The Savage Queen (The Aisling Trilogy #2)

Chapter XXVI

CHAPTER XXVI

LIR

The trek to Lofgren’s Rise, from where they’d fallen outside Oighir, wasn’t far. Lir estimated the journey would last another fortnight, unless their enemies slowed them down: rogue beasts, mortals, Sidhe, the gods…Lir ground his fangs.

Nevertheless, the Sidhe king didn’t anticipate more humans than he’d already encountered attempting the journey. This considering he’d already witnessed the Aithirnian queen turn her ship around at the sight of his fae party. Lir slaughtered the majority of Bregganite soldiers who’d traveled ahead of their sovereign, attempting to ambush the Sidhe king and his knights. Their deaths, a warning to their mortal laird to journey no farther.

As for the other Sidhe sovereigns, Lir knew which of them relied on him to obtain the curse breaker and which didn’t, instead depending on Fionn to deter him, too afraid to challenge Lir themselves.

For now, Aisling needed new clothing and their group an opportunity to resupply themselves. Even if that meant mortal goods.

“ What are you doing, Lir ?” Peitho asked in Rún, approaching from behind. Lir stood at the edge of a crag, overlooking a valley of frostbitten pines twinkling beneath a shuddering sun. Lofgren’s Rise hunched in the distance.

“ Isn’t it obvious ?” he said, glancing at her over his shoulder. “ Determining a path of travel. There’s a village through these woods that will ?—”

“ You know that’s not what I mean .” Peitho’s expression hardened, taking a cautious step toward him. “ Oighir, Fionn, the tests. It’s already gone too far. You need to end this now. Kill Aisling if you must now that you’ve garnered a semblance of her trust and if you cannot bring yourself to end her, wound her greatly enough that she cannot continue. Every breath she exhales is a challenge to your—to our pursuit of the curse breaker. She cannot be trusted. I’ve held my tongue this long but after Oighir and Fionn…you risk too much .”

Lir ground his fangs. Doing his best to resist the ripple of his temper.

“ I’ll forgive those words for the last time, Peitho ,” he said, every word colder than Fionn’s ice. “ But speak them again, and I’ll not be so forgiving .”

“ You’ve gone mad, Lir . Whatever power your bond as caera holds over you cannot take precedence over your duty to the Sidhe .”

“ And it never will .”

“ Then why have we come for her?! Why do we not end her for the threat she is?! ”

“ Because I can’t !” he shouted, more loudly than he’d anticipated. Peitho startled, stepping back in fear or disgust—Lir wasn’t certain. Only she did her best to mask whatever it was she felt, glancing back at the forest to see if the others had overheard.

Peitho swallowed.

“ Filverel, Galad, Gilrel, and even I will support you. Will follow you to end of this realm if we must, but we don’t agree with whatever bind she holds over you .”

“ I never asked for your opinion, Peitho ,” he bit, his patience thinning. “ I chose this path and each of you followed of your own free will. So, turn back if you like. My choices are my own .”

Peitho’s brows drew together.

“ Turn back? Is that what we mean to you? Knights who’ve sworn their allegiance so trivial as to dismiss on a whim? ”

“ What is it you want from me? The union between you and me was never meant to be, Peitho. We owe nothing to one another .”

Peitho winced, eyes glassy with tears.

“ I came to you when Niltaor was in need and you swore ?—”

“ I will keep my promises to the South. Niltaor will remain under the protection of Annwyn and Racat if that’s what concerns you .”

Lir and Peitho’s union had been discussed long before Lir had ever met Aisling, in the hopes that Annwyn would aid Niltaor. A union Lir had almost forgotten until now.

Lir started back through the woods, brushing past Peitho without another glance. The princess glared vacantly at the valley below, seemingly on the verge of tears. Until she reached out and grabbed Lir’s arm without warning, moving her mouth toward his.

Instinctually, Lir jerked back, avoiding her kiss. He tore himself from her hold, watching the red humiliation blur over her cheeks alongside her anger. And yet neither emotion rivalled Lir’s frustration, his thinning patience.

“ And you and me? Is this what’s become of you and me? ” she asked, her voice thick with emotion as Lir increased the distance between them, stepping further back.

“ There’s nothing between you and me ,” he said, his voice slick. And by the twitch of Peitho’s expression, as though she’d just endured a physical blow, Lir knew it was for the best.

“ I don’t believe you. Niltaor and Annwyn could unite the Sidhe once more, breed fear into the Unseelie once more, but it is she who undermines you! It is she who betrayed our kind, who burned me! Who threatens everything and if it weren’t for you, I’d have killed Aisling thrice over by now! ”

Lir tossed his right axe, and the blade flew. Spiraled toward Peitho, forcing her to duck in time to dodge the gleaming edge. Thudding into the birch behind her.

Peitho rose, eyes wide, as Lir approached, reaching over her to draw his blade back from the tree in a flurry of splinters.

“ Speak her name again, and next time I won’t miss .”

AISLING

Even through the labyrinth of snow, the voice of a mortal town forced its way through. Churning, bleating, heaving. The teeth of its furnace grinding till smoke rose into the sky and steeped the forest in its musk.

“What mortals build a settlement in the middle of the feywilds?” Aisling asked, turning to face Galad walking beside her, covering his nose with the fae-spun wool of his hood.

But it was Lir who replied from behind.

“Those who worship it.”

Aisling’s brows knotted.

“Druids,” Gilrel clarified.

And as though summoned, a great wall appeared between the woodland’s bones.

The height of age-old oaks and made of stone, it was formidable and christened with a thick drawbridge lying over a river of sparkling black.

A weathered plaque reading “Bludhaven” hung above the drawbridge.

Yet the Aos Sí symbols, dripping from the walls in sheep’s blood, drew Aisling’s attention and held it. Characters in Rún mirroring many of the images etched into Lir’s, Galad’s, Filverel’s, and Peitho’s skin.

“Protection runes,” Gilrel said, climbing a nearby tree to get a better look.

“Protection against the Sidhe?” Aisling asked, remembering the runes Killian had carved into Dagfin’s and her brothers’ flesh.

None of their group replied. The anger, the resentment, the frustration they harbored for her after she’d run from Dagfin and Peitho’s union potent in the air. Tangible in the way they kept their distance, only spoke to her when necessary, and enjoyed most of their conversations in Rún. Masking what they could from her. A coldness that rivaled the surrounding landscape. None quite so painful as Galad and Gilrel’s flippant disregard for her.

“No,” Dagfin responded. “Protection against a beast.”

The forest reacted, chittering and thrashing its limbs.

Aisling shuddered. “How do you know?”

“I’ve seen its likeness before,” Dagfin said. “Runes painted to ward off Unseelie lest their sacrifices not appease the feywilds.”

Aisling eyed the surrounding woods more closely. They peered back at her, shifting to get a better look. More composed than they’d been outside Lir’s presence. Where they once clawed for her, now they stood in the periphery, watching intently as she passed.

“We’ll stay the night,” Lir said, to Aisling’s relief. She needed new garments, lest she traverse the feywilds and climb Lofgren’s rise in no more than a soaked gown.

Peitho grimaced. “You can’t possibly?—”

“Make yourself useful, princeling,” Lir interrupted, ignoring Peitho and gesturing to Bludhaven with a nod of his head.

Dagfin scoffed. “You intend to enter a mortal township with four fae, the not-so-mortal queen of Annwyn, and a weasel?”

Gilrel frowned. “Careful, Faerak , before we gift you as an offering.”

But before Dagfin could reply, the air adjusted, and the pressure popped their ears. The distinct scent of pine needles and rain perfuming the air. As though the spirit of a storm had come and gone, rinsing them each in magic.

To Aisling, nothing had noticeably changed. But by the expression on Dagfin’s face, Aisling knew they’d been glamoured by Lir’s draiocht . Disguised as something other than fae.

“Problem solved,” Lir said, starting for Bludhaven.

“Name yourselves,” two men shouted from atop the wall’s battlements, crossbows armed with iron-tipped arrows.

Dagfin approached first, the rest behind.

“Dagfin of clann Feradach and crown prince of Roktling.”

The archers hesitated, lowering their crossbows as recognition dawned.

“The Faerak ?” one of them asked, hope inflecting their northern mortal accents.

“Aye. My group and I come in search of refuge for the night,” Dagfin continued and before he could say more, the drawbridge was lowering, groaning till the interior of the township was visible. A civilization overgrown by the forest despite their great wall: moss-covered wattle and daub cottages, pigs roasting over spits, the plucking of a distant fiddle, unfamiliar incense, and the churn of hundreds flooding the cobbled corridors and spilling at the seams. Mortal builds, stacked upon one another, all nestled between crisp cypresses and their roots.

A poor mortal imitation of a fae world.

“Please, please enter, Your Majesty,” one of the archers said breathlessly. “Veran will be most honored to make your acquaintance.”

Cautiously at first, their group crossed the drawbridge and stepped inside Bludhaven. The guards’ attention lingered on those accompanying the Roktan prince.

Before them, at the center of the main thoroughfare, was a rune nailed into the flagstones. And etched on its surface read a prayer:

I sing this song to Dark One

Whose shadows keep me warm.

Protect me in your woods.

Forge a path amidst your keep

And, while I wander,

Spell your beasts to sleep.

Lir considered the rune for but a heartbeat, swiftly distracted by the bustling village.

These druids worshiped Lir, prayed to him, and the fae king despised them nevertheless. At best, considered them with apathy, these druids spared for their reverence and nothing more, Aisling assumed.

Aisling shook her head. Throughout her life, she was taught humans both feared and despised the mythic barbarian lord. Never could she have imagined some mortals worshiped him. Beseeched him for protection while traversing his forests.

The villagers whispered, heads bobbing to get a better glance at the strangers passing through. Women were leaning through their upper story windows, the smithy pausing his smelting, the beggars cursing beneath their breath, the sentinels twitching as they eyed not Lir and his knights, carefully glamoured, but Dagfin.

“It’s he!” a muddy child shouted, quickly silenced by his friends. “Prince of Demons Death.”

They revered Dagfin. A folk hero, brought to life through the smog of Samhain ’s breath, bleeding across Fjallnorr at dusk. Forcing Aisling to wonder if Lir and his knights had noticed the shift in the air Dagfin inspired as well.

Aisling had known, had seen how Dagfin had changed since she’d last set eyes on him as a boy. But today, she saw the legacy of his evolution and the esteem he’d won as a result. The fame. Even as Dagfin chose to ignore their ill-masked gossip and reverence, leading four fae knights, the not-so-mortal queen of Annwyn, and a marten in disguise into the pit of their world.

But Aisling’s attention was swiftly stolen by the bloody runes painted across Bludhaven, the bones hanging from rooftops like wind chimes, and the temple at the end of the thoroughfare. A colossal structure adorned with countless statues of winged Aos Sí. The statues swung their blades beside the pointed archways, plucked harps, blew flutes atop the spindly spires, and danced across the stained glass. All chiseled with such lifelike realism as though a single lingering glare could bring them to life. Crowned by the image of a stag bowing to all those who crossed its threshold.

And growing from within was a blood ash. Branches and roots breaking through the stained glass, around the galleries, and along the stone exterior, rising from the roof of the cathedral and to the grumbling clouds overhead.

Chanting roared from its inside and slithered through Bludhaven’s passages, its song wholly unsettling.

“This looks as good a place as any,” Gilrel said, carrying her tail so the sea of mortals didn’t trample it. She gestured to one of the many inns pressed between smoking hospices.

“ Abhaile ” was written across a creaking sign just above its threshold. A fae word, Aisling conjectured.

They entered.

The roar of the town faded into the twang of the bard plucking at his lute and the drunkards singing along, washing over Aisling as she stepped onto the sticky ale-stained floorboards. Soft, golden firelight flickering beneath eight or so wooden beams, carrying the weight of what Aisling imagined were rooms for stay.

Filverel approached the bar, whispering beneath his breath to the mortal who stood behind it. Aisling studied their interaction. To Aisling, who saw beyond Lir’s glamour, Filverel was a pale opal surrounded by common highland stones. Another testament to the Sidhe’s glory, made blinding by the fae king standing beside her. A dark jewel inside this mortal, dusty cavity. Glittering with all the lethality she’d dreamt of over the past several months.

“You should eat,” Lir said to Aisling, starting for one of the various tables spread throughout the inn’s first floor. In a cobwebbed corner of Abhaile , the dark cloaked the one he chose.

Galad and Gilrel followed Lir while Peitho approached the bar alongside Filverel.

Aisling hung back, Dagfin a step behind, finding in himself the motivation to join Lir.

“It’s dangerous to be walkin’ round these parts dressed such as yourself.” A man stepped between Aisling and Lir’s table, bulbous eyes devouring her unapologetically. He smelled of bitter ales and body odor, boots caked in mud, and had a face marred by both an unfavorable life and indulgent drink. Poorly drawn fae markings etched beneath his skin.

Indeed, only Dagfin’s Roktan cloak prevented her from being entirely bare to the ravenous winter. Whatever Sidhe blood flowed freely within her warmed her bones enough and if a faint whisper of the cold threatened to chill her, Aisling simply summoned her fires beneath her skin. Nevertheless, glamoured by Lir, these druids saw only a woman in a weathered dress and cloak, stumbling into their tavern.

“It’s no concern of yours,” Dagfin said from behind Aisling, his voice taut with calculated anger.

“I wasn’t talkin’ to ye,” the man said, stepping nearer to Aisling. “I was talkin’ to the lady.”

Aisling simpered, the draiocht prickling at her fingertips.

“A choice you’ll regret if you don’t clear my path.”

The man revealed a collection of yellowed teeth. “So the lady has fangs. Why don’t you come and sit a while, I’ll warm ye?—”

The man’s eyes went wide. The words seemingly caught in his throat. Aisling glanced over her shoulder at Dagfin, but his daggers were still sheathed. Only his shoulders hiked in anger.

The man gagged, face red and horrified. And Aisling knew. Knew before the first vines slithered from his mouth, suffocating him from the inside and crawling to the light to boast their victory. Just as Lir had done to Ciar before Dagfin and Peitho’s failed union.

Lir, seemingly bored, shoved past the man to return for Aisling. The druid, knocked off balance, tumbled into a nearby table drawing the attention of the tavern.

Lir pressed his gloved hand to the small of Aisling’s back, gently guiding her to their table.

Dagfin hesitated, torn between following Aisling or helping the druid. A punishable crime but, in Dagfin’s eyes, not by death, Aisling knew.

“Remind me not to let you out of my sight again,” Lir said, even as the man collapsed against Abhaile ’s floor, thorny tendrils wet with mortal blood as he heaved the last of Lir’s magic.

“I’m not your hunt,” Aisling said, still glancing at the man over her shoulder.

“Don’t look,” Lir said.

“You’re killing him.”

“The art of the kill is often a practice of managing guilt. And after a few hundred times, it grows easy until nothing is felt at all.”

“You’re wicked.”

“You say it like you’re surprised.” Lir pulled out a chair for Aisling at their table, gesturing for her to sit. “For him”––Lir tilted his head in the man’s direction, his suffering drawing a crowd––“not only do I feel no guilt at all, I enjoyed it. And if you’d known what he intended, you would too.”

The tavern erupted, wandering eyes drawn by the fleshy thud of his body against the floorboards. They gasped, and some screamed, praying to the Damh Bán . The irony, a grisly spectacle unraveling before their eyes.

Aisling took her seat, Dagfin following shortly behind.

“Save the sanctimonious lecture, princeling,” Galad said as Dagfin threw himself into a chair. But Aisling knew Dagfin wouldn’t have picked this fight. Dagfin was a peacemaker, an argument-ender, and wise when it came to choosing his battles. He’d known who he’d chosen to follow for Aisling’s sake. So, despite his horror or the weight of his conscience, he swallowed his vitriol and sat quietly. Arms crossed, biding his time.

A plate of what Aisling could only describe as ash clattered before her: stale bread, bland oats, and bruised fruit. She resisted the urge to gag, eyeing her plate like a death sentence. The thought—let alone the sight—of mortal foods sickened her. The memory of Fionn’s fae banquets flashing across her memory.

Lir leaned back in his chair, watching her beneath hooded eyes.

“You can no longer consume mortal foods, can you?” he asked. A question that summoned Dagfin’s full attention.

Aisling’s nose wrinkled. “No,” she confessed. “Not for some time.”

With each passing day, Aisling’s mortal blood ran thin till she was forced to wonder if, at some point, it would vanish entirely.

Dagfin stilled. Aisling knew he’d suspected. A part of him had known but hadn’t been forced to fully confront the reality until now. Still, his posture was warm, as though he wished to comfort her. All this, despite the thickening of her enemy blood.

Filverel and Peitho threaded through the crowds still gathering around the coughing druid, and to their group.

“The last four rooms,” Filverel said, holding up an array of keys made from bones. Immediately Gilrel groaned, giving voice to Aisling’s frustration and the consequences Filverel’s expression implied.

They’d have to share rooms.

“You fae can decide amongst yourselves,” Dagfin said. “Aisling and I will take the first room.”

Abhaile grew three shades darker, seemingly overcome with the deathly shadows spilled from Lir’s wolfish smile.

“If you want me to kill you, princeling, just say the word.”

All cleared their throats uneasily, save for Dagfin.

“Do you believe I’d let her out of my sight whilst in your presence, fae? You may be here, inspired by motivations of your own, but my intentions are Aisling’s protection alone.”

A muscle flashed across Lir’s jaw, his eyes narrowing even as the corners of his lips curled, both ruthless and feral all at once.

“You shouldn’t dwell long on my intentions with my caera , princeling.” Lir stepped forward, the air growing hot and burning Aisling’s lungs.

Galad, Peitho, Filverel, and Gilrel moved not a hair, watching as though eager for Lir to satiate his temper. The mortals, on the other hand, took notice of the tension brewing, bubbling, and squealing with heat.

“Then it’s settled,” Aisling piped, awarding her both their attention. “The two of you will share a room.”

Lir’s expression muddled, brows drawing together. Unsure whether to be horrified or furious before settling on both. Dagfin was similarly outraged.

“That way, you both can keep a keen eye on the other.”

“I’ll stay with mo Lúra , Damh Bán ,” Gilrel said, mercifully leaping and taking hold of one of Filverel’s bone keys. “And I vow to ensure her safety.” She bowed her head, placing a single paw atop her heart.

Before anyone could argue further, Aisling shoved past them both, Gilrel on her heels as she climbed the tavern stairs toward refuge.