The Savage Queen (The Aisling Trilogy #2)

Chapter XXVII

CHAPTER XXVII

AISLING

“You cannot have them both, mo Lúra .”

Gilrel scoured the entire chamber, thrusting aside the embroidered curtains, crawling beneath the quilted bed, digging inside the moth-infested closet, and rummaging through the drawers. Ensuring no one or no thing lurked inside their room unbeknownst to either she or Aisling.

Aisling stood by the window, glaring down at the thoroughfare below. A river of mortals, increasing the pace of their gait as the northern sun lay to rest below Lofgren’s peaks. Shutters slamming shut, doors locked, and shops emptied.

Dagfin, among them, ventured into a shop of herbs, incense, and teas, speaking in whispers to a haggard-looking man as he disappeared inside. A fresh hood pulled over his head. Aisling leaned further out her window to catch a better glimpse, but the moment was fleeting and her vantage point limited.

“You straddle the line between your old life and the new. Between your princeling and the Damh Bán .”

Aisling tangled her fingers in the curtains.

“I’m both. Both my old life and my new,” Aisling replied more honestly than she’d intended. “And I cannot commit to either my mortal or fae reflection without killing the other first.”

“Then perhaps you must welcome such death, mo Lúra .” Gilrel smoothed out her furs, hopping atop the table at the center of the room and pouring herself a glass of water from the decanter. Without hesitation, she spewed whatever touched her tongue across the room. Aisling didn’t need an explanation. Mortal water wasn’t comparable to what the Sidhe drank: cool, freshly collected, glacial, rapid, and rainwater blessed and purified by nymphs.

“‘ Mo Lúra ,’” Aisling repeated. “The last I saw you, you called me by my given name.”

Gilrel straightened, gathering herself.

“And last I saw you, you were fleeing on horseback with five mortal princes. One among them, the son of the fire hand, and Galad’s torturer.”

Aisling flinched as though physically struck, forcing herself to meet Gilrel’s eyes.

“You’re angry with me, I understand. But I needed— need to reach Lofgren’s Rise before all else who might complicate my ends. I’ve lived half a life. And I’ll perish before I settle for such an existence for a second time. If there’s even a chance my life means more than it has, I must know it.”

The groaning of the tavern was deafening. Moaning as though weeping uncontrollably, bracing itself for the storm stalking in the later hours of the evening.

Gilrel didn’t move. Her paws hanging motionless at her sides.

But before Aisling could say more, a knock sounded at the door, startling them both.

Gilrel unlatched the locks, peering through the needle-thin crack with the haft of her blade in one hand, prepared to be drawn. Her suspicions were seemingly assuaged by whoever stood in the corridor, for the door swung open entirely.

Galad, expressionless, stood in the doorway, a pile of clothes in his hands.

“Lir had me fetch these for mo Lúra .” He handed the clothes over to Gilrel, deigning to glance in Aisling’s direction.

“Galad—” Aisling began, his name spoken in her thoughts before finding its way onto her tongue. But the fae knight ignored her, turning and leaving without another word. The door swung shut behind him. The sound of its slap echoing painfully.

Gilrel cleared her throat, thoughts masked by the growing dark of evening. Both she and Aisling, wordlessly having agreed to forgo firelight in their chambers.

The pine marten handed Aisling the bundle of clothes. Leather pants, gloves, and boots lined with fur, a tunic, a wool vest, and a thick cloak, proper for the growing cold of Fionn’s winter.

“How quickly you forget the Sidhe’s role in revealing your true nature. I welcomed you—befriended you. Lir guided you. And Galad, despite the loathing of all others, believed in you. And yet you betrayed us?—”

“Betrayed? It was the Aos Sí who corrupted the treaty my union symbolized, not the mortals.”

“Ah yes. The Aos Sí— your people as queen of Annwyn and bride of the forest. You are no longer mortal, Aisling, despite how desperately you cling to those who drank the blood of half your life. And so, our betrayal of the mortals was yours as well.”

Aisling bit her tongue.

“You left us, and coupled with those who’ve indulged in our suffering,” the pine marten continued. “If you believe for a moment even your most recent sins will be forgiven so quickly, reconsider what naivety remains while you pursue something more for yourself.”

Gilrel started for the door, pausing before shutting it entirely. A temple bell clanging outside the tavern and crying into the night.

“And be glad,” the pine marten added, “it’s our anger you face and not the edge of our blades.”

DAGFIN

Dagfin was familiar with Bludhaven. The second time he’d visited this druid settlement, he’d been half blind and nearly deaf after an encounter with the bánánach Unseelie, haunting mortal settlements closer to Heill. So he’d memorized the path to this very shop by sound, smell, and the press of the gravel beneath his boots.

And over time, Dagfin had learned the way of druids. Druids were most often peaceful. They enjoyed their incense, their runes, and their prayers, often keeping to themselves, secluded from the rest of the mortal world. This, by their own design but also because humankind despised them, feared them, and kept them at an arm’s length as outcasts, strangers, and, often, traitors.

But because of their proficiency with herbs, spices, potions, and draughts, druid settlements like Bludhaven were where Faerak Ocras was often brewed and sold on the outskirts of kingdoms in the cloak of anonymity. And Bludhaven was no different.

Dagfin threaded through the flagstone thoroughfare, slipping between the flood of burghers passing through. A steady susurration of village sounds, calming his spirit after weeks of wilderness. Of fae.

He needed a moment away. Not to mention every glance at Aisling since they’d entered Bludhaven broke his heart. Lir’s magic transformed Aisling’s appearance back to her mortal self, seemingly entirely human once more and painfully familiar. A ghost still stalking this realm with its body staggering behind.

Dagfin slipped into a ramshackle shop; those were the best sources of dust, stores in disrepair. It meant the owners, artisans, and brewers paid close attention to their craft, prioritizing authenticity. At least, that was the trend Dagfin had met sifting through villages across the north as a Faerak .

Indeed, it was these mortals who spent years chipping away at Iod’s mountain range in the cloak of shadow and outside its gates. Furiously harvesting the Ocras where they believed the spirit of the mountain’s late queen couldn’t catch them stealing.

“Here comes the Roktan prince,” a man boomed from inside the dusty interior. A hearth defrosting Dagfin’s weary muscles the moment he’d stepped across the scuffed threshold. “I didn’t think I’d be seein’ ye so soon.”

“Neither did I.”

“Are ye lookin’ for more Ocras then?” he asked, scratching his beard as he appraised Dagfin more closely.

Dagfin glanced over his shoulder, nodding in response. The Faerak knew how pale he looked, the rings beneath his eyes, the dry grate of his voice, and his tired posture. So, he did his best to mask himself in the shadows.

The man before him, on the other hand, was robust, marked in fae runes and wore bones in his braids. The Roktan prince wasn’t certain of his name, maybe Sisin…Sarragh…or Sean…Dagfin couldn’t remember. At some point, every person who’d ever sold him Ocras had begun to blur together, countless to name and remember.

“You didn’t finish the last of it yet, did ye?”

Dagfin ignored his question, fishing a bag of coins from his pocket before remembering all his belongings had been stripped from his person in Oighir.

“Roktling will repay you for your services,” he said, hoping the man accepted the debt. And by the look on the shopkeeper’s face, said hope was kindled. “A few more throwing daggers as well.” This, considering those had also been stolen by Frigg and his pack of wolves. Now, all he carried was Fionn’s sword, strapped to his back.

Behind the shopkeeper were shelves of bottled ointments, salves, elixirs, and remedies. Some Dagfin had made use of himself after his more dangerous Faerak pursuits: changeling’s shroud, giant’s bane, ghost scream, and fox foot. And above their heads hung iron weapons of all make and size, freshly forged at the back of the shop.

“Does Feradach know of this?” the shopkeeper pressed.

Dagfin soured at the sound of his father’s name. Feradach indeed knew where Dagfin was and what he was pursuing. He’d never been dishonest with his father even if the Roktan king disapproved. And yet, perhaps, Dagfin couldn’t help wondering if his father hoped his son would return with the curse breaker himself, bringing honor to their seafaring kingdom.

Nevertheless, Dagfin had never told his father the consequences of Ocras. After all, Feradach already despised all Dagfin did as a Faerak . Dagfin was meant to be in Roktling, preparing to be king, studying politics and acquainting himself with the day-to-day chores of running a kingdom. So, any mention of Ocras would only worsen those tensions he already bore with his father.

“I don’t mean to pry,” the shopkeeper said. “I only can’t continue to supply you with Ocras in good conscience if it means I’m slowly killing the heir to the Roktan throne.”

“I’m not the heir,” Dagfin said, too quickly. “My brother was.”

The shopkeeper shifted awkwardly, sweat beading across his creased brow from the heat of the forge at the back of the shop.

“If you aren’t willing to sell me anymore, I’ll find it someplace else,” Dagfin said, mouthwatering at the prospect of Ocras being so close yet just out of reach.

“I’ll sell it to ye,” the man mumbled reluctantly, reaching beneath the counter for a discreetly labeled flask. A concoction of equal parts Ocras and water. “But know, even if ye’ve heard it a thousand times, there’s a reason not every boy with a stick in his hand and dreams of being a hero becomes a Faerak . Once you’ve tasted the Ocras it’ll never let go, yer only way out is to master its allure enough to survive and no more. Otherwise, what gives ye strength to fight the beasts will kill ye before some fae ever does.”

Dagfin took the bottle and turned on his heel. The man was right. He’d heard this advice a thousand times over. And yet, Dagfin not only craved more Ocras, but he also needed it.

“Look out for yerself,” the shopkeeper urged him as the prince stepped out the door. “And watch yer back.”

Dagfin inhaled winter, uncorking the bottle and taking a swig as soon as he was able.

After years of Ocras, when he was deprived, he could scarcely find the energy to walk much less fight, and Dagfin had sworn to fight until his day’s death.