The Savage Queen (The Aisling Trilogy #2)

Chapter XIV

CHAPTER XIV

AISLING

Samhain was a festival of death.

That’s what Aisling’s chambermaids told her when she still lived in Tilren. Nothing more than legends, myths, and tales to scare off children. Greum, however, described it differently.

“His lordship enjoys celebrating this blessed period, when the gods feel closer to waking than any other time of the year. Tonight marks the beginning of Samhain and it concludes with the lunar month.”

“A month?” Aisling asked, at once frustrated. “My youngest brother doesn’t have that sort of time. He’ll die before then. And Dagfin?—”

“Let me ease your concerns; his lordship has given them each proper accommodations and even a healer in the case of the wounded one. That is, until the end of Samhain . Then it is up to you to decide whether you wish to strike a deal with his lordship or not.”

Aisling exhaled, relieved they were no longer being kept in the dungeons.

Aisling followed closely behind the bear. Watching as it carried its great body through the misty corridors of glittering opal. Every alcove, balcony, and arcade glaring out at a frost- ridden forest. A family of snow-capped mountains huffing in the distance. This was the world from Fionn’s palace: Oighir , Greum had called it. A land like a jewelry box, tipped over and spilling a trove of crystals, diamonds, and stars. Punctuated only by the tips of evergreens and spindly birches.

“During Samhain , the veil between here and the Otherworld thins,” Aisling conjectured. To the mortals, the Otherworld was death and the land beyond the living. To the Aos Sí, however, the Otherworld was the beginning of all things as well as the end. A supernatural, primordial realm of unencumbered magic.

“Aye, the spirits will fancy themselves more mischievous, and once they catch wind of your scent, they’ll not hesitate to explore their interest in you. It isn’t often a mortal steals from their plane and lives to tell the tale.”

Aisling shuddered so Greum laughed in response, the icicles spearing toward them from above quivering.

“I too feared Samhain as a cub, but with time I grew to cherish it. Praying the same spirits that spilled the Forge’s tonic in each Sidhe kingdom and blessed me with speech would also damn the mortals that burned our forests.”

“And damned they are,” Aisling said. Cursed by Ina.

Greum glanced at Aisling over his shoulder.

Against her own volition, Aisling smiled. She found she quite liked Greum. A beast that reminded her of one far smaller yet equally, if not more, deadly.

The bear, at last, paused before a great threshold. An obsidian door etched with fae markings and laced with garlands bubbling over with cranberries sugared by the frost.

“I leave you here, Skalla .”

Aisling nodded her head in thanks, returning her attention to the door the moment it peeled open by a phantom hand.

Cautiously, Aisling stepped into the room.

Inside, it smelled of leather and wine. An enormous cylindrical chamber filled with mirrors. The ceiling spiraled into a glass turret above, layered by balconies and narrow floors bustling with what Aisling could only imagine were gowns. Thousands upon thousands of dresses, cloaks, tunics, and gúnas made of furs, wools, feathers, silks, chiffons, brocade, and tweeds flocked by cardinals.

And at the center of the chamber sat a table spilling over with fae foods. Roasted mushrooms, fragrant beef stews, plum puddings, ripe and ruby raspberries, buttered pastries, and a broiled boar’s head sitting at the center, tusks and all.

At once, the spices and herbs transported Aisling back to Annwyn. Cinnamon, candy cardamom, juniper berries, warm nettle, milk thistle. Her heart aching and stomach growling, desperately starving for anything she could keep down. Yet, despite her curiosity, these foods were forbidden to Aisling. There were enough tales that forewarned mortals from partaking in the same feasts as the fae.

So, although Aisling’s mouth watered, she kept her composure, finding Fionn’s eyes from across the chamber. Her belly fluttered, eager to unravel the fae lord’s intentions and free herself from Oighir.

“When was the last time you ate, mo Lúra ?” he asked, plucking a fae raspberry and popping it into his mouth. Aisling resisted the urge to whimper, imagining and tasting the sugar on her own tongue.

“Greum assures me Dagfin and my brothers are well taken care of.” Aisling ignored Fionn’s question. “Is this true?”

“See for yourself.” Fionn waved his hand and the mirrors surrounding the room rippled, transforming their reflection into the image of Annind. He lay in a pile of blankets like clouds, cared for by an old, gray rabbit. Starn paced his quarters while Fergus, Iarbonel, and Killian feasted on a small mortal banquet, and Dagfin argued with the guards outside his door.

Aisling swallowed, relief a luxury she wasn’t prepared to let herself indulge just yet.

“How do I know this isn’t trickery?”

Fionn strode closer. “You can see for yourself this evening. They’ll attend my masquerade celebrating the inception of Samhain like all others.”

Aisling released a breath of relief. Watching as the image of Dagfin dissolved too soon and her reflection returned.

“I ask again,” Fionn continued. “When was the last time you ate?”

“Yesterday,” Aisling said, clearing her throat.

“Mortal food, I assume. And did it go well with you?”

Aisling slid further into the room, called to the wealth of the feast.

“Do you make a habit of asking questions you already know the answers to?” This considering Aisling was thin and sharp, lacking proper nourishment.

Fionn licked his fangs, amused.

“Only when I enjoy the answers. Come and indulge, Aisling. For it is only Sidhe meals that will satisfy you from now on. All else, your body will repel.”

But Aisling didn’t move. She stood stock-still, resisting the temptation to bite and partake in a fae meal. One she’d managed to resist since she’d first stepped foot in Castle Annwyn.

“Go ahead, take a bite.”

Aisling felt her fingers twitch without her consent.

This was unwise. After everything, Aisling knew better than to trust a soul other than her own, yet it wasn’t trust or faith that propelled her nearer to the table. It was mad and urgent hunger.

Aisling reached for a sweet roll, still warm.

She brought it to her lips, the hair across her body standing to attention the moment she sank her teeth into its bread. Her stomach heating, the draiocht licking its lips deep within its abyss and glowing a brighter tinge of black. And, at least, from the first bite, she wasn’t charmed. Not bespelled. Not cursed or blistering or vomiting or drunk.

She was satisfied.

Fionn was right.

Aisling reached for another roll and then another. Filling her belly for the first time in weeks with forge-sent foods.

Fionn leaned over the table, placing both his hands on the edge.

“And your draiocht . It burns you.”

Aisling tore her attention from the table, considering the fae lord more closely.

Aisling hadn’t summoned the draiocht before him. Not yet. So how had he known she suffered from the very power she called upon?

“I watched you through my mirrors in your bedchamber. When you accidentally burnt your own reflection. Mirrors are gateways, Aisling. Especially during the period of Samhain .”

Aisling resisted the urge to shiver, steadying the goblet of water in her hands.

“I suspect the draiocht resists you when you’re far from Forge magic. Seelie, Unseelie, the feywilds, whatever form it takes or essence it imbues. You must be near it to inspire your draiocht , lest it burn what humanity remains.”

Aisling had considered that possibility. She often harbored suspicions but never spoke them aloud nor explored them in the privacy of her own mind. But Fionn’s theory was one she’d toyed with on occasion and seemed likely enough. A prospect that revived a glimmer of hope in Aisling. After all, Fionn had been right about the fae food. Maybe, Aisling allowed herself to hope, she might not be doomed to smite herself whenever she conjured magic.

“Let’s see for ourselves,” Aisling said and summoned the draiocht .

A flicker of panic flashed across Fionn’s expression, swiftly vanishing as violet fire sprouted from Aisling’s fingertips. The flames grew hungry and eager but painful all the same, stinging Aisling as they sizzled and blistered her flesh once more.

Aisling bit down at the draiocht , commanding it back into its abyss and hissing in pain.

Fionn’s lips bent with disappointment yet nothing in comparison to the gray of Aisling’s disillusioned, frustrated spirit. Hope killed by reality. Yet Aisling couldn’t bear the disappointment. So, it evolved into rage.

“Enough of this,” Aisling growled, her patience growing thin. “Every moment I waste here, tiptoeing around the sensibilities of a temperamental fae king, I jeopardize my chances of reaching Lofgren’s Rise before all others. A risk I cannot and will not afford. So enough of these games.”

They stood at opposing ends of the feast, watching one another over the pale glow of the frozen buds creeping up every wall.

“There are no others,” he said.

Aisling’s brow furrowed.

“Everyone is?—”

“Dead,” he interjected coolly, tossing a strand of silver over his shoulder. “Or they will be soon enough. You see, the other Sidhe sovereigns are either too afraid of Lir to attempt to take the curse breaker for themselves, too reliant on him to do it for them, or eager to let me do the dirty work in their stead. And as for the mortals, I can’t imagine any will get far. This is a game, Aisling. One that outmatches all and any mortal. Beasts, spells, a forest divided between your caera and Danu. These are matters for the divine. Even your Faerak friends will not stand a chance if they continue on the same trajectory.”

Aisling’s eyes watered, desperately clawing at the sadness and the anxiety looming around her like a dark cloud.

“You’re impatient for what lies ahead, I understand, Aisling,” Fionn continued. “But consider this not me delaying you, rather expediting your journey.”

Aisling set down the goblet, her interest piqued.

“Let me guess, you wish for me to betray Lir and help you obtain the curse breaker in exchange for your aid reaching Lofgren’s Rise?”

Fionn slowly moved around the curve of the table, approaching Aisling. So, Aisling, coyly, continued moving, studying the way his throat bobbed at the sign of a chase.

“I wish for you and me to be bound together. To make this realm our own. You’ve been foreseen, Aisling. By Ina, by Danu, by the Lady. I bear no doubt the future is written in the shadow of whatever your birth has presaged. Together, we can shape it. Shape your destiny till none dare challenge our sovereignship. Not your father, not Danu, not Lir.”

“A true binding. You mean a union?” Aisling asked.

“Of sorts.”

If Fionn wanted a union with Aisling, it would never succeed. She and Fionn weren’t caera while Aisling and Lir were. In which case, if Fionn pursued a union, Aisling and the son of Winter would be forced by magic’s hand to fight to the death. It would never come to that, of course. But teasing the possibility could be a means of biding her time till she sorted through her next steps.

“Is it your mirrors that tell you all this? That whisper the words I wish to hear?”

“They’ve shown me what unravels in the present time, this is true. But I know what truths speak to you because they speak to me as well. Aisling, you and I are the same. Controlled all our lives, imprisoned.”

“A fae king claims to understand weakness? Helplessness?” The very words burned a fire in Aisling’s gut, reigniting past fury into new flame.

“At the beginning of all things, when the twelve kingdoms were split by the Forge, the gods made one last creation, more precious to them than either land or sky, Seelie or Unseelie. Three dragúns .”

“ Dragún ?” Aisling repeated.

“Rún for dragons,” Fionn explained. “The dragún of immortality, the dragún of power, and the dragún of prosperity. Legend has it, any Sidhe sovereign capable of taming such beasts or dominating them would be blessed with its strength and ability. So, naturally, the Wild Hunt ensued. A trail of blood, destruction, disease, and war left in its wake. The only Sidhe sovereign to obtain a dragún ? Ina.”

Lir’s mother.

Fionn was near enough that he could touch her, but refrained, pouring himself a chalice of Sidhe wine instead as he continued to pursue her around the curve of the table.

“The other two dragúns were never caught, so the original twelve Sidhe sovereigns battled over Racat instead. The dragún of power . ”

Aisling froze.

Racat.

The draiocht inside her stirred.

She knew this beast. Had come face to face with it in the cloak of darkness, unable to see beyond the glimmering of its eyes as it prowled toward her in Annwyn’s aqueducts. After Danu had tossed her forward in time. A monster said to live in Annwyn’s gorge and travel in the waterways beneath the earth.

“ You may call me friend .”

Its voice slithered inside her mind.

“You’ve heard of this dragún ?” Fionn asked, watching her behind the brim of his chalice.

Aisling masked her emotions and shook her head, careful to conceal all that Fionn didn’t already know thanks to his mirrors.

“I assume Ina didn’t manage to keep Racat? This considering she would’ve adopted Racat’s power and blessed Iod, a strength that never would’ve allowed for Iod to crumble and the curse to take hold,” Aisling said, eager to avoid his question.

“Yes and no. She won the Wild Hunt thanks to Racat but lost regardless. Her efforts to keep Bres alive rendered whatever victory she’d managed obsolete. A mistake—a failure that even Racat’s blessing couldn’t remedy.” Fionn’s tone was bitter, Bres’s name on his lips like poison.

“So, Bres’s life was threatened after the Wild Hunt? What war was ensuing in the aftermath of Ina’s victory?”

“One of envy,” Fionn said, pressing his lips into a firm line. He wished to elaborate no further, that much was evident, leaving Aisling to assume the other fae sovereigns were envious of Ina’s victory and Racat.

So, this was how it’d happened.

The war that defeated Bres, Lir’s father, was one Aisling had heard of before. Yet never had any divulged the reason for inter-conflict between the fair folk.

Now it was clear. This was the period where Ina forsook her own mountain kingdom of Iod to save Bres, failing and dooming her people as a result. Cursing them and stripping them of their immortality , power , and prosperity to damn them as mortal.

All this, from a war bred by envy and a hunt for dragons.

“What happened to Racat?”

Fionn took another sip.

“Ina gifted the beast to her son for safekeeping. That is, until the time came for the dragún to make a choice of its own.”

Aisling paused.

Lir was the most powerful Sidhe sovereign in this realm or the next. Born of two original Sidhe sovereigns but also imbued with the power and blessing of Racat.

Aisling’s mind spun. Fionn had told her more than anyone else ever had. As far as she knew, not a secret was left unturned nor withheld from her.

“Lir came to power and instilled obedience in every other Sidhe kingdom and Unseelie race to prevent another Wild Hunt or ensuing war. His punishment for Oighir? Lir ensured Oighir is only ever powerful when the frost arrives and chills the earth. Only when winter is nigh can I flex my strength, imprisoned by the edge of the northernmost continents. Exiled lest we be powerless. And so, I’ll cling to whatever power the Forge gives me if it means avenging my father’s death. Another casualty of the dragún war.”

Fionn handed Aisling his chalice, at last, catching her.

Aisling considered it, repeating the warnings in her mind. She’d only ever known Sidhe wine to be dangerous, lethal, and incompatible with mortal tongues. Yet, if she could eat their foods perhaps…perhaps one drink wouldn’t hurt.

Aisling accepted the goblet and brought it to her lips. The same euphoric wave rippled through her, encouraging the draiocht within to writhe and hum a gleeful tune.

“Lir instills obedience but wouldn’t have punished a member of the Sidhe without cause. So, tell me what you’ve chosen to exclude from your tales. Why would Lir punish Oighir?”

“You’re cunning.” Fionn licked his fangs, considering Aisling before speaking. “Bres and Ina weren’t the only ones to break their vows to the Forge; vows promising never to love another Sidhe sovereign.”

“Delbaeth,” Aisling conjectured. Fionn’s father.

Fionn’s expression tightened as he set down his chalice. The perfection of its rounded edge now corrupted by a single crack.

“Aye, my father. But that’s enough about politics and history. You shall soon see why you and I are cut by the same shears.”

Aisling nodded, keeping to herself the Lady’s words.

“ You blunt my shears .” Aisling’s fate was outside the Lady’s control and all others for that matter.

“Come, select a gown to be delivered back to your quarters for this evening. I’ve commissioned every seamstress and tailor in Oighir to craft a dress for you.” Fionn gestured at his horde of dazzling gowns. “It’ll be an evening you won’t soon forget.”