The Savage Queen (The Aisling Trilogy #2)

Chapter XXXI

CHAPTER XXXI

AISLING

Galad tore through the village with Aisling atop Sorcha, every Bludhaven hand reaching for both she and Lir’s knights. A sea of druids seeking to pull them beneath the surface.

“ Skalla ,” they chanted. A word wielded against Aisling since the moment it’d been spoken. Today, it lacked its usual poison.

“Save us,” they sang, louder and louder, eager to kiss her boots, her legs, the pelt of the mount that guided her to Bludhaven’s threshold. If only to glean a morsel of her magic.

In the eyes of mortals elsewhere, Aisling was a traitor. But to the druids, Aisling was hope. A sign that perhaps mortals could take back what was taken from them so long ago. To undo the crimes of the Sidhe.

They worshiped her. And Aisling found she relished it.

Despite the hordes, Galad encouraged Sorcha onward till at last they broke through the mobs and raced across the drawbridge, Peitho, Filverel, and Gilrel shortly behind.

Lir stood waiting at the entrance, wet with blood and the head of the phuka draped over his shoulder. Dagfin to his left, mercifully still alive.

Aisling exhaled in relief, watching as Lir tossed the head of the phuka at Veran’s feet.

A beast slayed until the next woke to haunt them.

Just as it had in Annwyn, the feywilds of Fjallnorr came alive the deeper and further they traveled. Pearl pines speared into the misty veiled clouds above, as large and sharp as Oighir’s highest towers. Boulders and rock faces slept like bears atop a carpet of crystallized leaves while caves huffed clouds of fog into the forest’s corridors. A realm of whispers, of music, of shadows and light that moved in the periphery only to disappear as swiftly as they’d arrived. Indeed, Samhain was as tangible to smell as it was to taste. An odor of winter spices—anise, buttered nutmeg, cloves, and tea cardamom—and the taste of ice on the tongue. Of slick glacial waters and burning wood.

Aisling rode Sorcha alone at the center of their procession. Lir and Filverel rode at the front, Galad last, and Peitho, Gilrel, and Dagfin at the center, surrounding Aisling. Galad humming melodies Aisling remembered from her time traveling alongside Lir’s knights in Annwyn: “Niamh’s Crown of Rain”, the “Memory of Tir Na Gog”, and the “Sidhe Knight’s Oath”.

“Another northern song and the Forge might reap my spirit,” Peitho said, wrinkling her nose at Galad. If it weren’t for Peitho’s sun-bright mane, her gilded eyes, or her richly bronzed skin, Aisling would’ve forgotten she hailed from the southern Sidhe kingdom of Niltaor.

Ever since Aisling was introduced to their fae world, Peitho had lived in Annwyn, having traveled there with every intention of handfasting Lir on account of inter-political strife between the Aos Sí. Conflict Aisling was growing to understand after her time with Fionn.

“By all means, grace us with a southern lament, Peitho.” Galad raised a brow. “We all know how well you sing.”

Peitho rolled her eyes. “Princesses are the muses of song. Never the composers themselves.”

“Tell us of Niltaor then,” Aisling piped, knowing the risks of speaking directly to Peitho but speaking, nevertheless. There was a time Aisling feared, or at the very least, trod with caution while in Peitho’s presence. Now, their dynamic had flipped. Peitho never freed Aisling from her regard, often sneering, often cursing, often flinching when in her presence. Wishing to serve Lir out of honor or interest, and in so doing, forced to be near she who’d scarred her with flame and, in Peitho’s eyes, stolen Lir.

“I’d never waste my breath telling you of its glory.” Peitho tossed a strand of honeyed hair over her left pauldron, intentionally or not, reminding Aisling of the lesions across that side of her face.

“ Easca ,” Lir hissed from upfront.

Peitho shifted, wrapping her wrists in the mount’s reins.

“Go on, Peitho,” Filverel chimed. “If Aisling is to be the true queen of Annwyn, this is the sort of education she needs.” And while the words were not explicitly cruel, Lir’s advisor bore an unnatural talent for steeping all and everything he spoke to Aisling with undiluted malice.

At the words, ‘queen of Annwyn,’ Dagfin held his breath but said nothing. The Roktan prince bore enough wisdom to know a verbal fight with Filverel, or any of these Sidhe knights for that matter, was not worth the battle. A wisdom Aisling was, once again, grateful for.

“Niltaor was an obelisk of gold, whittled into a kingdom of everlasting sunset.”

The crunch of the horses’ hooves on earthen twigs echoed into the surrounding forest. As though every holly, pine, and cypress, hung to each of Peitho’s words. Seemingly as invested in her tale as the beating hearts around her.

“Was?” Aisling asked.

Peitho swallowed her snide remark.

“It was glorious before the Wild Hunt,” she said. “Centuries of competition, of war, of battle, and a resolution that left Niltaor with nothing but destruction. My people left to rebuild the year the conflict between Sidhe and mortals began. And so, Niltaor never recovered.”

Aisling bit the inside of her cheek.

Peitho’s desire to marry Lir wasn’t only borne out of personal interest, but survival. A need to bind Niltaor with Annwyn, the only Sidhe kingdom in possession of a dragún , Racat. A union that could’ve seen the long last renaissance of Niltaor. Until, that is, Aisling became involved. Chosen to wed Lir for the sake of all the Sidhe and mortals alike. Given preference over any single kingdom.

“Was Niltaor ever in possession of a dragún ?” Aisling asked.

Each Sidhe knight perked up, appraising Aisling, seemingly surprised she knew that detail of their history.

“No,” Galad said from behind. “But legend says Muirdris, the dragún of prosperity, sought refuge in the dunes of the south, near the shores of Shuilan. Many have sought it, but the landscape that far south shifts, moves, dances, swallowing whosoever dares venture through its keep. Even the Sidhe. And so Muirdris is still lost.”

“And Aengus?” Aisling asked.

“Aengus hasn’t been seen since Lugh speared its third head during the finality of the Wild Hunt,” Gilrel said. “It devoured half his kingdom before fleeing, showering those still alive in its blood. Those fortunate few are said to bear unnaturally long lifespans even by Sidhe standards.”

Aisling considered, pulling her hood over her head as the trees trembled, sprinkling their procession with snow.

“So how was Ina able to capture Racat? The strongest of the three?”

Once more, the fae knights exchanged glances. All save for Lir, eyes pinned to the trail up ahead.

“She made a deal.”

“Do you know what happens after death, Aisling?”

Aisling rose from where she lay in the Lady’s thicket of stars, plucking them like gems from their branches as she spoke.

“The Aos Sí and their believers sail into the Otherworld,” the Lady continued. “While the mortals simply vanish into oblivion. An everlasting dark. But what about those who exist somewhere in between?”

Aisling steeled herself, straightening and lifting her chin so she met the Lady’s eyes unafraid.

“We live long enough that it remains a mystery,” Aisling said, gritting her teeth as the starry branches brushed her cheeks lovingly.

“We?”

“There will be others like me,” Aisling said. “A kind to call my own.”

The Lady laughed, the decibel of it threatening to shatter every star in an explosion of shimmering shards like glass.

“So says the lonely. The rejected. The outlander. Not quite human, not quite fae. Destined to be alone so you cling to a fae king who gives you a sense of purpose. Makes you feel powerful in his desire and praise. Who’s turned his loathing into obsession, stripping the power the hatred of others has ever held over you.”

“You speak as though you have any authority over the matter.”

“I am the Lady of Fate.”

“You are the slave of fate. Cursed to weave its threads but never to create them. Bound by fate’s Forge-given law.”

The Lady’s smile fell. “And yet, still I have seen your end, Aisling.” She approached, a pathway like galaxies lighting her every step. “You perish in a world of your own making. Of fire, of war, of chaos. Collapse before your throne of antlers. An axe in your heart.”