws of violet fire. So, Aisling lay awake most days, when everyone else was asleep, toying with the draiocht that rose from her palms.
She spoke with the draiocht too, learning to summon it, to listen to it, to scold it when necessary, to praise it, to foster its growth within her lungs.
The magic was addictive. A surety of power the mortal queen never believed she’d possess. One she longed to grow, to cultivate, to understand. And she wanted more.
Aisling brought Saoirse to a halt, pulling back her reins. One glance over the mortal queen’s shoulder told her the procession was still a ways behind her, slowly following her tracks. Aisling glanced around the mountains as Saoirse pranced eagerly beneath her. The mortal queen was suddenly struck by the sensation of wind—a strong, whipping gale slipping and ruffling through obsidian feathers. Then came the determination, the need to pursue and to find. To deliver.
Aisling looked up into the skies. Above her a speck approached, gliding through the stars like a ship on a stormy sea.
Aisling considered turning around. Seeking the security of the fae procession behind her, gradually closing the distance between themselves and the mortal queen. But instead, Aisling kept Saoirse in place, watching as the creature soared over the summits and dove into the valley in which Aisling rode. A raven.
The bird flapped its wings, driving it quicker, more swiftly towards Aisling until it hovered before her. Clutched within its talons, was a scroll, wrapped in a royal blue, braided tassel. Someone had written to the mortal queen and this wondrous winged creature had found her, delivered it to her. Just as Lir claimed it would.
The rook dropped the parchment before perching atop a sickly-looking pine. Aisling lunged for the scroll and caught it before it fell to the ground.
The mortal queen’s heart pounded within her chest. She knew this seal. These colors. Remembered the braided tassel. A part of her was disappointed and another, bubbling over with enthusiasm. For this wasn’t her father’s long-awaited response. No. This was a message from Roktling, the northernmost country amongst the isles.
Aisling quickly broke the seal, unravelling the rolled parchment.
Dear Ash,
I’ve written and rewritten this letter countless times and none seem to bear the news any lighter. Your letter to your father was received with great uproar. The mortal sovereigns have discussed its contents at length and are eager to request further council with the fae crown. A conclave they hope to celebrate with another interracial union to solidify the treaty your union has already established, a marriage between myself and a fae princess of the Aos Sí’s choosing.
There was a pause in Dagfin’s writing. A scribbling and a crossing out before he continued .
I wanted the news to come from me before you heard it from another. Hopefully, if you attend, we’ll see one another again. I hope to speak with you.
I’ve missed you.
Dagfin
Signed by the seal of the prince of Roktling.
Aisling read the letter more than once. Nemed had indeed received her letter regarding the Unseelie. In fact, the mortal sovereigns were discussing her correspondence. Her father had listened to her.
Relief swept over the mortal queen. There were moments, quiet moments, Aisling believed her letter had been lost before it had arrived at Tilren or worse, burned once it’d arrived, ignored by her father as the machinations of a silly woman. But the mortal sovereigns had heeded her word and were actively organizing a response to such threats. Even the mortal walls still stood. Protection against a new and ruthless foe: the Unseelie. And it was because of Aisling. So, she allowed herself a moment to glow with pride.
But such a moment was short-lived, for dread too gripped the mortal queen—Dagfin was to be wed to a member of the fair folk.
The last she saw of her kind, their loathing for the Aos Sí was matched only by the Aos Sí’s loathing for the mortals in turn. A hatred she believed could only begin to dissipate after centuries of necessary peace. So why had her father and the mortal court agreed to more unions so swiftly? Were the benefits truly so wonderful? And the risks it posed to Dagfin’s life should he not be the fae princess’s caera ?
The last lines of the letter were perhaps the most difficult to read. Yet they were the ones Aisling read the most.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” a voice erupted from behind. Aisling jumped, turning Saoirse to face the fae procession swiftly approaching. “You know better than to open a letter before the court advisor has had an opportunity to oversee it.” Filverel moved his stag beside Aisling’s, snatching the letter from her hands.
“It’s addressed to me and therefore mine to do as I please,” Aisling growled, reaching for the letter. But it was too late. Filverel was already scouring the page with his moonstone eyes. Studying every one of Dagfin’s strokes as though they might leap from the page at any moment and attack.
“Another union?” Fil said at last, his eyes flicking towards Aisling hesitantly.
“What’s this?” Galad said, approaching within ear shot.
“It appears the prince of Roktling has corresponded with our queen,” Filverel said. And at the mention of Dagfin’s title, Lir’s head cocked to attention, eyes flicking towards Aisling.
“What does it say?” Galad asked.
The advisor didn’t respond. Merely handed the parchment to Galad so the knight could read it for himself. Aisling ground her teeth, near simmering despite the highland chill.
“Hand it back,” she ordered. Heat flushed her cheeks, her hands, her ears. Galad, reluctantly, offered her the letter, eyeing Filverel as he did so. Aisling snatched the page back and tucked it into her jacket.
“‘Fae princess?’” Galad repeated Dagfin’s words.
“Aye, he must be referring to Peitho.” Filverel ran his fingers through his hair. “She’s the only trooping female of such rank in Rinn Dúin.”
Aisling swallowed. She despised Peitho uniquely and to imagine Dagfin, her childhood friend—her only friend—either destined to duel or be bound to her? Aisling grimaced.
“She’ll never agree,” Cathan said, joining their conversation.
“She might not have a choice,” Filverel said. “Peace is fragile. A rejection, one so early on, could jeopardize all our previous efforts.”
“So, we do whatever the mortals bid?” Rian chimed.
“We satiate them where we can,” Filverel replied. “Peitho was raised for the potential of one day marrying for her court.”
“Not to the mortals,” Aedh said, spitting on the ground.
Hagre, unbuckling his flask from his hart’s saddle, lifted the canteen to his lips before piping in as well. “Lir will never allow it.”
After all, Peitho and Lir had once been…what had they been? Lovers? Friends? Something in between? It was never clear. If it was up to Peitho, the fae princess would have Aisling believe the former.
“Peitho will do what the Sidhe require of her,” Lir said at last. Aisling whipped her attention towards the fae king. “If what the Sidhe need is another union, she’ll give it.”
“But if this prince isn’t her caera …”
“Peitho is aware of her duty to all Seelie and Unseelie alike.” After all, Lir had taken the same risk. Was he so willing to risk it once more? Were the mortal sovereigns willing to risk it once more? The odds that, according to fae superstition, two of the fair folk were matched with two mortals were unlikely. Like a surefire way to renew tensions and throw Aisling’s own union out the window. Should this marriage end in bloodshed, not only would Aisling’s life be in jeopardy but Dagfin’s as well; no, she couldn’t dwell on such possibilities, so she ripped it from her mind. When it came to Aisling’s own throat, had Nemed done similarly in the name of mankind?
“I’d quite enjoy watching Peitho behead a mortal nobleman,” Rian piped.
“Nothing has been cast in the Forge as of yet,” Filverel said. “It’ll need to be discussed. Weighed. Planned?—”
“ How do we know we can trust this prince? Who’s to say any of this is any more than rumor ?” Hagre growled in Fae, nodding his head towards the letter Aisling had tucked away in her doublet. Gilrel immediately translated beneath her breath.
“We don’t.” Rian ran his fingers through his flame of hair. “We’ll need to discover the surety of his letter for ourselves.”
There was silence for a moment. Each of the knights silently mulling over the possibilities. Another wedding would be a grand request indeed and for what measure? Aisling couldn’t imagine Peitho sworn to a mortal. He’d be dead within the year even if they were by some miracle caera .
“ You need to return to Annwyn ,” Lir said in Fae, locking eyes with his advisor.
“I can’t turn around now, not when we’re so close,” Filverel protested, his mount stomping under the stress of the advisor’s grip on his reins. “The empress is nearby. I can taste it.”
“Aisling and I will fare the remainder of the way on our own. The rest of you are needed back home,” Lir said, his voice bored, unamused. But Aisling knew beneath that layer of calm, collected arrogance, uncertainty lay. “There’s too much afoot for the majority of my court to be away from Annwyn.”
The knights exchanged dubious glances. “ But mo Damh Bán?—”
“Return now. Aisling and I will continue to the Isle of Mirrors and return within a fortnight,” Lir insisted, eyes flicking towards the mortal queen.
“ Let me stay —” Filverel pushed.
“ You’re needed most in Annwyn, Fil. Myself and Rian will journey alongside them ,” Galad interjected. “ Danu would consider this many of us a threat and a challenge to her dominion regardless. Whatever Lir intends with the empress, it’s wiser to approach in fewer numbers .”
“He’s right,” Rian said. “If what the prince says is true, you’re needed in Annwyn.”
“Of all of us, Galad, it should be you returning as well. Your input is needed alongside Filverel’s in the king’s absence. Let me go on with Lir,” Hagre offered.
Galad shook his head. “I’ll not leave Lir’s side. My responsibilities at court come secondary to my oath. I’m confident the rest of you will manage exceptionally without me.” Hagre’s lips pressed into a thin, white line as he considered.
“I’ll be accompanying them as well,” Gilrel chimed, lifting her muzzle high.
“That won’t be necessary—” Galad began but was swiftly interrupted.
“Need I remind you, I took a similar oath, Galad. To service the queen and her every whim until her dying breath. How am I to do that if I’m forests away?”
“If the marten is going, then I’m going,” Cathan said, hushing his restless stag beneath him.
“Neither of you are coming,” Lir said, his voice resolute. “Annwyn needs each of you. Myself, Aisling, Galad, and Rian will return as soon as we’ve held an audience with the empress. It won’t be long.”
“But—” Gilrel began before Aisling reached out and took her paw.
“It’s alright,” the mortal queen said, squeezing the creature’s paw. “Our return will be swift.” Aisling’s violet eyes searched Gilrel’s own. The handmaid parted her muzzle to speak but no words emerged. Instead, she nodded her head, ears lowering. An expression that both warmed the mortal queen and weighed heavy on her heart.
Filverel darkened but Lir said nothing. The fae sovereign had already made up his mind and his word was final. He wouldn’t repeat himself nor take kindly to further arguing. Brethren, comrades, council or not. Even if each of them struggled to conceal their palpable frustration and concern for abandoning their king just before he was to meet the empress of the dryads.
Furious, Filverel, cast one last glance Aisling before darting down the valley from where they’d come, a threat to the mortal queen should she harbor any intentions of harnessing her young fire against the fae king.
Gilrel turned to Aisling.
“Be safe, mo Lúra ,” the lady’s maid whispered, kissing the mortal queen on the cheek. A peck as cold and soft as a dew drop in spring. “I’ll eagerly await your return.”
Gilrel and the rest of the knights hesitated for a moment before following after Filverel, encouraging their harts back through the highlands. Every step a step further from the king they’d sworn to protect and fight beside.
Lir, Aisling, Galad, and Rian stood in silence for several moments, watching the rest of their procession disappear amidst the landscape of rock and pine and snow. Listening to nothing but the howl of the wind, barreling through these stony corridors, and the fading chorus of hooves upon grass and gravel.
They were alone now. The four of them. A day’s worth of travel from the Isle of Mirrors.