Chapter XXXII
CHAPTER XXXII
Einri, Cathan, Rian, and Gilrel surrounded Aisling as she approached the tent. Designed to serve as a great hall, the canvas bastion was enormous, festively showered and lined with fae and mortal sentinels alike. Guards who eyed the armored bears and boards as much as they did the opposing races flooding into the tent for dinner.
Aisling, full on nearly a gallon of Leshy’s tears, inhaled deeply, glancing at both Rian and Gilrel over her shoulder. Shortly after Galad had returned her to her tents, he’d fled in search of Lir and Filverel, leaving Aisling behind with Einri, Cathan, Rian, and Gilrel. The marten nodded her head encouragingly, her armor gleaming beneath the firelight. Equally as impressive as the red-haired knight beside her, dressed in such sleek armor from head to toe.
So, the mortal queen returned her attention to the tent’s entrance. The panels of canvas spread apart by the mortal sentinels on either side, widening the maw of the chamber. Within, music roared; fae music, Aisling identified immediately. There would be no mistaking its rhythm, its pace, the sultry melodies that heated the flesh.
Chatter matched the volume of the music, both fae and mortal tongues whispering, gossiping, arguing over one another on their respective sides. For indeed, the fair folk and the mortals divided themselves down the center of the tent, scowling at the other, spitting at one another’s feet, cursing one another’s names if they met eyes from across the expanse. Even the food was split, meals made by mortal hands spilled over the lengthy tables on the right and those made by fae hands on the left. A precaution, Aisling knew, for despite the treaty, no trust dwelled between their races and poisons were common enough to access in either fae or mortal circles.
But unlike the great hall in Annwyn, no one danced in the air here. No wings flapped softly. Flowers didn’t hang from the ceilings, nor did birds nor bats lace the edges of the room. No petals carpeted the floor nor did lightning bugs drift aimlessly like lanterns. Instead, guards stood every five or so paces from one another, iron chandeliers hung on thick chains, dripping wax down their candles’ necks. The only enchantment alive in this so-called celebration was the music, the revelry of the fair folk.
So, Aisling wove through the dancers, Einri, Cathan, Rian, and Gilrel following distantly behind, smelling the familiar opiate she’d tasted at the Snaidhm . That beguiling, seductive spell, spinning her body through the ballooning gowns of the females, the sweat indecently glistening off the males, the stars lowering to join their capering and bathe their bodies in otherworldly light. Wishing to partake herself, to indulge in their merrymaking as would the fair folk themselves. As they did despite the presence of humans, dulling the corners of the room, attempting and failing to extinguish their frenzy.
Without warning, male hands grabbed Aisling. Twirled her to the beat of the music, quickening to the pace of her pulse. Aisling spun and met familiar, pearly eyes.
Filverel.
He grinned, flashing his fangs unapologetically as he moved with her to the rhythm of the cords. Joy bubbled into the air with every string they plucked, every flute they blew, every drum they beat. She didn’t know how to sway, to step, to match the energy as did the fair folk but it mattered little when such melodies lowered her inhibitions.
“I overheard there was an accidental fire in the high king’s private chambers,” the advisor purred, bringing her nearer until they were chest to chest. “One of his candles tipped over onto a pile of parchment. Tragic. Could’ve ended his life right then and there. How”—Filverel licked his teeth—“ poetic .”
Aisling stifled her annoyance.
“Careful what you speak,” Aisling bit, “lest you manifest a similar fire in your own chambers tonight.” For despite the anger she harbored towards her father, her tuath, her family, she wouldn’t tolerate others speaking ill of him or wishing his demise. He was still her father. Once her high king.
“Is that a threat, mo Lúra ?” he asked, eyes glittering with amusement.
“If you have to ask, it most likely is,” Aisling quipped. She copied the movement of the fae females around her, studying the way they moved their hips, swung their arms, tossed their shimmering manes. Their every graceful, effortless movement was unique and dream-like.
Filverel laughed. “ Fearlies mern es na tu eas tresle hangus lao .”
Aisling’s brows drew together. “What does that mean?”
“In that gown, you look as lethal as a nightmare and as feral as the dreams that follow.” The advisor’s moonstone eyes flashed wildly, studying her reaction.
“Is that a compliment?” Aisling asked and her voice bore the confidence she didn’t yet feel.
“If you have to ask, it most likely is.” He spun her three times, bringing her back towards himself at the song’s cue. “It must be the magic, rippling through you, torching every mortal bone of yours each time you summon the draiocht or in your case, each time it summons you.” Filverel lifted her into the air, lowering her in time for the pounding of animal skins. “With every flame you craft, a bit of your mortal self dies, doesn’t it?”
Aisling recoiled, staring at the fae advisor in horror. That wasn’t true. No, it couldn’t be. He was punishing her for revealing her abilities to the fire hand. Torturing her in a way he knew every word would carve through her muscles and into her heart.
“In fact, we can only begin to guess Nemed’s next steps now that he’s aware his daughter is his fleets’ salvation. His very own child imbued with the essence of the enemy yet a wielder of his own hot poison.”
“Fear doesn’t become you, Filverel.”
“And here again you sound like a mortal. Fear is useful: keeps the prey alive when the cards are seemingly stacked against them.”
“Seemingly?” Aisling asked.
“There’s a reason humans can no longer harness the draiocht . By nature, humans are greedier than either goblins or dragons, more spiteful than either banshees or brownies, and more naive than the Sidhe who choose to trust any one of them. The draiocht tasted your weakness and so, it conquered you. So, although the fire hand may have his tricks, I’m not concerned over whether he’s aware of your abilities.” Filverel licked his fangs and grinned. “After all, no one wants an arrow just as capable of shooting backwards as it is frontwards.”
But Aisling had witnessed the hunger in her father’s eyes, the joy when he’d beheld her use the draiocht . Knew the fire hand never bore merely one method of achieving his goals. And if any believed him to be as naive or as one-dimensional as Filverel believed him to be, they’d be made aware of such fatal assumptions soon enough.
“Hold your tongue, Filverel, lest I burn it from your mouth.”
“I’d remind you whose allegiance you’re bound to but then I realize your loyalties are tragically divided, aren’t they? No, don’t answer that. Answer this.” Filverel smiled, snatching Aisling once more and elegantly dipping the mortal queen so her hair swept the grass beneath them. “If given the choice to return to your clann, would you?” he asked, unable to resist the cruel laughter that followed.
Bile rose in Aisling’s throat as she desperately ignored the draiocht already reaching for more. Even when Leshy’s tears still did their best to heal its damage.
“I can be both. I don’t need to choose.”
“No, Aisling,” Filverel said, pulling her in close. “We may not know what you are: mortal princess, sorceress, skalla . But regardless of whatever the gods are brewing in the Forge, you’re part Seelie now whether you realize it or not.”
Aisling’s throat ran dry. He knew he’d caught her. A satisfaction she detested to witness him boast. As if the cleaving of her personal identity were entertainment to him.
But before Aisling could respond or stay true to her threats, the music changed, and the partners rotated. And so, another male grabbed her, spinning her towards him. Aisling thought to leave the dance altogether until she smelled this new dancer, the salt of the Ashild churning beneath a grey-clad sky.
Aisling’s eyes darted towards her partner, looking up at oceans for eyes. Eyes that cut into her and tore apart any resolve Filverel had hardened with his aggression.
“I don’t have much time,” Dagfin whispered, those shadows he’d grown over the years they’d been apart, thick and heavy as he spoke. “I know you’re still angry with me, but I need you to listen closely.”
“Lest you bridle me like a beast?”
Dagfin flinched as though he’d been physically struck, his brows drawing together. And the pain Aisling saw written across his expression threatened to undo her rage. A fact she cursed herself for.
“I was wrong not to tell you. I should’ ve told you everything as soon as I discovered the truth for myself. I regret not doing so and you can despise me for an eternity if you wish so long as you listen to me now.”
The urgency in his voice caught Aisling off guard, startling her as the pace of their dance slowed. The Roktan prince spun her on her heel—the feeling of him so close, the hardness of his chest, the sensation of his every breath against her neck, his heartbeat hammering against her ear as she turned to look up at him.
“Very well,” Aisling surrendered, a slave to the bond they shared as children.
Dagfin released a breath of relief, guiding her through the rest of the dance. The music, the uproar, the laughter of the fair folk, cloaking their conversation from prying ears. Einri, Rian, Gilrel, Galad, Filverel, even Peitho, eyeing them through the crowds. And Aisling was certain there were others who watched as well, those she couldn’t see and dared not search for.
“It was some years ago I was held captive in Lofgren’s Rise.”
“Lofgren’s Rise?” Aisling repeated, quickly shushed by the Roktan prince.
Lofgren’s Rise slumbered oceans away, a mountain range far into the wilderness of a foreign country whose mortal king was near as bloodthirsty as the fair folk themselves.
“What could’ve possibly taken you to Lofgren’s Rise?” Aisling hissed.
“There was an Unseelie I encountered whilst hunting for dwarven thieves near Giant’s Causeway. A lady. She told me of a curse breaker, Ash. One that could give your father all he’s ever craved, to restore the mortals’ former glory and reclaim what the fair folk stole from us.”
“That’s impossible.”
“I believed so too until I discovered exactly what lay within Lofgren’s Rise: a three- eyed owl and a weapon of unmatched power. Ina’s gifts from the gods.”
“You’re wrong. Ina never received a weapon as did the other fae sovereigns. Only Sight.”
“A lie told by the Aos Sí to prevent the mortals from discovering a cure for Ina’s curse existed at all.”
“And you’ve seen this weapon with your own eyes?”
Dagfin hesitated, pulling her nearer to him as the song dissolved. “No. Never with my own eyes. Those mountains, Ash, are more heavily guarded than any fortress known to man or Aos Sí. They’re hiding something and I believe that Unseelie when she tells me it’s the curse breaker.”
Aisling’s mind spun, eyes darting between Dagfin’s own.
“And what’s more, the Unseelie who spoke to me, spoke of a mage. A witch. A sorceress. Words I didn’t understand until I witnessed what you were capable of. Ash, if you truly don’t understand what’s happened to you, the answers may lie in Lofgren’s Rise. I need only take you there.”
Aisling searched his expression, for although the Sidhe couldn’t lie, mortals could and did often. But what she found wasn’t mischief or deception or trickery. It was hope. And if Dagfin was correct and answers indeed lay in Lofgren’s Rise, who Aisling was, why she obtained the draiocht , who she was becoming—Aisling couldn’t refuse such an offer.
Lir would never allow it unless he journeyed with her. But Aisling knew his inevitable pursuit and race for the curse breaker would undermine her voyage.
“That’s not possible,” Aisling blurted, but the song was ending and Lir’s knights were swiftly approaching. “You’re to wed Peitho tomorrow and if you don’t”—she hesitated, unable to speak the words aloud—“if you choose the correct blade, you’ll be wed to a member of the Sidhe. The quest you speak of will be as improbable for you as it already is for me.”
Dagfin reeled, baffled.
“In case you’ve forgotten, I’ve gotten us out of far more trouble before. I can do it again and again if that’s what you ask of me, Aisling.”
“Facing our fathers’ wrath when we misbehaved somehow seems far preferable than toying with political unions on the cusp of reigniting worldwide feuds.”
But even as Aisling spoke it, she felt the strange exhilaration of perhaps freeing herself the Sidhe’s dominion.
Dagfin smiled, remembering the infinite examples of such misbehavior.
“Trust me, Ash. I’ll find a way. I always do.”
And with that, Dagfin released her, disappearing into the crowd of revelers.
Before the night was devoured by the rising sun, a council was to be held in a private extension of the great hall. And as if entering another realm, the music grew muffled by the canvas curtains, the light dimmer, and the room smaller.
At the center of the chamber, sat a round table surrounded by large, wooden chairs. Several places were already set, goblets filled to the brim. Human and fae sentinels alike stood around the circumference of the room; among them Aisling recognized Hagre, Aedh, and Tyr. Gilrel was the only bipedal beast in attendance, perhaps to not shock the mortals more than was necessary.
The other mortal sovereigns had yet to arrive, so Aisling, Lir, Galad, Filverel, and Peitho chose their seats. Aisling did her best to capture Lir’s attention, but he evaded her. Standing near or watching from afar, but never allowing for a moment with her alone.
Gilrel placed herself behind Aisling’s chair. A position closest to the exits should Aisling struggle to temper her draiocht once more. For now that Nemed was aware of her abilities, none were certain what to expect of either him or the rest of the mortal sovereigns. And because the fire hand knew, Filverel was even more irritable than usual, his tongue sharper than any sword forged by either fae or mortal hands.
“Although the damage has already been dealt, refrain from expressing your draiocht , mo Lúra ,”—Filverel’s voice was as smooth as cream, but by now Aisling knew the venom it carried—“lest you slaughter every monarch in Rinn Dúin. Sidhe or human.”
“You’re in a bad temper, Fil,” Galad taunted him, sipping the mortal wine, his smile vanishing the moment the liquid touched his tongue. He grimaced, setting the glass back down. “Don’t try the wine. It’ll only worsen your mood.”
Both Filverel and Peitho opened their mouths to speak, but before they could utter a word, the curtains opened.
Aisling held her breath, watching the silhouette of a crowned man duck into their private extension. And once he was far enough into the room, the candlelight illuminated his features, gilding him.
Fínín ó Bairr, the Bregganite king of the southernmost isle. Dressed in decadent robes, a bronze circlet sat upon his white head of hair. Hair that fanned around his shoulders and down his back, matching the impressive length of his beard. Two boars charging one another, embroidered across the Kinbreggan crest and sewn into his robes.
Lir, Filverel, and Galad rose from their chairs, so Aisling followed suit, unsure what the protocol for her role entailed. Peitho remained seated but perhaps that was because she was no queen yet. Only a princess until she married a mortal prince. Until she married Dagfin. Aisling shuddered.
He tipped his head towards Lir, meeting the fae king’s eyes. But before Fínín took his seat, his eyes flickered towards Aisling, flashing with something Aisling couldn’t identify: fear? Uncertainty? Loathing? Nemed had already debriefed the other mortal chieftains on her newfound draiocht .
Feradach entered next, king of both Roktling and of the most formidable naval fleets known to man; mortal soldiers who fought the aquatic Sidhe, merrows like Sakaala, Aisling now realized.
He wore an iron, naval crown surmounted with small replicas of Roktan ships, ships Dagfin had pointed out to Aisling off the coast of Roktling. Indeed, Feradach was a near mirror image of his son—stormy eyes, the same tousle of brown hair perfectly suited to bear a crown; only now Feradach’s was speckled with white on either side. And as if Aisling had thought him into existence, Peitho snapped an ivory fork between her fingers, prompting Dagfin’s entrance.
Both the Roktan king and prince bowed curtly, their faces taut with severity. But Dagfin didn’t so much as look at the fae king. Instead, he locked eyes with Aisling. Eyes that Aisling now understood why they’d appeared so different from the boy she’d once known—there was violence there. Shards of the Faerak gauntlet.
“Aisling.” He greeted her and only her. So as the Roktan prince took his seat beside his father, Aisling didn’t dare meet Lir’s eyes. She didn’t need to. She could feel the ire tightening his every muscle, darkening the room like a storm cloud. But to Aisling’s surprise, Lir grinned, a terrifying sight to behold given the anger she felt brewing.
Aisling herself was irate with the Roktan prince. For although she understood why he’d detained her, there was little that could forgive the stifling weight of iron trapping and choking her magic. Her temper was briefly distracted by the information he’d smuggled during their dance. The only grain of reconciliation between them, but to Aisling’s horror she didn’t trust him. The bond she’d once believed they shared was a ruse.
The lady of Aithirn, Ciar, entered, dressed in an ivory gown, arm linked with her son. Aisling had met the Aithirnian prince several times before: Sim Mac Dara. A boy whose pale, white hair rivalled not only his country’s banners and flags but also the shade of his own mother’s twisted locks. His once carefree jubilance was dulled by the realities of adulthood: war and the weight of knowing he’d one day be king. But only once his mother died. For in Aithirn, succession of the crown was performed after the death of a monarch and no sooner.
The two paid their respects to Lir and Aisling, light eyes falling on Peitho as had all the rest before them. The Aithirnian queen regarded her with palpable disgust. Peitho’s expression crooked with a contempt that rivalled Ciar’s. That rivalled Clodagh’s as she entered beside Friseal, Nemed a step behind, a fire hand who grinned from ear to ear, his ruby crown winking in the candlelight.
Starn, Iarbonel, Annind, and Fergus entered last, Starn and Galad locking eyes briefly before each brother took their seats in silence. And silence is what persisted for what felt like an eternity. The pouring of wine a crash in the quiet.
Aisling wondered then how often those who sat around this table had met face to face when not painted in one another’s blood or on a battlefield. When they’d exchanged glances without a blade between them. But here they all sat, around a sole table, served the same spirits and lit by the same fires. Centuries of war, of violence, of burnt forests and ransacked villages, vegetating thickly in the silence, in the breath they all shared.