Chapter XXXI
CHAPTER XXXI
By now, everyone stood, inching away from Aisling till their backs pressed against the canvas walls. All save for Galad who moved to face her, his fae features dappled in sweat from his proximity to her flames.
“Breathe, Aisling,” Galad encouraged her, his face twisting with an uncertainty, an anxiety she’d never glimpsed from him before.
“You’re not breathing, you need to breathe. It’ll implode within you otherwise,” he continued, but Aisling had lost control, the draiocht bloomed within her, sealing her lungs shut. For so long as she couldn’t exhale the excess magic, it would swell within her. Stretching until there was no more room. And Aisling could feel it, understand it, its insatiable desire to be unleashed. To consume and spread. Joyfully, euphorically writhing its way through her so the violet flames grew larger, rising to the steepled center of the tent and charring the drapery.
“Aisling,” Galad said, his voice a croak of desperation. “Breathe,” he commanded. The mortal queen met his eyes and shook her head. She couldn’t. Could hardly hear him over the roar in her ears, as though the entire ocean was crashing around her and she herself was spinning, tossed, thrown, stolen away by a wave of pure desire. Of ancient, primeval need. And it hurt the longer it went on. So, Aisling reached inside herself, searching for that arcane creature, but it was nowhere to be found. No longer did it reside in its black pit. No. It’d escaped.
“ You must master it lest it master you .”
It would destroy the mortal queen and everything that surrounded her before it surrendered the control it hung over her head now, Aisling realized. The mortal queen fell to her knees, her legs giving out. Unable to see, hear, feel through the fattening flames around her.
“Do something!” Nemed snarled, his head snapping towards where Dagfin stood, his expression harrowed with confusion. But once he’d been directly addressed, the moment was fleeting.
Dagfin’s entire posture transformed as he unbuckled a thick, metal chain from around his belt. He spun it in the air five or six times, Aisling couldn’t tell, before launching it at the mortal queen. The chain caught her left hand, and as she made to free herself its momentum spun around her right wrist, binding her. It was a bolas, Aisling realized to her own horror. An iron one, a lengthy chain whose ends held heavy weights to entangle its target. Aisling had witnessed the weapon be used on Tilrish training grounds before, mostly for educating townsfolk on how best to capture wild game. A comparison that maddened the mortal queen. But such rage was tempered, violently shoved back into the abyss within her, back into its dwelling along with the draiocht .
And at the touch of such potent iron, within its aggressive grasp, her eyes burned as if they’d been scalded with steam, her body felt heavier. It was nearly impossible to keep upright, her nostrils sparking with heat forcing her to curl in on herself. She’d never felt like this before. The way these shackles made her feel. As though she’d been placed in a box made of thorns and the walls closed in around her. Slowly. Her bones seemingly dissolving beneath her skin.
Aisling screamed but she couldn’t fight. Struggled to see past the tears flooding her violet eyes. But the fires were gone. Nothing but smoke and scorched Centari rugs, grass, and furniture to expose the magic she’d wielded here on this night.
“Release her!” she heard Galad hiss and by the time she lifted her eyes, the fae knight had his sword pressed against Starn’s throat, face twisted with white rage as he addressed Dagfin. “Release her or I’ll slit your future high king’s throat without a moment’s hesitation.” And kill him he would, Aisling knew. Knew Galad had been dreaming of spilling her brother’s blood since he’d captured Morrin. Since he’d branded his chest with the mortal crest.
“Stand down, fae,” Nemed barked, the veins in his neck bulging above his ebony collar. “We’ll release her once we’re certain she’s not a threat. A threat to us as well as yourself, which I’m sure you well know.”
Galad considered the high king, eyes flashing towards where Dagfin stood still as death, his fingers curled around the hilts of two throwing knives at his sides.
“Did you intend for her to kill us all? Was that the plan?” Starn seethed beneath the fae knight’s pressure, his face reddening, purpling with every furthering second.
“She’s of no harm to anyone now. The magic has drained her. She couldn’t summon it again if she tried,” Galad insisted, unwilling to surrender his leverage. “You should be more concerned that right now the queen of the Sidhe is bound like an animal in your custody.”
Nemed’s lips spread into a thin line, losing their color. He considered Aisling slumped on her knees, the iron shackles around her wrists pushing her against the earth despite her efforts to remain upright. Her mind was dizzied by the smell of the chain’s rust, its surface like needles to her. A substance that repelled magic, a magic that now flowed freely through her veins.
Nemed nodded to Dagfin. “Release her.”
“Father, you can’t possibly—she’ll kill us all!” Annind shouted, bloodshot eyes darting between the Roktan prince and his sister as Dagfin swiftly cut the distance between them.
“She won’t,” Nemed said, regaining a sliver of his composure. “She’s been detained. I’ve witnessed the Faerak do it before on the Unseelie; such iron suffocates Unseelie and fae magic. And magic is where they derive their strength. The fae is right. No creature, Unseelie or Seelie, is powerful enough to nullify such a sedative.”
Fergus opened his mouth as if to speak but one glance from his father and he snapped his maw shut, redirecting his attention to Dagfin carefully untying the bolo from around his sister’s wrists.
“Is she Unseelie then? An Aos Sí?!” Iarbonel asked, his voice cracking mid-sentence.
“It’s not feasible,” Annind piped, rubbing his face with his hands. “One cannot simply become another race. There is no spell, no enchantment to perform such a feat. Unless”—Annind’s face blanched—“unless she’s a changeling.”
“Impossible,” Dagfin said. “We would’ve known.” A hint of betrayal, of doubt betraying his expression, nonetheless.
“Fin is right.” Nemed removed the crown from his head and set it on the table. “I witnessed Clodagh birth her, and ever since, she was kept within the close, attentive watch of Tilrish, mortal wet-nurses. Never was there a moment she was left unattended or unobserved, precautions to prevent the Unseelie and their mischief from meddling with the royal clann.”
“Then what is she?!” Fergus asked, eyeing his sister as though she might devour him whole if he so much as flinched.
“I’d like to know,” Nemed said, lifting his fingers to silence each of them.
Dizzied, Aisling swayed from side to side, concentrating on regaining her self-control, rendered nearly ill by the storm blue eyes that circled around her, flashing like stars as they searched her expression.
“You’ll be alright,” Dagfin whispered, surprisingly calm. And once the shackles were fully removed, tossed across the room so their effects dwindled in her periphery, Galad shoved Starn from him, still scowling as the future high king collided against the center table, knocking half its contents onto the ground.
Dagfin lifted Aisling to her feet until she slumped against him; the smell of him was of salt and ocean air. Of the Ashild slapping against Castle Roktling. A cologne that sobered her. Rebuilt the melted bones beneath her flesh limb by limb. Dagfin was much taller than her now. Not like he’d been when they were children.
“What is she?” Iarbonel asked, standing in a puddle of his own spilled wine. “What have you done to her?!”
Galad ignored him, concentrating instead on sheathing his sword into his scabbard.
“What have you done to her?!” Iarbonel shouted again, this time louder, the white of his complexion greying.
“Nothing,” Galad said, flashing his pointed canines. And it was the truth as far as even Aisling was concerned. No one was certain where such abilities originated or why. Not even Danu. Only that she now possessed them.
“Let’s not be sparse for words,” Nemed chided, clicking his tongue. “Tell me what happened to my daughter or my Faerak will detain you next.”
“You threaten me with a princeling?” Galad scoffed, shooting daggers at Dagfin from across the room. But the Roktan prince didn’t notice, instead preoccupied with lifting Aisling’s chin, so she looked up at him, tilting her face from side to side inquisitively. As if there were nothing more important than beholding her up close, this strange creature he’d once known. Was once intended for. As if he’d enjoy nothing more than to hunt her down like any other Unseelie. Capture her. Bridle her.
“He’s slaughtered creatures far bigger than you, fae.” Nemed smiled uneasily, his purple eyes glinting with a string of madness. “Now, tell me; what happened to my daughter whilst she was in your custody?”
Galad considered Aisling, his expression softening slightly. But Aisling knew even the fae knight, even the fae king, didn’t know where she’d encountered the draiocht or why it whispered to her. Didn’t know why or how or when. Only that it had. And while Aisling knew the fair folk would’ve gone to the ends of the Isles of Rinn Dúin to prevent the fire hand from discovering her abilities, it was already too late. She’d lost control and any dishonesty would prove destructive in securing continued prosperity within their delicate alliance. So, the fae knight licked his lips, shoulders slackening a hair as he opened his mouth to speak.
“I speak the truth: the Sidhe aren’t responsible for the magic she now wields. And if we are, it is unbeknownst to even ourselves. In fact, these are all questions and answers we’ve sought as well.”
“When did it first manifest?” Nemed demanded, turning from Galad and instead, ambling towards where Aisling rested her head against Dagfin’s chest. Slowly regaining the strength to lift her neck, the stench of the iron fading.
“She was attacked, nearly killed by a Fomori. She saved herself by bidding the magic for the first time.”
At the mention of such an Unseelie, Dagfin cursed, the volume of his vulgarity and the rumble of his chest startling Aisling.
“Is this how you protect your queen? How do you defend the treaty between our kinds? You’re familiar with the bloodlust of the Unseelie so it is either ignorance or spite that she was so near to them at all.”
“It was necessary,” Galad replied calmly. “We needed an audience with the Unseelie and so we managed it. ”
“And since then?” Nemed asked, studying Aisling through narrowed eyes. His form loomed over her, shadowing Aisling from the candlelight. “When else has she used it?”
“Scarcely but when needed.”
Cautiously, Nemed took one of her hands, turning it over so it faced palm up. And at the gesture everybody in the room tensed, eyes pinned to the flesh that had nearly cooked them all alive.
“Are there other mortals like her, Father?” Iarbonel asked. “Others who can use magic?”
“No,” Annind answered for the fire hand, “it’s not possible. Unheard of. A violation of the original curse.”
“Fascinating,” Nemed whispered, eyes still glazed with tears. Swimming with something Aisling had never encountered from her father, a man who was always calm. Collected. Even in the face of great horrors. But now, something stirred within him, slipping through the pores in his face till she could nearly smell it.
“What has become of you, my raven?” Her father asked just as Aisling fixed her eyes upon him. “You’ve stolen something that isn’t yours, haven’t you?” He smiled, his voice that of a father’s reading bedtime tales. Gentle, warm, indescribably tender, a tone Aisling would’ve wrapped herself in as a child if she’d ever heard it.
“It wasn’t stolen,” Aisling managed, pulling herself up so Dagfin needn’t hold her straight. “It was given.”
To her surprise, Nemed laughed a laugh so gleeful it disturbed even his sons. Especially his sons. Aisling’s lips parted, baffled. Desperately trying to make sense of her father’s broad smile, brighter than any flames she conjured.
“You find this funny?” Aisling asked, tearing herself from the Roktan prince. But Dagfin’s grip lingered on her arm.
“No, not at all,” Nemed replied, tears near slipping from his eyes and down his large scar. “I find it remarkable. I find you remarkable.”
Aisling searched for the words. “But magic, magic is a perversity of nature. An aberration?—”
“Because it was hoarded by the Aos Sí. Withheld, taken, stolen from the mortals because of the crimes of a single, foolish queen. That’s why it’s wrong. Because the Aos Sí and their gods—for parents always have their favorites—have twisted it, bent it to suit themselves and be used against mankind.” Nemed flushed with a strange sort of elation, the pitch in his voice rising the longer he spoke. And at his words, Galad ground his teeth, the desire to behead him and each of his sons swimming amidst the abhorrent sheen of his sapphire eyes, the grip on his sword, the curses he bid them beneath his breath.
“Yet you condemn the Forbidden Lore and all that is the Aos Sí?—”
“Aye, aye I do. As should you. As I hope you still do. As our clann should always.”
“I don’t understand,” Aisling confessed, meeting her brothers’ distressed expressions. Heads recoiling as their eyes widened at the spectacle of their father overjoyed . Opening their mouths to speak but unable to find the words. Galad who stiffened each time Nemed neared Aisling, warily glancing at Dagfin, who never let Aisling out of his sight.
“Magic is diabolical at its core. A crooked, unnatural source of power. But with practice, with discipline, order, structure, you can learn to control it. To make it bend to your will. With control, you can use a very wicked thing, Aisling, for good.”
“ There is no such thing as good or evil. Only power .”
Nemed’s expression brightened, the stillness of the room framing the frenzy potent in each of his jubilant steps, the wave of his arms, his trembling fingers.
“You’re wrong, my daughter.” Nemed cupped her face. “This magic was never given to you. You stole it,” he said, eyes cutting into her center and prying her open. “You stole it back.”