The Savage Queen (The Aisling Trilogy #2)

Chapter XLIV

CHAPTER XLIV

AISLING

“ You know not what you’ve done, Aisling ,” the Lady hissed inside Aisling’s mind as she stepped a pace away from her balcony, sheltered by the canopies of the greenwood. Beyond and below, Annwyn stood waiting, watching, listening to Lir as he spoke from Castle Annwyn’s grand balcony.

“ You’ve damned this realm and now the gods will wake with fury. ”

“ Then let them wake ,” Aisling replied inside her mind.

Peitho stepped into Aisling’s quarters just as Aisling was to leave. Peitho wore a Cornelian gown flocked by sun-bright beetles that crawled across the folds of her skirts. Her endless tresses were shrouded in a hood of the same fiery hues, shadowing her burn scars. A stark contrast from the leathers she’d worn over the past several weeks trekking to Lofgren’s Rise.

Slowly, Aisling stood from her vanity and Gilrel’s magpies took flight, releasing her braids once they’d woven them artfully together.

“I should’ve announced my intentions to visit you earlier,” the Niltorian princess said, balling her hands into fists at her sides.

“You should have.”

Peitho hesitated at the tone of Aisling’s voice. The princess had made it clear time and time again she was no friend to Aisling and so her presence, here and now, wouldn’t be met without hostility. Especially today.

“I’ve brought you a gift.”

Aisling’s fingers twitched at her sides, eyes narrowing as Peitho reached into her jewel-encrusted belt and unsheathed a sword. She bowed her head, holding the hilt in the palm of one hand and the tip of its blade in the other. An offering.

Aisling approached cautiously, studying the blade. It was magnificent. A slick, black blade polished to perfection, etched in fae runes that dissolved as the eye traveled toward the onyx cross guard, wrapped in the coil of a serpent. Its gaping mouth hoarding a bundle of amethysts between its fangs.

“It’s a tradition in Niltaor to gift a princess a blade on the day she’s to become queen.”

“I became queen long ago.”

Peitho raised her head, meeting Aisling’s gaze. “Not like today.”

They shared a moment of silence. A strange assessment of the other. As though both were anticipating a betrayal.

“I received my first blade from my father when I was crowned princess. Luinagren. My second will come when I become queen of Niltaor.” Peitho smiled despite herself, the corners of her eyes crinkling in a surprisingly soft expression. “I could hardly carry Luinagren at the time. My cousins laughed at me, amused when my guard steadied my arm to keep it from shaking. So, I trained until I no longer shook. Until the blade became a second limb I could no longer do without.”

Aisling took another step forward and wrapped her fingers around the hilt. Peitho released the blade and stepped back, folding her hands behind her back.

The blade was heavy, causing Aisling’s arms to shake even now in adulthood and with the draiocht running through her veins.

“I chose this blade for its finesse,” Peitho said, appraising the coupling of Aisling and the sword. To the Aos Sí, a wielder bonds with their blade, the first meeting more important than any other. “It’s forged with adamant, lighter than most metals yet powerful all the same. Its tip, as sharp and biting as the most lethal venoms.”

Aisling held the blade like Galad and Rian had taught her, swinging it once. The movement was awkward and the muscles in both her abdomen and arms strained.

Peitho tilted her head to the side, and Aisling braced herself for the princess’s ridicule.

“May I?” Peitho asked instead, gesturing to the sword.

Aisling swallowed but nodded her head, handing the weapon to Peitho.

“You hold it like a male,” she said, showing Aisling how she gripped the hilt. “Your body moves differently to them and requires a more elegant approach.”

“Galad and Rian were my instructors.”

“That explains it,” Peitho said. “They’re fine warriors but they know little of what it takes to be a swordswoman. I can teach you.”

“Teach me?” Aisling nearly scoffed, watching as Peitho effortlessly spun the blade between her fingers.

“Don’t look so surprised. If you’re to be the queen of Annwyn, an ally to Niltaor, I couldn’t let you embarrass our kingdoms with your clumsy jabbing.”

Peitho tossed the blade back to Aisling and mercifully she caught it, bracing herself for the weight of it.

“What will you name it?”

Aisling’s brows pinched, considering.

“I’d never thought to name a blade.”

“Every Sidhe queen names her blade. It’s a part of the tethering of souls.”

There is power in names . Even the mortals knew that.

Aisling closed her eyes.

“Sarwen.”

Peitho did a double take, eyes widening. “ Sarwen, the mortal reaper .”

Galad stepped by Aisling’s side, her personal guard now, waiting to escort her onto the balcony and join Lir’s side.

She wore a gown of scorpion black, hugging her body until it spilled from her hips like liquid metal. A slit rose to her hip, showcasing the lace-up heels Gilrel’s magpies had tied around her calves and thighs. Hair loose and wild, interspersed with braided strands glistering with onyx beads.

Peitho, Filverel, Gilrel, and the rest of Lir’s knights stood waiting behind him, silent with their heads bowed or looking over the audience. An endless crowd of those whose ears drew to a point, whose fangs were sharp, those with wings and those without, bipedal beasts of all shape and form.

“From now on,” Lir continued, “you are subjects of both myself and your queen: Aisling, the Sidhe queen of Annwyn, host of the Dragún , Curse Breaker, and sorceress.”

Aisling paled at the sound of her titles, stomach plummeting. So Galad nudged her, encouraging her forward.

Lir met her eyes. He didn’t say a word, but he didn’t need to. His posture encouraged her forward, brows drawing together.

Aisling forced herself to swallow, inhaling deeply before taking the plunge and stepping into the light of the balcony.

There was silence. The inevitable pause before Aisling was to face the wrath, the fury, the hatred of any who beheld her whether it be mortal, fae, or Unseelie. A thick quiet that unnerved Aisling.

And so, such silence happened today, dense and persistent. A quiet that vegetated in the northern air until it broke. Until the hordes of fae before her erupted into applause. Screaming from their lungs, chanting her name, singing her praise. Leaping, smiling, tossing their fists into the air. Fae taking flight with admiration. A sea of veneration. Of worship.

Aisling’s expression evolved into a grin. One that ached as it grew larger, unable to be stifled the louder the audience grew. The more restless their cries. This was all she’d ever craved. Purpose, power. A world that gave her what her own blood never did: appreciation. Thanks for the sacrifice she’d made in their name. Acknowledgement for everything she’d done. Respect and welcoming. And here it was, among her enemy. Now her home.

Gilrel approached at her side, her magpies fluttering around Aisling’s head at the pine marten’s command. One by one, the magpies collected an antlered crown and held it above Aisling’s head. The counterpart to Lir’s own. A brilliant headdress fit for the sovereigns of the greenwood.

The magpies set the crown atop her head, and Annwyn erupted.

“Slayer of man!” they chanted, again and again and again.

Lir watched her, a grin reflected in his expression. More breathtaking than anything Aisling had ever seen before. And that’s why Aisling believed the Lady took it away, replaced by the image of a fleeting vision:

Aisling and Lir stood in the rain, steeped in both water and blood. Aisling swayed, brushed by a large wind and nearly knocked over. An axe in her chest, eyes swiftly dimming as the light fled from her violet orbs. Lir was crying, screaming something so terrible the Forge trembled. Yet Aisling couldn’t make it out. Couldn’t see past the dagger in his heart still lit with violet flame as he fell to his knees, clawing for Aisling, already lying on her back. Till his screams dissolved, washed away by the tempest as their heartbeats slowed to a halt in unison.