The Savage Queen (The Aisling Trilogy #2)

Chapter XXIX

CHAPTER XXIX

AISLING

The moon cowered, shuddering behind streaks of clouds like rips in a painting. The demon skulking beneath its half-light.

An aberration built with the bones of a mare, yet more gaunt and gangly. Its slender legs creeping into Bludhaven. Pupilless eyes gilded and a foil to the pale shimmer of its mane or tail, dragging behind it like the hair of a hag. And most horrifying of all, was its grin. A crooked smile peeling unnaturally far, pausing just before where the ears should sprout but were noticeably absent.

Lir stood between the branches, high in the apple-crowded canopies. The fall from where they stood life-ending for a mortal.

“A phuka,” Lir whispered, studying it as it ambled through the empty corridors of Bludhaven just visible from where they stood.

The Sidhe exchanged this name often, chronicling tales of their encounters between goblets of fae wine and song.

“So, this is the Unseelie the druids worship?” Aisling asked, joining him at his side.

“Aye,” Lir said.

The phuka moved like a ghost. Head hung low, it traveled aimlessly, stopping to ogle town doors before continuing. Quiet, weightless, and gentle, it left clouds of dread in its wake. A blistering fog, scratching at Bludhaven, climbing the temple walls, and shriveling Lir’s garden till it sunk into Aisling’s skin.

“We should return,” Lir said, seemingly unbothered by the phuka’s influence.

“And what of the Unseelie?” Aisling asked, paralyzed by its image.

“What of it?” Lir held out his hand for Aisling, preparing to begin their descent.

“The mortals are sacrificing their own to it, aren’t they?” Aisling asked. Indeed, she’d smelled the iron of their blood smeared across the town. The sound of human bones clicking from the thatched and shingled roofs, singing with the memory of those perished. Witnessed the townsfolk bolt their doors and drain the streets come dusk. Felt the empty clang of the temple’s bell to announce a feeding when all but the moon would bear witness.

“It appears that way,” Lir said, voice emotionless.

Aisling considered him, lingering atop the branches even as he waited for her.

“You bear no inclination to help them, do you?”

Lir did a double take, tempering his emotion, but Aisling caught the flash of confusion then outrage, flickering across his verdant gaze.

“Help a village of mortals?” He shook his head. “Set aside my loathing and still there’s little if any reason to intervene.”

“Yet it’s your woodland. Your Unseelie and they’re dying?—”

“Ask it and it’s my command. But if you’re appealing to my compassion for mortal kind—if you want a hero, a knight in polished armor, return to your princeling. For a hero I’ll never be.”

Aisling stilled, Lir’s words echoing long after they’d sounded. Spoken as though they’d lived inside his mind for far longer than he’d want her to know.

“They’re surviving. This village is prospering, the hunters, the gatherers, all able to leave their mortal walls in exchange for a blood sacrifice. A deal they struck of their own free will, considering fae deals can be sealed no other way. Humans are never the victims they’d have you believe they are.”

Aisling stood silent, watching the phuka glide from door to door, searching for its offering.

“Yet you can end it. Do away with more unnecessary bloodshed.”

“Bloodshed is always necessary, ellwyn .”

“That’s heartless.”

“It’s survival,” Lir said, the wind winding through his dark hair. “That Unseelie has no less right to live than any mortal. Both beast and man are nightmares incarnate: humans are simply more efficient at feigning innocence.”

The night died screaming.

Aisling covered her ears till the sun rose and morning was born. The ghosts of Roktan sailors burned alive, imbuing present horrors. Of sacrifices made in the dead of night to those who forgot to paint their doors. Of those blood sacrifices whose families shoved them into the streets and left them for dead.

So, as soon as Aisling descended the tavern stairs and met Dagfin’s eyes, he realized her restless night.

He moved toward her, a question in the tilt of his brows. Gilrel hadn’t allowed him into her quarters but, at the very least, he’d known Lir hadn’t returned to his chambers till early morning, if at all.

The familiar scent of him, of childhood memories, of summer chases, of salty seas, and adventure, wracking her chest with guilt. Dagfin felt like a home she could never return to. One she thought of often, a piece of her still living in its simpler memories.

“I purchased horses for travel,” he said as they walked out Abhaile ’s doors side by side. Today, his posture was straighter, his eyes brighter, his voice stronger. The knicks, bruises, and scratches from Oighir, gone. Vanished and replaced with vibrant, warm skin, and renewed energy.

“The rest are already prepared to leave,” he said.

And as though conjured, Lir, Galad, Filverel, Peitho, and Gilrel, sat on restless horses at the center of the thoroughfare, the rest of Bludhaven not yet awake.

Lir spoke with Filverel at the front of their group, dressed again in his leather, pauldrons, and hood, yet he found her eyes at once. Drifting to Dagfin at her side.

“This one is yours,” Dagfin said, leading Aisling to an ivory mare. Its coat was longer than most, hooves thickly feathered and obscured by snow-white hair.

A Tilrish highland horse, in the likeness of a mare she’d grown fond of in Castle Neimedh’s stables but was never permitted to ride.

“Sorcha.” Aisling smiled, remembering its name. And as though this creature bore the same spirit, it neighed, leaning into Aisling’s palm as she stroked its side.

Dagfin’s expression lit like Odhran’s constellation, a heavy breath exhaled.

“Enough dithering,” Filverel hissed from upfront. “We need to ride till evening if we wish to reach Lofgren’s base by nightfall.”

Dagfin lifted Aisling onto the mare with surprising ease. With enough strength to lift the entire horse if he wished. Aisling hesitated, watching as Dagfin leapt onto his own mount behind her. Lithe and agile. The gaunt Dagfin from the day prior, suffering from the consequences of Fionn’s imprisonment and a trek across the north, gone. Replaced by a radiant warrior, rivaling the strength of the fae. A transition occurring overnight.

LIR

“ Blood seeps beneath the soil, drunk by our roots ,” the forest whispered, still and solemn. Cursed to remember the sins committed beneath the shadow of their branches but eager to protect its beasts.

Lir wrapped the reins around his gloves. Mortal mounts weren’t as quick, as obedient, as silent as Sidhe stags. But for now, they’d do.

Lir could smell the draiocht of Samhain ripening with each new day. The cologne of an approaching storm, threaded through the overcast skies in webs of light, making pregnant the clouds above. He could feel Lofgren’s Rise stirring, rolling in its sleep like a bear in the distance, and preparing itself to be met. And once there, Lir would achieve, at long last, complete dominion of the mortal race, sealing their fate in the Forge. For the sins of his mother to be made permanent—etched into forever.

The gates of this godsforsaken mortal town groaned open, unveiling the wilderness beyond.

Lir was glad to be gone from this place. Made useful only for Aisling’s sake: to allow her a respite before continuing their trek.

Still, the toll of their separation hung heavily on both their shoulders. Yet, close to her, he felt his draiocht stretching and gasping for breath after months without air. And he damned himself for it. For the desperate need of her. Every new breath, a prayer Aisling was not his damnation but his salvation. Not his destiny to repeat his mother’s crimes but a forging of something new. Something powerful. Something to change the course of Danu’s prophecies and the Lady’s alike. His hope to weave a tapestry of their own. To not yield to fate, but to master it. To change the course of everything.

But even if she were his damnation, Lir found to his horror, he’d relish damnation if only wielded by her hands. And Lir was concerned he was already experiencing it, too bespelled to realize it. That’s what Filverel and Peitho claimed.

Once all were set to leave, Lir nudged his mount onward. The feywilds stirred in anticipation of him.

“Halt!” a voice cried from behind.

A cloaked figure appeared, wrapped in linen robes and crowned by a circlet with stags’ antlers on either side. A poor imitation of Lir’s own crown, given to the high chief of the druids that worshiped him as well as the feywilds and their beasts. Fifteen or more followers dressed similarly and huddled around him.

Over the centuries, Lir had come across several settlements like Bludhaven. They made offerings and sacrifices, copied Sidhe runes, and christened their children with Sidhe names. All in hopes of Lir’s blessing. Lir dismissed their prayers, for the only blessing he’d ever bestow upon them would be to spare their settlement his wrath when he purged this realm of mankind. Of the blood that had maimed, tortured, stolen, and burned his land, his people. Brought about by his first caera , Narisea’s, undoing. This despite carrying his child and the heir to the greenwood throne.

Lir cringed at the memory, glaring at the druid.

“Your Majesty, crown prince of Roktling.” The druid addressed Dagfin, bowing his head in greeting. The priest, a spiritual guide for the druids, nevertheless unable to see through the simplest of Lir’s glamours.

“I, chief and high priest Veran, intended to request an audience with Your Majesty, not realizing you were to leave as swiftly as you arrived.”

“Apologies,” the Faerak replied. “Our business here was short-lived and our time of the essence.”

“Please, Your Majesty, I only beseech you to stay until the end of Samhain . Our people have caught word of your heroism elsewhere, slaying the beasts that plague our kind despite our mortal tendency to ignore all that is Other. To recognize the magic of our realm as anything more than stories. It is an honorable service.” The priest bowed, the bones hanging from the circlet, clacking.

“And so, I request such heroism on behalf of my people.”

Lir struggled to bite his tongue. He needn’t draw unnecessary attention to either himself or his knights, especially during Samhain , when the draiocht was especially mischievous and lawless. Capable of unveiling his glamour should Lir indulge in his rage.

“You worship the feywilds, the beasts, the Aos Sí. What reason would you have for my services?” Dagfin asked, forcing Lir to wonder if the princeling was aware of the phuka wandering the streets and claiming souls yestereve or if he’d been too consumed with inhaling Ocras to notice. Enough to kill a weaker human. And if Dagfin hadn’t wreaked of it, Lir would’ve noticed regardless. The sharp transformation from wounded mortal to gleaming Faerak in a handful of hours. His dependency deepening.

“All things worship out of fear, Your Majesty. We’re attuned to the earth and the churning of the Forge, harboring utmost respect for all its creation.” The druid paced nearer, his cloaked followers matching his movements. “But with you here, Prince of Demons Death, we bare the tools to end bloodshed until the next beast arrives, and we’re forced to strike a deal we must abide by lest we starve.”

“You wish me to hunt this Unseelie down?”

Peitho and Filverel both glanced at Lir, gauging his reaction.

“The phuka, Your Majesty.”

Aisling considered the priest through narrowed eyes, reminding Lir of their conversation the night before and wondering if Aisling felt the inclination to help once more. Angering him further.

“There’s no time,” Lir growled from up ahead, meeting Dagfin’s glare. “And this isn’t our concern.”

The druids all scowled at Lir, noticing him for the first time. Tempting Lir to strip himself of his glamour and have them fall to their knees.

“Fionn and the Lady are still nipping at our heels.” Aisling spoke to the princeling, her words nearly a whisper. “We cannot wait till the end of Samhain .”

Dagfin worked his jaw, considering. A fact which annoyed Lir more than most things. For despite the priest’s ignorance, the choice was not the princeling’s.

“I cannot refuse them help,” he replied to Aisling, just as low. “And if placed in my position, neither would you.”

Aisling grimaced.

“You think too highly of me,” she said.

“You sacrificed your life for the mortal race once before. At the expense of all you held dear. Why should today be any different?”

Aisling held Dagfin’s gaze, expression unreadable. But Lir saw the conflicted curve at the edge of her lips. The frown that settled across her brow. The way her eyes slid to Lir’s own, weighing the correct choice. Caught in between. And so long as Aisling was lost somewhere in the middle, Lir suffered, drowning in his own longing.

“We ride now,” the Sidhe king growled, his patience spent.

Lir nudged the mount onwards, his knights following suit while Dagfin and Aisling lingered behind. A shred of doubt blooming in Lir that perhaps Aisling wouldn’t follow.

Lir’s horse reared, startled by a figure approaching from the feywilds.

Lir knew before he could make sense of its details the figure was mortal. A child, no older than a handful of years, racing for Bludhaven. Mud and blood alike, streaked across its blue cheeks and lips purpled by the cold. It wept as it collapsed across the drawbridge, but not a druid moved. Instead, they glared at him, whispering useless prayers to the gods. The guards at the front entrance raising their crossbows and aiming at the child.

“Be gone!” the priest shouted, fear mingling with anger and breaking his voice. “This is no home to you now, child!”

The child stuttered. Unable to use its tongue for shock or the cold, Lir couldn’t tell.

The Sidhe king hesitated, his mount huffing and stomping in place.

“I said be gone!” the druid repeated, voice echoing amidst the silence.

Without thinking, Lir leapt off the horse and approached the child in one movement. He felt Bludhaven stir, their whispers scraping against the cold.

“Do not touch him!” The druid’s face burned red, shaking with fury. “That child is the phuka’s now. Touch him, and you will condemn us all to certain death for entertaining an escaped sacrifice! He must go back, and our payment must be paid unless his majesty slays the phuka.”

Lir ignored the priest, kneeling before the child. He was just a fledgling.

Sidhe children, as rare as they might be, lived decades as children. On the other hand, and at the cost of mortal lifespans, human children lived only a handful of years from birth to adulthood. Meaning this child hadn’t entered life but perhaps three years prior. Its handful of years a blink in comparison to Sidhe children. Nothing more than a bairn.

Lir reached out and held the child’s cheek. Its flesh hard and waxy to the touch. Lir’s loathing for the child’s mortal blood cooled by the streaks of tears and the child’s cooing. The fluttering of its lashes, the innocence, so akin to Sidhe bairns it almost ached.

The memories of a hungry cry echoed in his mind. Nightmares of a Sidhe bairn calling out to a mother who’d presaged its own death as Lir cradled it in his arms. Desperate to keep its small fire burning if just for a breath longer. To hear its cries for an eternity. And at the time, Lir didn’t realize that despite the bairn’s death after Narisea’s, he’d indeed hear its cries forever. Its precise decibel finding him in a quiet room, a dreamless sleep, a still morning. The pain of every memory, a reminder he still bore a heart. That Lir had once loved and lost greatly.

“This is but one of hundreds of mortal children they’ve given to the phuka, Damh Bán ,” the forest whispered. “He rode the phuka far between our trees until at last, the creature stopped for its meal, and the child—clever child—escaped, screaming for its mother. But where is she now?”

Lir glanced over his shoulder at the crush of townsfolk gathering to witness the spectacle. Aisling and Dagfin stood nearest the flock of mortals. And beyond them, he could smell the mother from where he crouched. The same blood as the child intermingling with potent terror and regret.

Lir scooped the boy into his arms.

“Tell me, what do you see, Damh Bán ?” the forest continued, groaning. “Is it possible you see what you’ve lost in something left living? Even if that something is a mortal child? Ahh, I see now, yes, yes, there is a child-shaped hole in your heart, Damh Bán . A wound that will never heal.”

Lir stood before Bludhaven, sheltering the child from their judgement. A moment of confusion unspooling before Lir dropped the glamour and allowed his audience to glean his true self. The barbarian lord of Annwyn towering before them, their sacrifice in his arms.

They gasped, staggering back in shock. Veneration muddled with potent horror. The chief druid, paling, his old bones supported by the followers around him. All of Bludhaven holding its breath with no sign of release.

“I’ll kill the phuka,” Lir said. “And in exchange you’ll not only care for and take in this child, but you’ll also offer yourselves before you ever sacrifice another child again. Lest I allow the feywilds to swallow this village whole, consume you from the inside out, and spare only the young.”