Chapter XV
CHAPTER XV
AISLING
Fionn’s lips were cold. At the slightest touch, they nearly froze Aisling’s hand, numbing her palms to the pain of her most recent burns.
Aisling shivered. He watched her closely as he looped her arm through his, eyes lined with sparkling white dust. A foil to the bear headdress he now wore with teeth exchanged for shards of ice. The same moon-white shade as his robes, his cross-collar shirt, his embroidered trousers, or the satin ribbon tied around his waist.
He, a pale crystal glimmering in a palace whittled from winter. Burning too brightly to look directly in the eyes.
“Shall we, mo Lúra ?” Fionn asked, gesturing to the gargantuan mirror before them, lined with sculptures of bears as large as Greum and Sidhe knights, all brightened by fae light.
Aisling clenched her jaw but nodded all the same.
“How does it work?”
Fionn held his palm before the mirror.
“Every mirror is linked to the draiocht . So, you must first ask the draiocht to enter and only if it allows, will it grant you access.”
“Has it ever stopped you from entering or leaving?”
“Rarely. Only when I use the mirrors as a looking glass instead of a gateway. A window instead of a door. The draiocht can be unpredictable and, at times, even harbor an agenda of its own. That’s why it’s important you master it, Aisling.”
Fionn closed his eyes, moving his lips as though speaking a silent spell. And perhaps he was. The mirror turned to liquid as they passed through. Aisling felt cold, then soaked, as though she were submerging herself in water. Her body shuddered of its own volition, tasting Fionn’s magic-ripe influence: a deep freeze, crushed wolfberries, and freshly thawed rapids.
They appeared atop another imperial staircase, washed over by both music and light. This chamber was large, exploding with snowdrops, frozen lilies, and virgin-pale gypsophila. Another throne sat here as well, embedded with Fionn’s longsword just like the last.
Each stairwell twisted toward a ballroom of impossible size and make: rib-vaulted ceilings paneled in silver stained glass so the evening stars could peer down at their celebration, mimicking the sheen of the petrified dew clinging to every salt-rock surface, the chandeliers like upside down trees iced over and made everlasting, all multiplied a hundred times over by the mirror standing at the center of the dance floor and the fair folk that slipped in and out of it, traveling from all across Oighir to attend Fionn’s masquerade.
Aisling inhaled sharply, struck by the sound of fae music. The melodies whisking her to Annwyn once more. The Snaidhm . The wild, provocative, emotional melodies braided together till Aisling felt most alive. Instruments mortals bore no names for, breathing to life the voice of all that didn’t sing or speak or weep. The trees, the rivers, a snowstorm, an ocean’s tempest. Sounds Lir had opened Aisling’s ears to.
But the moment Aisling and Fionn appeared at the top of the imperial staircase, the ballroom stilled. Every Aos Sí in attendance, pausing their dance and craning their elegant necks to see for themselves: the bride of the forest linked arm in arm with the son of Winter. Among them and amidst the crush of guests was Starn, Iarbonel, Fergus, Dagfin, and Killian. Annind was nowhere to be seen.
Aisling swallowed her concern. Despite this, Fionn studied her every nuance. The way her eyes brightened or dimmed, the tension in her shoulders, the pursing of her lips.
So, Aisling swept down the staircase at his side. Her gown an intricate masterpiece of silver thorns and cape sleeves that dusted the foggy floors, trimmed with white furs. The skirts billowing at her waist, expanding into a blizzard and clouding around both her legs and slippers.
Fionn escorted Aisling down the final step, waiting till the music resumed to speak with her.
Aisling released her arm from Fionn’s hold, adjusting the mask that sat atop the bridge of her nose. The top half of a bear’s head, made entirely of verglas.
“So the spirits of Samhain won’t remember your face,” Fionn had said when he’d gifted her the mask outside her chambers. The counterpart to his headdress, Aisling had quickly realized. But it wasn’t only Aisling who wore a mask. The whole of Fionn’s court wore one as well, beasts of all shape and form pinned atop their fae features.
“Enjoy the inception of Samhain , Aisling,” he said, bowing his head. “I’ll call upon you shortly.”
And with that, he disappeared into the crush of his court, Greum lumbering shortly behind. The Sidhe’s attention bobbed between Fionn and Aisling, skeptical eyes narrowing behind their masks. For Aisling, the fire hand’s daughter, the not-so-mortal queen of Annwyn, the bride of the forest, was clearly no ill-cared for prisoner and not yet dead.
“Ash.” Starn navigated through the crowd lithely till he stood at her side. Her other brothers, Killian, and Dagfin, were interspersed throughout the ballroom, eyed by every Sidhe guard and armored beast.
They each wore new clothing. Garments from Oighir, obvious by their style and make: luxurious robes, cross-collared shirts, and a ribbon around their waists. Masks made in the image of forest beasts: Starn’s a lion, Dagfin’s a raven, Iarbonel’s a badger, Fergus’s a rabbit, and Killian’s a fox.
“We leave tonight,” he said with no further introduction. Aisling couldn’t see his eyes well, but she saw the curve of his mouth well enough. The distaste he tried and failed to conceal. Indeed, the image of his younger sister, arm in arm with another fae king, one who’d imprisoned him easily and effortlessly, while he stood in a room filled with hundreds of Sidhe, was enough to heat all their father’s fires in this lifetime and the next. But he composed himself, as every mortal soldier was trained to do in the face of battle, and swallowed his loathing.
“Where’s Annind?” Aisling asked, feigning flippancy considering an armored boar glared at her across the room, its mace already at the ready. As though thirsting for an excuse to flay her alive.
“He’s being cared for as we speak in a palace room, enjoying every mortal food and tea the kitchens have available.”
Aisling glanced at Fionn across the room. He spoke with a group of trooping fae, elegantly interacting with his subjects. He was clever, Aisling was quickly realizing. She shouldn’t have surrendered her feelings so recklessly. Inquiring about her brothers’ and Dagfin’s whereabouts had informed Fionn that the most efficient way of buying Aisling’s affections, trust, and allegiance was through her companions’ good treatment. Meaning, all and any information Fionn had gleaned from Aisling thus far, he’d used to his advantage. A fact she both admired and damned all at once.
“It reeks here of cattle and overripe fruit.” Starn wrinkled his nose, ensuring no Sidhe accidentally brushed against his shoulders. Aisling didn’t need him to elaborate further. She knew Starn spoke of the bipedal animals woven into Sidhe culture and court life. Yet they didn’t smell the way Starn described them. To Aisling, they smelled wild.
“I’ll be sure to tell father exactly where to find this abomination. He’ll burn it to the ground along with every Aos Sí and their beasts gallivanting inside,” Starn said, and now he did grin. “And I’ll be glad to be gone from this place before this feral occasion is done with.”
“How do you intend to escape?” Aisling asked. “And what of Annind?”
“There are five entrances to this ballroom. Iarbonel, Fergus, Dagfin, and I have each studied where each door leads. See that one? To the left of the main entrance?”
Aisling nodded her head. A smaller threshold guarded by two white bears near as large as Greum.
“That one leads straight to the palace courtyards. One need only navigate through a series of gardens before leaping over the wall and finding freedom once more.”
“And the guards?”
“Killian’s been dousing those bears’ flasks with twisted honey: sap from a petrifying plant, harvested by the Faerak for use on those Unseelie they wish to keep alive. He found it in Annind’s healer’s satchel, mostly used as an anesthetic. Dim-witted hare,” Starn spat, crossing his arms.
Aisling shook her head.
“Annind is too injured to slip through guarded passages, navigate through labyrinths, or scale castle walls. He’ll not survive the trip home without proper care.”
“You’ve been away from your clann too long, Aisling. Annind would rather die a free man than live amongst the fae.”
Aisling worked her jaw.
“Watch your tongue. You speak ill of nightmares while still asleep.”
At this, they both glanced around the room. Indeed, every member of the Sidhe whispered amongst one another when they believed themselves out of earshot. Glancing at Aisling and Starn with potent hatred. Children of iron.
“We leave tonight, Aisling. Father will send the mortal fleets to Lofgren’s Rise in our stead.”
“And those mortal sovereigns who’ve already attempted and failed?” Sigewulf’s death flashed in Aisling’s mind.
“They’ll try again, this time with more men. None will stand a chance against iron in so great numbers. Prepare yourself for the signal.”
“Why the sudden hurry, brother?” Aisling stole a goblet of fae wine from a passing badger’s serving plate. A gesture that didn’t go unnoticed by Starn, who eyed the chalice of fae wine as though it were poison. And to him, it was. “Shouldn’t it be I rushing you onwards? After all, you’ve accompanied me .”
Starn’s laugh was without humor as he forced the next words from his lips.
“I only care for your best interests, little Sister.”
Aisling glanced up at her eldest sibling, studying the familiar scar along his jaw. One he’d collected chasing Aisling through the woods and to Hannelore’s Linn when they were children. The wound that had ultimately outed them and their adventures to Nemed.
“I used to look up to you,” Aisling said. “I believed you painted the sun with flame and pinned it to the sky with an iron arrow.”
Starn’s eyes were dark as coal, harboring all the severity of their mother Clodagh and all the authority of the fire hand.
“If only I’d realized then you were and always will be a boy too eager to sit on an iron chair far too large for himself. Too obsessed with proving himself to an elusive father to ever develop an identity outside his thirst for validation.”
Starn worked his jaw, his crow-dark hair falling across his eyes, simmering and balling his hands into fists. A gesture that didn’t escape the Sidhe or the bestial guards’ notice.
“When were you planning on informing me that the only reason you chose to accompany me was to steal the curse breaker for yourself? To deliver both I and whatever lies at Lofgren’s Rise back to Castle Neimedh as the triumphant high prince worthy of his father’s crown?”
Starn reeled, eyes wide and glazed with hateful tears.
“I never?—”
“You still believe me so stupid, so naive as to think your aid was anything other than self-serving?” Aisling scoffed. “As soon as I negotiate your freedom with the fae lord, return home before you truly suffer the consequences of something far too large for you. You’re not equipped for this, and you’ll kill yourself as well as our brothers in your attempts to prove yourself.”
Starn leaned forward, teeth grinding in his fury.
“I warned you of ordering me?—”
Aisling stepped toward him. “And I warn you now, brother,” she hissed, relishing the way Starn flinched. “If any of you stand in my way, I shall not hesitate to do what I must.”
Starn froze, glaring at Aisling as the ballroom continued to spin and the guards shifted, weapons in hand. But he said nothing.
“Is everything alright?” Killian said, approaching from behind and positioning himself between Starn and Aisling. A shoulder between them to protect the high prince.
Dagfin joined shortly after, quickly keen to the tension circuiting between them.
“I was just telling Starn that I’ve chosen to continue on my own. As soon as we’re freed from here, you’re all free to return home.”
“What? You’re not planning on agreeing to Fionn’s terms, are you?” Dagfin focused his attention solely on Aisling. The sheen of disappointment that washed over his features heart-wrenching.
Mercifully, Aisling didn’t have time to respond. She wouldn’t and couldn’t agree to Fionn’s terms, but she’d find a way to free them and once she did, the choice to return to either Tilren or Roktling was a choice of life or death for the mortal princes.
The lights of the ballroom dimmed, the music increased in tempo, and the wind burst through the floor-to-ceiling windows, gripping the ballroom with ice that bit beneath the flesh.
The Sidhe laughed, watching as hundreds of translucent, wispy creatures tore into the ballroom like comets made of storm clouds. They ran between the skirts of the Sidhe, brushed against the chandeliers, singing, and tossing midnight stars between one another until the night sky was brought inside, hovering above all their heads.
Spirits from the Otherworld heralding the beginning of Samhain .
The room grew plump with enchantment.
Aisling could feel the thinning of the veil between their mortal realm and that of the Other. For the world began to glow with the soft luster of a dream, the wicked whimsy of the spirits bending reality and shaping it to their will. Indeed, they moved and danced like sylphs, bore the wildness of the dryads, and the eternal, primeval aura of the celestial; the endings of the past made real in the present. Long-since passed Sidhe soldiers sparring with their ghostly swords mid-air, racing on stags, and dancing with their lovers.
If this was the beginning of Samhain , Aisling looked forward to its middle and end. Wondered what the forest would look like disrobed and unmasked as the realm of witchery that it truly was.
Fionn approached Aisling amidst the chaos and offered his arm once more. Greum and Frigg shortly behind.
“Join me?” he asked her after nodding in greeting to Starn and Killian. Eyes lingering a moment too long on Dagfin.
Aisling nodded her head in silent agreement. So, Frigg snapped his chomps at Dagfin before his lordship turned, Aisling on his arm.
Against her own volition, Aisling glanced at the Roktan prince over her shoulder.
“Ash, wait?—”
Aisling hesitated, holding the Faerak ’s eyes before forcing herself to look away.
It’s better this way , she assured herself. Dagfin was safer in Roktling, and Aisling couldn’t live with herself if anything happened to him during her pursuit. She’d seen how quickly the chieftain of Fjallnorr had been felled by a single, passing Unseelie. The mightiest among men not fit for the pursuits of the fae. So, despite the tearing of her heart, she willed every step apart from him. Her heart aching at the intensity of his stare as she walked away.
Fionn and Greum led her to the front of the imperial staircase.
From here, the whole ballroom was laid before them both. And with one snap of the fae king’s fingers, everyone in the hall dissolved into silence—even the spirits—holding their breath to discover, at last, what their lord whispered into the Forge.
“Tonight, fate will continue its course,” Fionn said. “Tonight, with the blessing of the Forge, Aisling and I will be truly bonded.”
Aisling stiffened but said not a word, refusing the temptation to find Dagfin through the folds of spectators. The Roktan prince’s expression was perhaps one of the only images capable of convincing her to step away from the ledge she now peered over.
“This will be a promise for the future that the son of Winter and his sorceress shall lead the Seelie, the Unseelie, and the mortals too,” he continued. “And so, I call upon the Lady to sever the threads that lie between Aisling and the king of the greenwood.”
Aisling staggered back a step, knocked off balance in her shock.
“What?” she managed, but he ignored her.
“ Rlaoim ont a Lhuire, tar anoir ,” he said in Rún.
Greum translated, “I summon you, Lady, to do your bidding.”
Aisling paled, her breathing heavy. Fionn had rescued Aisling and Dagfin from the Lady, his scheming swift and meddling if now he called upon her, Aisling realized.
No, no, no. This wasn’t happening.
“You’ve tricked me,” Aisling seethed, watching as Fionn turned to her coolly. “You claimed this was merely a celebration. No union nor deal had yet to be agreed upon and there was never a mention of an unbinding .”
Fionn’s lips cut into a knife-sharp smile. “Come now, Aisling. You didn’t really think I’d risk your neck on a union knowing we aren’t caera ? No, I only ever said binding . To have the Lady rip the threads between you and Lir and tie them anew with you and me. Besides I grow impatient.”
“We had a deal! I had till the end of Samhain to release the mortal princes in exchange for whatever it is you covet!”
“Your mortal princes will be released once we’re united, Aisling. No sooner or later.”
Aisling’s tongue turned to ash. Her mind spun till she believed she might vomit. But it wasn’t only her mind that spun. The room tilted on its axis, every star the spirits had gathered whirling madly as light broke across the room and the Lady appeared, dressed in a star-bright gown of countless radiant threads. Spiraling around her like the rays of a star exploding just before it collided with the Earth.
The Lady stood before them, the spirits hovering around her in a cloud of ages-old ghosts come to see the unraveling of the morrow.
She smiled. “Aisling, I didn’t believe I’d see you again so soon.”
Fionn waved his hand flippantly and ice grew from the ballroom floors, seizing Aisling’s wrists and squeezing till she couldn’t move. Her mask clattered against the floor as Aisling screamed for the draiocht , but it was frozen inside the abyss. Snuffed and cold, unable to produce the fires she needed. But this was beyond the weakness she’d felt the past several weeks. Beyond the burning of her palms. This was the same witchery she’d tasted against the fear gorta when it’d snuffed her fires.
This was the Lady’s and Fionn’s magic, dampening her might with their own trickery. Finding a way to strangle her draiocht . Both having tasted her arrival on winter winds the moment she’d step foot on Fjallnorrian sands.
From the corner of her eye, Aisling saw Dagfin struggling forward, held back by Killian, Starn, Fergus, and Iarbonel.
“Hold still, Aisling,” the Lady continued, producing a glimmering blade of starlight from thin air. She inhaled deeply, as though savoring the draiocht she breathed, producing such powerful magic. The taste of liquid evening skies bleeding across Aisling’s tongue at the arrival of the Lady’s draiocht . “ Samhain couldn’t have come soon enough. You see, Aisling, the stars have aligned. The Otherworld is thin, renewing my strength and inspiring my influence in this realm. With it, enough power to do what I couldn’t the last time I saw you.”
“No,” Aisling said, struggling against Fionn’s ice, Oighir’s Sidhe court witnessing the spectacle with a combination of fear, confusion, and awe. With a satisfying feeling of finality for the thief to at last be stolen from.
“Don’t look so afraid, mo Lúra ,” Fionn whispered in her ear. “The pain will be temporary but the life we’ll live together, mighty and everlasting.”
The Lady approached, the spirits cackling behind her.
“The gods will rejoice that the omen is broken and destruction, desolation, death, circumvented.”
“Yet you commit a death today!” Aisling screamed, hot tears streaming down her face as she fought against Fionn’s ice, clawing at the draiocht . For the tearing of her binding with Lir, the thread that made them caera , was a death.
Wake up.
Wake up.
Wake up ! she screamed at the draiocht .
“You cannot unbind two caeras without committing a form of destruction of your own,” Aisling pleaded. Aisling wasn’t certain why the very marrow in her bones frosted over with dread at the mention of destroying her bond with Lir. As though her very soul would hollow without the cord between she and the Sidhe king pulling her back to him. She hated him, rivalled him, fought against him and yet her body shuddered at the thought of an unbinding. She couldn’t—wouldn’t let this happen whether it was their fated bond speaking, or something else.
“The death of one is always necessary to prevent the death of many. But you will live, Aisling, if not the same as you once were.”
The spirits rose and danced wildly, celebrating the Lady’s every word as she lifted the blade above her head. White light cracked, magic swelled inside the room, till the pressure of it threatened to burst Aisling’s, her brothers’, Dagfin’s, and Killian’s ears. As though they’d suddenly been drowned in the Forge itself, lungs filled with bubbling sorcery.
“By the Forge, I vow to shear this thread,” she spoke, and her voice echoed into the millennia. “To bleed a harbinger of chaos until prosperity reigns triumphant.”
The world held its breath.
“By the Forge, I vow to you an unbinding.”
The Lady swung her sword in a blinding arc.
Aisling saw herself scream, saw Fionn brighten, witnessed Dagfin thrashing against her brothers and Killian who held him. Saw the Lady’s blade cut through the air and toward her heart.
Yet the slushy sound of a blade finally puncturing flesh wasn’t Aisling’s own.
It was rather the tip of an axe jutting from the very place the Lady’s heart should be.
The Lady’s eyes glazed over in the heartbeats before she shattered into thousands of stars. Every spirit shrieking as it flew out the ballroom windows and into the godsforsaken night.
Leaving a battle-ready knight standing in her place.
Lir.