Chapter XII
CHAPTER XII
AISLING
“A Sidhe queen should never be on her knees,” the fae king said, padding closer, hands of ice rising from the earth like the limbs of the dead and shoving Aisling onto her feet. His fae accent both familiar and heart-wrenching. “Lest her king demand it. And I don’t see Lir anywhere in sight.” He grinned.
Silver eyes sparkled the same hue as his waist-length hair, braided through and crowned by an obsidian circlet. Two curving horns sprouting from its metal. The same vicious and glaciated edge reflected in the hard angles of his armor.
A sled pulled by wolves sat behind him.
“They’ll write legends about you, you know?” he said, a pace away from Aisling—held captive by the hands of ice. Shackling her wrists, her ankles, and binding her to the earth. This close, Aisling could see his pointed ears bedizened with crystals. His fangs flashing when he spoke. “You’re remarkable.”
But before either Aisling or Dagfin could say a word, ice speared through the earth and toward them. Impaling their consciousness till the world fell black.
Lost in a pool of ink with neither an up nor down, Aisling swam in the dark. And if it weren’t for Lir’s absence, she would’ve found comfort in the dark. Warm, whole, and absolute.
Aisling woke in a room made of glass. No, not glass. Ice. An ornamental, four-poster bed cradling her as she slept, swathing her in great, snowy-white pelts that smelled of leather and bitter winter winds.
She jolted upright, noticing for the first time she wore a new gown. Aisling blanched, her stomach dropping, hoping the gown had been magicked onto her when she was unconscious.
A dress with sheets of secret-thin gossamer spun around her figure, spread over the bed and sweeping the frigid floors with their great length while silver bear claws held the most essential pieces together. A headdress made in the same fabric was pinned to her temples and billowed down her back.
The Roktan cloak Dagfin had gifted her, on the other hand, was draped across her bed, alongside her old woolen and tattered dress.
Aisling didn’t waste time. She leaped onto her feet and scoured the room. A chamber resplendent enough for a Seelie queen albeit bone-chillingly cold.
Arched mirrors speared for the barreled ceiling. Aisling was reflected a thousand times over. One of hundreds spinning like a top at the center of the room. Roaring bears, smiling badgers, and timid foxes carved around each mirror, polished in silver even as they bared their fangs.
Otherwise, the room was empty. No door, no windows, no Dagfin, no escape. A shred of panic increased the pace of her heart as she swiveled.
Aisling approached the nearest mirror, pressing her palm against its glass.
She was thinner, gaunter than she’d last seen. Her hair unbrushed and sprinkled with specks of ice like uncut jewels. But it was the largeness of her eyes and the elegant stroke of her every movement that unsettled her most of all. Even since the Starling , Aisling’s appearance had greatly changed. When she was fully human, Aisling was lovely. Now, she was otherworldly . Fierce and powerful, branded by the feral insignia of the Forge.
Aisling’s eyes glazed with tears. Happy tears, for her reflection was one she’d craved. Her reflection was someone who mattered, someone capable, someone worthy, someone feared. A predator and not prey.
Overcome with emotion, with joy, violet fire flickered from her fingertips and blackened the mirror. The smell of burning flesh smoking the room.
Aisling shuddered, leaping back as frost overtook her brittle fire and ran up her fingers, her arms, clawing for her neck. A similar dulling sensation, gnawing at her draiocht , to when she’d confronted the fear gorta or tried to burn the Lady’s threads.
The draiocht exploded larger, sucking the wind from Aisling’s lungs but melting whatever ice still threatened to sink into her bones.
Aisling glared at the mirror with renewed suspicion, hardly surprised when it rippled, and a white bear lumbered through.
“What is that smell?” he asked, referencing the stench of burning flesh and inhaling deeply. “It’s…delightful.”
Aisling balled her hands into fists, obscuring her burned palms from his sight.
Animals born in magic-concentrated land, such as Sidhe kingdoms, were as sentient and intelligent as the fae themselves. In fact, her chambermaid in Annwyn was a small and mighty pine marten Aisling hardly let herself recognize she missed.
“Who are you?”
“Forgive the intrusion, mo Lúra ,” he said, the baritone of his voice rattling the frozen roses hanging from the chandeliers above. “I am Greum. I’ve come to escort you to my lord.”
“Where is Dagfin?”
“You mean the Faerak prince?” The bear tilted his head to the side. “Don’t fret, Skalla . He’s in good company. I dare say I don’t think we’ve ever… housed so many princes beneath his lordship’s palace.”
Aisling hesitated, studying the bear’s expression.
So, this fae king had caught her brothers as well.
“This is his palace then,” she said, lifting her chin even as the behemoth of the bear straightened onto his hind legs and stared down at her. Its miraculous armor clinking as it moved, engraved in blade-sharp snowflakes and thorns.
Greum laughed. “Everything the ice touches is his palace. His domain. So long as your breath mists from your lips, you are subject to my lord.”
“I am subject to no lord.”
The bear laughed again, falling back onto all fours and shaking the ground. Aisling kept her balance, grasping at one of the bed posts.
“If it weren’t against my lord’s wishes I’d have the flesh torn from your bones by now.”
“Only after I make ash from your hide.”
Greum grinned. “Your threats amuse me. Usually thieves aren’t so reckless.”
“I’m no thief.”
“You stole the draiocht .”
“It was given.”
He scoffed. “Thieves are usually liars, I’ll give you that.”
“And usually beasts are not so long-winded.” Aisling crossed her arms.
“Even so, you’ll find your fires carry little weight while in his lordship’s presence. You may be strange, Skalla , but you’re young yet. Your powers are a flicker in comparison to the ages-old strength of his lordship.”
“Take me to your lordship then.”
“Very well, mo Lúra .” Greum bowed his head in mock respect. “Follow me.”
The bear heaved his massive form, turning to the mirrors once more. Without hesitation, he stepped through a rippling, shimmering surface till he disappeared entirely. Leaving Aisling glaring at her own distorted reflection.
Aisling swallowed the stone in her throat.
Closing both eyes, she reached for the mirror. Her first hand sunk through, then the next, whatever lay on the other side impossibly colder than her chamber.
Aisling focused, gathering the courage to plunge through the mirror and through to the other side.
DAGFIN
Thank the Forge for Ocras. Otherwise, Dagfin would’ve woken to find his bones frozen.
The Faerak ’s eyes flickered open, appraising his new surroundings for the first time. He lay in a chamber of stone, blocked off from the open courtyard beyond by bars that rose from the earth in jagged, thin pillars of ice. A prison cell, Dagfin realized.
“Aisling,” he said absentmindedly, at once searching his surroundings for her. But she was nowhere in sight.
“Where are we?” a voice groaned from behind.
Starn, Iarbonel, and Killian were unfurling from the ground, rubbing their eyes and holding their heads. Fergus and Annind, however, had yet to wake, lips turning blue.
“You’re in Oighir,” a stranger replied.
Dagfin’s skin prickled, spinning on his heel to find several wolves stalking toward their cell. From where Dagfin stood, he estimated there were thirty or so cells, wrapped around the periphery of the courtyard. A flagstone expanse dusted in snow and boasting a large fountain at its center. Its statues depicted a bear and a stag mid-battle, water frozen and glistening in ribbons of ice.
Beyond, sharp towers jutted at the blizzard skies and floating bridges—like blown glass—connected turrets, flying buttresses, and battlements wrapped in thick quilts of skull ivy. Verandas and their staircases braced against the heart of winter, each and everything twinkling with a lustrous glow that emanated from the bulbs of brambles of eyebright, glittering like bundles of stars around the castle.
“Oighir,” Dagfin repeated. He’d heard of this keep before. The druids farther north spoke of such a kingdom, offering sacrifices to both the ruler of this bastion and the forest that encased it to keep from starving or freezing at the cost of the cold. A fae domain, ruled by the son of Winter who sat on a throne of frostbite.
“Where is Aisling?!” he said, louder than he’d intended.
The wolves grinned.
“The bride of the forest is…well taken care of.”
Dagfin’s nostrils flared. “If she’s harmed?—”
“Our lord would never mistreat a fellow sovereign.”
“Yet you dare to imprison mortal princes?!” Starn interjected, reaching for the bars to better glare at the snickering wolves. “This is a direct offense to mankind.”
“Last we heard, the Damh Bán made it so offenses can be commonplace once more, if not enjoyed,” the nearest wolf said. Damh Bán . They were referring to Lir.
Another wolf nodded, licking its fangs in response.
“Release us!” Starn yelled.
“Or what, mortal prince?” The wolves crept forward till they stood a few paces from their cell.
Killian moved to grab his crossbow only to find it gone from his back. In a panic, the Faerak searched his bandolier, his belt, his boots, realizing to his own horror all his weapons had been stripped off his person. None of the others were an exception, including Dagfin.
The wolves dissolved into a frenzy of laughter.
“You’ll remain here until our lord summons you,” the first said, coming up for air.
“We won’t survive a summons in this cold,” Iarbonel said, gesturing to Fergus and Annind, still lying unconscious atop the stone, the youngest of the brothers weary after their days journeying in such harsh climates, not to mention Annind’s injuries from the fear gorta. “We need fire and heat.”
The wolves exchanged glances. “So weak, so frail, so ill-equipped for the natural world. You claim us perversities of nature, but it is man that is a blight in both this realm and the next. You weren’t made for this world, unable to withstand even its seasons. You’re a curse to punish a Sidhe queen and nothing more.”
“Even so, I wager your lord won’t be too satisfied with two fewer princes once he summons us,” Dagfin said, focusing on the largest wolf at the front of their pack.
The beast frowned, ears falling flat against his head as he considered.
“My lord would relish a mortal death, especially if said death is reaped from the Neimedh Clann.”
“Even if such a death comes at the cost of any and all leverage?” Dagfin took hold of the prison cell bars. “If your lord wanted us dead, we would’ve been by now.”
At this, the wolf snarled, wrinkling its muzzle.
“Frigg, perhaps the human has a point?—”
“Enough!” the center wolf, Frigg, barked at the canine behind him, silencing any others who considered speaking. “Bring them a handful of torches, whatever scraps from the kitchens, and no more.”
The rest of the wolves bounded for a large wooden threshold, the door groaning open at the sign of their presence and closing behind them as they exited the courtyard. Frigg lingered long enough to snarl and snap at Dagfin before chasing after the others.
“You think they’ll return?” Iarbonel asked, shrugging off his jacket to place over Annind, pale as the blizzard weaving around them.
“If they value self-preservation, then yes,” Dagfin said, scouring the courtyard for a way out, for a weapon, for any and all options. He’d been imprisoned before on his Faerak missions—a banshee’s den in the Hills of Hidris, a bocanach’s lair further south, a kelpie’s nest in Aithirn’s shallows—and he’d learned there was always a means of escape no matter how formidable the prison.
Starn shook his head, pacing back and forth in their cell. “At the first opportunity, we flee from here and return to Tilren.”
“What of the faerie?” Killian asked, instinctively glancing at Dagfin.
“She’ll fare fine on her own.” Starn’s words inspired silence, nothing except the howling of the wind and the brush of evergreens swaying to interrupt the dense quiet.
“You can’t be serious,” Dagfin said at last. “You’d forsake your sister?”
“You were right, Fin. She hasn’t been my sister for some time, nor the Aisling you remember. Her actions aboard the Starling are proof enough of that.”
Dagfin’s shoulders grew taut, anger rising in his gut. Starn had always been cut-throat, impatient, and frustrated when ignored. But Dagfin had never realized the darkness of Starn’s vices until it was channeled at Aisling.
“She’s changed, as we all have these past several years,” Dagfin said. “And she’s given us all a second chance when we scarcely deserved it.”
“It’s better for her if we part ways,” Iarbonel chimed, the kind curves of his face speaking both doubt and guilt.
Dagfin’s brow knit, understanding dawning.
“Your charade to help her expired more quickly than even I assumed it would,” he said bitterly. A sentiment that struck Iarbonel the hardest, his shoulders slumping forward in shame.
“It’s not personal.” Killian stepped beside Dagfin to peer outside the bars himself. “I met you each in Roktling at the behest of Nemed, paid to keep you all safe on the journey ahead. Continuing to accompany the faerie is counterproductive. She’s a beacon for the darkest shadows in the wood.”
Dagfin scowled. “How did Nemed know of our whereabouts?”
Immediately, Iarbonel averted his eyes, so it was Starn who spoke.
“I had Feradach impart a message to Nemed once we reached Roktling.”
Dagfin reeled, his temper rising with each new word.
“My father?”
Starn nodded his head. “Aye.”
“Did Feradach know the contents of your message?” Dagfin held his breath, praying a silent prayer to the Forge that his father hadn’t betrayed him or, at the very least, withheld information.
“I have no way of knowing but it’s possible. Regardless, I told Nemed our whereabouts and that’s when, instead of ordering us back to Tilren, he requested a favor: pursue the curse breaker in his stead.”
“And at that point in time, I was ordered to Roktling, paid in full,” Killian said.
“Of course, he believed Aisling would guide us directly to it, but it’s swiftly been made clear she’ll only slow us down. Especially since she’s made more enemies whilst away than just her own kind.” Starn crossed his arms. “Not to mention, she can’t be trusted. I was willing to entertain her until the Starling . Not anymore.”
Dagfin’s muscles ached from his anger, cording in his arms, back, and neck. Starn stood straight, doing his best to convince them all he was certain of his decision. But Dagfin saw past the veneer, through to the aching guilt and grief inherent within his choice. As though he mourned the memory of a sister he believed no longer existed, while his doubt that she may still be alive cannibalized him with guilt. And somehow, that made Starn’s crimes worse; he realized it was a cruel choice but made it regardless.
“All that being said, it’s best we return to Tilren our first opportunity. Annind won’t survive a trek to the tip of Lofgren’s Rise, and as it currently stands, nor will Fergus. If Aisling goes with us home, she’ll only seal their fate. Father will send his, as well as the other mortal sovereigns’ fleets, in our stead. Aisling nor any other Sidhe will stand a chance against four mortal armies.”
All eyes shifted, setting on the two youngest Neimedh brothers lying unconscious and blue on the stone floors.
“I won’t leave Aisling,” Dagfin said finally. More a vow than a statement.
“If the hopes of eventually bedding the faerie is what’s stopping you, then get it done with and the wisdom in Starn’s words will be made much clearer.” Killian leaned against the bars. “Although I warn you, the act may be pleasant, but the aftermath of such intimacy with either Seelie or Unseelie is only ever written in curses.”
Dagfin didn’t hesitate. He swung his fist at Killian, striking him in the jaw so hard, the sound ricocheted off the walls of the courtyard.
The other Faerak slapped against the floor, rising with a hand rubbing his red jaw.
“Where was this strength against the murúch?” Killian kicked Dagfin in the chest, spinning on his dominant heel to return the punch in the jaw.
Dagfin dodged the kick but braced against the speed of the punch, blinking through the blinding pain searing through his temples and into his ears.
“Or were the murúch another excuse to try and bed her?” Killian flashed a smug smile, thwacked off his face with the edge of Dagfin’s boot.
The other Faerak blew into the bars before crumpling to the stone, blood spilling from his cracked lip.
“Stop this!” Starn yelled. “Look at where we are. Neither of you will be of any use escaping if you can hardly stand. Aisling can come along if she wishes. If not, she can rot for all I care.”
Dagfin and Killian glared at one another, measuring whether another strike was worth their time.
A snicker erupted just outside their cell.
Each turned to find the pack of wolves spectating their display, mouths split wide, and teeth bared in laughter.
Frigg stepped forward.
“His lordship demands your presence, princes.”