Chapter XXI
CHAPTER XXI
LIR
Poison was sweet.
“The first taste blesses the tongue and the second, curses it.” Filverel read over the parchment, passing it to Galad to see for himself.
Bláth.
Aitil.
Kalfak.
Recta.
Neantóg.
Nimhe.
Fola.
“Six of these are most likely poison while only one is harmless. My guess is Nimhe . Identify that one from whatever spread Fionn offers, and the second victory is yours.”
Lir reclined on his bed, sorting through the fury in his heart. He hated the way Aisling inspired such rage within him. Burned his blood with her spells without ever needing to summon her draiocht .
“Are we certain we can trust this list?” Peitho asked, braiding her hair by Lir’s chamber window.
“Aisling wants to escape Oighir more than anyone. Fionn delays her voyage to Lofgren’s Rise every breath he imprisons her here,” Gilrel said.
“She could burn down this castle if she wished,” Peitho argued. “Yet she hasn’t. Perhaps her loyalties have shifted.”
Lir wrenched his eyes shut. He’d traveled as quickly as possible, blazed through the realm to find Aisling before she forgot him or betrayed him once more. And yet, perhaps he wasn’t quick enough––the thought daggering his chest and breeding new rage.
“Her loyalties may have changed,” Filverel added. “But she couldn’t burn down Oighir. In time, it’s possible, but for now, I suspect her magic is dulled by Fionn’s own.”
At those words, Lir cocked his head to his advisor. He’d wondered the same, questioned why Aisling hadn’t used her draiocht before. Until he realized Aisling wasn’t aware her power was more formidable while in Lir’s presence. Together, their draiocht inspired the other’s; a result of being caera or Danu’s prophecies, Lir wasn’t certain. Only that together, they were enough to bring the world to its knees till kingdom come.
“Enough speculation,” Lir said, unfurling to his feet. “We allot the queen of Annwyn the benefit of the doubt until she’s proven otherwise. As we would any other subject of Annwyn.”
They exchanged glances.
Peitho cleared her throat, arching a brow knowingly.
“How did she say she obtained this parchment anyways?”
Lir’s entire body tensed and the vines he’d grown in his rage crept down the walls with renewed vengeance.
“Tonight, I’ll win the second test. And tomorrow morning, after the third test, Aisling will be one of us once more.”
Lir stalked from the room without another word, his knights staring after him.
Lir enjoyed an audience.
And today, the crowd was larger than when he’d slayed the Ellén Trechend. A sea of Sidhe from Oighir crowding into Fionn’s colossal throne room whether they be birds pressed against the vaulted ceilings, perched on pillars; or Sidhe craning for a glance at Lir and the table set before him. Even Aisling’s brothers, the Tilrish princes and their new Faerak friend, stood amidst the hordes, watching.
“Ignore the onlookers and focus on the task at hand,” Filverel said, eyeing the table himself.
“What fun is a victory if others aren’t around to bask in my glory?”
Filverel exhaled. “Concentrate, Lir. Lest this hunt for your caera end in a bloodbath.”
“I never assumed it would end any other way.”
Filverel snorted, starting toward Galad and Peitho standing in the periphery. He paused.
“Where’s Gilrel?” Filverel asked.
Lir searched the crowds for the pine marten. She was nowhere to be found. Not amidst the crush of spectators, atop the rafters, nor among his own kind.
Just then, Fionn walked into the chamber, escorted by Greum, Frigg, and Aisling at his side.
The sight of Aisling was always enough to steal the breath from Lir’s lungs and today was no different.
Her cloak draped over her head and swept the floors. Lir did his best to refocus his attention, but it was futile, her violet eyes meeting his own and stirring something feral inside. So, Lir couldn’t help the trajectory of his attention as it drifted to Aisling’s arm linked in Fionn’s own. A shadow taking root inside him at the sight of it, inspiring the doubts his knights had spoken earlier.
Aisling and Fionn stood before two thrones, glaring out at Oighir’s court before taking their seats. The vision of them atop the dais together, enough to rip apart any guises Lir had managed since arriving in Fjallnorr.
Perhaps Filverel and Peitho were right , he thought to himself. Both dread and violence strangled his every thought, damning himself for the twisting of his core regardless and the pleasure her dagger elicited each time it struck him in the heart.
But just before Aisling bent to take her seat, she removed her cloak.
She wore an emerald gown. The hue of Annwyn’s forests personified in the rich silk that spilled down her body, pinned at her curves by viridescent beetles Lir found he envied. Insects that tied her braids at the end, interspersed between loose, wild waves in Annwyn fashion. The folds of her gown lengthening, moving, shifting like flora come spring.
Lir cleared his throat.
This was a declaration of her loyalty. A glimmer of hope written in the fabric of her gown; Aisling hadn’t strayed nor aligned herself with Fionn even if hers and Lir’s motivations were at odds. An end to Lir’s knights’ speculations.
But the glory that was Aisling was rapidly eclipsed by Fionn’s presence. The ice crawling up Lir’s boots at the son of Winter’s audience.
Lir hardened, shaking his head as though it could shake out the image of her. To forget Aisling was in the same room. And yet, he knew before he’d tried, the effort was futile.
“Before you is a collection of seven tinctures made with the herbs local to the seven continents,” Greum said. “The Isles of Rinn Dúin, Centar, Bethel, Lilina, Fjallnorr, Shuilan, and Rolum. Each gifted by the twelve fae sovereigns before the Wild Hunt.”
A dwarven hare stepped down the dais with a tray in hand. Atop it were the seven tinctures Greum spoke of, nimbly set before Lir on the table.
“For the second test, the king of the greenwood is to dip the tip of an ivory arrow in only one tincture. Six are poison save for one. He must shoot his target, and should the target survive, Lir proceeds to the third and final test. Should the target die an instant death, he loses.”
“Easy enough,” Lir said as another dwarven hare laid both a single reed and bow before him. Lir tested the weight of both, studying the frozen tip of the arrow, its shaft slick and slender, and its fletching made of owl feathers cut to perfection. The bow was a longbow, carved from the trunks of felled or rotted junipers. The soul of the tree whittled into the longbow still beating like a heart without a body, drumming through Lir’s fingers and caressing his spirit.
All of Annwyn’s knights were trained with a variety of weaponry before they came of age. Only then would they select their preferred weapon. A blade bound to their soul and eventually used to determine the bond of their caera . So, while Lir was always destined to choose the axes gifted to Bres by both the Forge and the gods, he’d trained with weapons of all make and size before. Including the longbow.
“Then let’s begin,” Fionn said with a devious smile. The son of Winter snapped his fingers and six or so Sidhe sentinels escorted a shackled creature into the room.
Aisling stood from her chair. She saw past the folds of spectators from her seat atop the dais. But it wasn’t until the creature emerged from the crush that Lir gleaned who or what it was with his own eyes.
Gilrel, head bowed and ashamed, stopped before the staircase of the dais. A wolf on either side.
“Your target,” Fionn said, every syllable stifling laughter.
Lir scowled. If he guessed the wrong tincture, not only would it mean losing Aisling to Fionn, but it would also ensure Gilrel’s death. A poison arrow was fatal. Especially for a creature as small as the pine marten.
“Let’s begin, shall we?” And at the wave of Fionn’s hands, the wolves left Gilrel alone, Lir’s target. Lir rolled back his shoulders, channeling his frustration into the task at hand.
The seven bottles glittered, singing a different melody desperate to appeal to Lir’s ears.
Lir unstoppered the emerald brew and brought it to his nose, lured by its color. The room grew silent, all eyes fixed on the Sidhe king as he considered the first tincture. Aisling, still standing, was lowered to her seat by the gentle press of Fionn’s hand on her arm. The sight of his brother touching her seizing Lir’s chest in a shadowed grip.
Lir blinked, doing his best to ignore his temper and failing. Grisly thoughts clawing at the walls of his mind despite needing to concentrate on the test.
Initially, the emerald bottle smelled of a paste left behind by silk slugs and harvested to soothe wing wounds. But the scent shifted, transforming into something far sweeter. More like custard and stewed peaches.
Poison was sweet , Lir reminded himself.
Lir set the bottle down and tried three more.
The crimson tincture smelled of yule pudding, the white tincture of sugared teas, and the blue of burning nettle boiled in a pot of maple sap. All sickeningly sweet and overwhelming to the senses.
So, Lir’s hand drifted to both the violet and clear tincture.
The violet bottle reminded Lir of dusk. Of the forest earth cooling come evening, heralded by the lavender haze of an approaching night. The clear bottle was far more grotesque, the same consistency as troll saliva and equally as nauseating in smell. Lir’s brow furrowed. Neither smelled particularly sweet and to decide beyond doubt which was the sweeter of the two would mean tasting both. A costly gamble.
Nevertheless, Lir needed to make a choice. One was Nimhe, the other poison.
He smelled them both several times, a bottle in each hand. His audience stood still, studying his expression. The room so quiet, one could hear a snowflake’s descent.
Lir’s eyes wandered, inevitably finding Aisling’s own.
His throat grew thick.
She held his gaze, violet eyes sinking their fangs into his heart. The shade of heartbreak, of venomous kisses. Of dreams and visions.
Lir took his reed and dipped its tip into the violet brew.
It glistered brilliantly, dripping as Lir nocked the arrow and pulled back the string.
He closed one eye.
Gilrel’s whiskers twitched. She nodded once at Lir before wrenching her eyes shut. A gesture of trust, of faith in Lir’s aim. Yet, the last thing Lir was concerned with was his aim. It was only the tincture at the tip of his reed that bred doubt.
Lir inhaled. Steadied the violent beating of his heart and soothed his nerves. Imitating the brush of a woodland wind in his lungs: slow and patient. Eyes wandering to Fionn.
He could strike his brother now. And in that case, he’d pray he’d chosen the wrong tincture. That poison saturated his arrow and slipped into Fionn’s heart. Yet an arrow to the heart was a death far from slaking Lir’s thirst for violence after the kiss Fionn shared with Aisling.
A vein snaked around Lir’s neck.
Fionn’s assassination would mean a bloodbath whilst in Oighir’s den. Nevertheless, Lir couldn’t help weighing the satisfaction of his brother’s demise with the rational choice. The one Filverel hoped for, burning through Lir’s back with his oppressive stare. Two badgers stood at each entrance to the hall, foxes crouched in the rafters, prepared to let their arrows fly, and several wolves stalked through the folds of Sidhe, eager to wet their fangs. Nevertheless, if Lir chose violence over reason, an escape was still possible so long as he reached Aisling the moment the reed sunk into Fionn’s chest. And if he didn’t…Lir’s gaze slipped to the collar gripping Aisling’s throat.
Lir exhaled, a breath that rattled through the leaves, through the moss-covered earth, through the warm rivers south of here.
The string released from Lir’s fingertips and the arrow shot forth.
It dove like a sparrow, nailing Gilrel in the shoulder.
The pine marten gritted her teeth, taking the blow valiantly. Swallowing the agony. The sight of his knight bracing against a pain he’d inflicted deepened Lir’s hatred for Fionn.
The room hushed, all eyes focused on the pine marten. Aisling sat on the edge of her seat, nails digging into the arms of her chair as the anticipation built. Gilrel either wounded or poisoned.
Gilrel swayed on her paws, sorting through the pain. Till at last, she straightened, swallowed, and stood tall.
Alive.
A second victory.