Chapter IV
CHAPTER IV
The following morning, the tents were packed, the fair folk’s stags saddled, and every trace of the mortal monarchs gone. Once the sun had peeked its gilded head over the Brimdurn mountains, Aisling had searched for her tuath. But they’d already vanished. Swept away like a leaf in the wind.
The queen had awoken alone, greeted only by a tunic, trousers, and leather boots cut to fit a female’s body. Thankfully, a fae handmaiden arrived moments later to help the queen dress and prepare her for the journey ahead.
Somehow, Aisling felt different. And while the mortal queen wouldn’t have been surprised at this foreign sensation blooming within, its emergence owed nothing to her virginity.
“ You must be tired .”
An immeasurable weight had lifted from Aisling’s shoulders at the fae lord’s words. Her incorporeal self, beholding her would-be ruination from above, snapping back into her body, near knocking her off her feet. Naked in the blackness, entirely vulnerable, Aisling couldn’t shake the feeling that perhaps she’d done something wrong. Her chambermaids, advisors, and Clodagh had all groomed her for that night. Braced her for the pain, the terror, the indefinable and unavoidable loss of her virginity at the hands of a beast. A ritual of soul-scarring importance, and yet here she was, still a virgin. Unfulfilled in her attempts to uphold her duty for the sake of the North. Her thoughts warring between bewilderment, indescribable relief, and immeasurable guilt.
No. This bizarre feeling was something else entirely. Aisling awoke that morning, hearing and feeling the radiance of the sun humming to the tune of the songbirds’ chirps, all this despite being sheltered by the tent. She felt the pang of morning’s hunger, heard the animals sifting through the trees, their anxiety as so many visitors lined the forest’s edge. Potential predators. Feelings, sensations, sounds, voices that were not her own. As though she were experiencing the thoughts of someone or something else. Even the rustle of the trees was louder, more coherent than it ever had been before.
Aisling rode on her own stag at the center of the fae cavalcade. She blended well amidst their ivory and gold banners, caparisons, flags, and steel armor. A single tree was embroidered at the center of their crest, a tree shadowing the wide stance of a hart beneath its knot of limbs.
Fifteen of the king’s knights surrounded their new queen as they cut through the wilderness. The land this far from Tilren was wilder than any place Aisling had laid eyes on before. As if the queen could blink and the mountains would roll, adjusting their slumbering positions like hibernating bears. As if the trees would pick up their roots and dance or the caves would snap their mouths shut after years of yawning.
The rest of the fae king’s knights trailed behind, carrying their supplies and belongings. As for the fae subjects, they’d already departed at dawn, beginning the trek back to Annwyn.
Against her own will, Aisling found herself searching her surroundings for the fae king. He rode fiercely, at times leading their fae procession, other times flanking the wings, surveying from behind, challenging the great hart beneath him to keep his pace. The queen had never witnessed anything like it. Nemed would have ridden beside Aisling at the center of the cavalcade, well-protected by his knights should an enemy, an Aos Sí, threaten his life. The fae king paid no mind to such precautions. And why should he? He was just as much a part of the forest as it was a part of him. This enemy land was his land.
Although each of the knights wore similar armor, the fae king stood out like the first autumn tree turning at equinox. Not only was he revered by his subjects, their heads turning as he passed, his helmet was embellished with a stag’s antlers, bone-white and large like a mighty, thorned diadem.
At times, their eyes met. Always briefly, fleeting like a spark leaping from the flames.
“How long is the journey to Annwyn?” Aisling asked the knight riding nearest, hoping he understood her tongue as the fae king had. She’d recognized him from the night prior: one of the riders who’d presented his sword during the ceremony.
“We’ll arrive within two days’ time, mo Lúra ,” the rider said, pulling his hart closer to Aisling’s.
The queen breathed a sigh of relief. Now there were two members of the Aos Sí she could rely on to understand her. In fact, this rider was one of the few fair folk who regarded the queen kindly. The rest of the Aos Sí studied her through narrowed eyes as if expecting her to transform into some mortal deception at a moment’s notice. She didn’t blame them. Had a fae princess married either Starn, Fergus, Iarbonel, or Annind, Aisling would’ve regarded them similarly.
“What does that mean?”
“ Mo Lúra? ” the rider asked, and Aisling nodded in response. He considered for a moment, removing his helmet to reveal a collection of hair braided like ropes. He was handsome, as all Aos Sí likely were, but Aisling would need to grow accustomed to their wild, unruly dress and styles. In Tilren, it was uncivilized for a man’s hair to surpass the tops of his ears, much less spiral down his back in beaded plaits.
“ Lúra na Bryveth , Bride of the Forest.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Since the Age of the Forge, the queen of Annwyn has answered to this title. From the moment any bride is handfast to our sovereign, the moment you handfasted the fae king, his and your soul are tethered to the forest.”
Aisling blinked, doing her best to conceal her surprise. By marriage, by position, she supposed she was queen, but never did she believe the fair folk would consider her so. And perhaps they didn’t. Perhaps this rider followed custom, fought to maintain the illusion of peace this union symbolized. As for tethering her soul to the forest, it was nothing more than an odd manifestation of these people’s beliefs.
“You may call me Aisling,” she said, straightening herself. Fighting to uphold her own illusion of strength amongst these barbarians. The rider smiled, a warm expression framed by dimples. If it weren’t for his being an Aos Sí, Aisling would’ve believed him to bear a kind heart for his cobalt eyes sparkled with a tender sort of reassurance. Surely it was magic that made the Aos Sí so lovely. Made them so attractive, alluring, easy to trust, so they could coax innocents into the wilds.
“And you may call me Galad.” The rider bowed his head, readjusting his grip on the reigns of his stag.
“Are you faring well?” Galad continued, riding closer to the mortal queen so he could better hear her over the whipping of the stubborn winds. He gestured towards her stag and how she rode the great beast, for indeed this many hours on a mount were bound to chafe and gnaw at the muscles of the undisciplined.
Aisling nodded. “I enjoy riding.” Throughout her childhood, the world outside of Tilren’s walls was forbidden unless the princess was receiving riding lessons. Aisling grew to treasure those hours spent on horseback, breathing in the mountains, the fields, the cliffs, the forests that the great gates of Tilren eclipsed with stone.
“You’re naturally skilled for a mortal,” he said, admiring her posture. “The sign of a good rider is their beast.”
“And what signs does this beast tell?”
“Saoirse is our most obedient mount, she’d placate even a child who’d never ridden before,” Galad said. “I can’t say the same for the rest of our beasts.”
“I see,” Aisling stroked Saoirse’s broad neck, disappointed that the stag’s deference wasn’t the result of her own riding.
“But I can see in the twitch of her muscles, the angle of her ears, her willful gait, she wants to ride faster, quicker, harder.” He considered Aisling. “She’s inheriting that spirit from you, mo Lúra , and a rider who inspires their stag is a formidable one indeed.”
Aisling held back a grin. Was it possible an animal could interpret, sense so much of its rider? Or that the fair folk beside her could identify such a connection?
“Then I quite like this stag,” Aisling said, proudly running her fingers through Saoirse’s silken hide, a contrast to the destriers in Tilren whose hair was as stiff as the straw they ate. Saoirse shook with delight, leaning into Aisling’s palm.
“She’s yours,” Galad said, much to Aisling’s surprise. “Whatever you covet, my lord will give you.”
Aisling’s smile faded, averting her eyes and searching her surroundings for the fae king. She found him weaving in and out of the trees that bordered the field in which they rode. Stopping only to remove the gloves from his hands and press his palm against the bark of the pines. His mount danced nervously each time its hooves crossed into the shadows of the wood. The fae king peered into its depths nevertheless, his great axes strapped to his back as if they could and would be used at a moment’s notice.
Once the fae king was satisfied with whatever he’d been searching for, his attention redirected to the procession. But before his eyes could meet her own, Aisling quickly turned away, straightening her gaze up ahead.
He’d scarcely spoken a word to her since the evening prior. It seemed unlikely he wanted anything to do with her, married or not. Aisling wasn’t certain what she’d expected. To be eaten? To be tortured? Raped? Burned alive? But certainly not left alone. For this was no normal arrangement. They were not truly man and wife, or in this case, Aos Sí and wife. Especially since they hadn’t consummated the marriage. This was nothing more than a symbolic union, a matter of politics. The fae king owed her nothing. Wedding or no wedding, by blood, they were born to loathe one another.
Between two snowcapped mountains, their procession came to a stop. It took five knights to set up Aisling’s tent, an unexpected gesture she was most grateful for. As much as the prospect of sleeping beneath the stars titillated her curiosity, she doubted the hard ground or wet grass would be conducive to a good night’s rest.
Nevertheless, she found herself unable to sleep, glaring at the ceiling of her tent and fighting off tears shed for her family as well as dreams—nightmares––of being hunted, eaten alive, and cooked over the fire the Aos Sí sat around. There were no females in their procession any longer. It was only males that surrounded Aisling now, a variable that struck more fear in Aisling than she would’ve liked. The only men the mortal queen had ever been allowed to be alone with were her brothers, her father, certain members of the tuath, and at times Dagfin. Now, here, she was, surrounded by the enemies of her kind, great bestial males capable of grinding her bones between their teeth. Of transforming her into a mouse or roasting her over a spit.
Aisling wrenched her eyes shut, forcing herself to focus on the songs they sang just outside her tent, sitting around the flames. They sang lullabies, strange lullabies Aisling had never heard before. But they were sung with a particular enunciation, suggesting they were not merely fanciful or lyrical melodies but rather keepers of greater narratives. Tales from their ancient past.
It shouldn’t have come as a surprise to Aisling that these savages had also collected centuries of tradition, of culture, of folklore to spread and enjoy when the moon leaned closer to listen. Nevertheless, Aisling allowed her ears to drink in their beauty, every lilt of their male voices intoxicating and softening the rage in her belly. The sorrow.
When they weren’t singing, they laughed, startling Aisling with their boisterous guffaws, all of it foreign and incomprehensible. Another thick, impenetrable barrier that alienated her from her newfound subjects. Subjects that no doubt despised her as much as she despised them. Perhaps one day she’d learn to speak Fae, shrinking the vast void that lay between herself and these beings.
Without warning, the curtains peeled open, the flapping of the canvas against the valley’s wind echoing into the tent. Aisling bolted upright, peering through the darkness. A large shadow stood at the entrance. Immediately she identified him by his great height and smell—fresh pine, wet leaves, smoke from the fire outside.
“You must be hungry,” the fae king said, padding further into the tent, soundlessly. Aisling shivered at the rumble of his voice––smooth and deep and inexplicably lovely. “There’s food prepared outside.”
Aisling could smell it, the succulent scent of meat cooked over the flame, the musk of charred edges and smoke. Against her own volition, her stomach growled. She’d eaten nearly every hour since the morning she’d bid Tilren farewell, but never did it appear to slake her newfound appetite. Even when offered fae food .
Silence spread between them, Aisling appraising his outstretched hand. Even in the darkness, she saw how large his hands were, but to her surprise, they were elegant—long, slender fingers tattooed in an ancient language better left forgotten.
“My knights won’t hurt you,” he assured, interpreting her hesitation as fear. Nevertheless, he took a step nearer, approaching as if Aisling were a bird prepared to take flight.
Rationally, Aisling knew they wouldn’t harm her. Not if they were interested in tearing the peace treaty to shreds, and that seemed unlikely considering all they’d done to follow through with the union in the first place. The political tether between the mortals and the fair folk would keep her alive for as long as she was deemed a necessary symbol of their fragile unity. But fear was rarely rational.
“Unless you run,” he added.
Aisling swallowed, paralyzed in the darkness. Aisling had been prepared, groomed, and trained for the days leading up to their union, the union itself and the consummation to take place that night. But no one, not her handmaids, not her clann, not her mother, none had prepared her for the following day, the life that would follow that evening.
“My name is Lir.” His eyes twinkled, glowing like a wolf’s amidst the tent’s dark cavity.
Lir. She’d never heard the name before. She repeated it in her mind till she’d memorized it on her lips, wordlessly pronouncing it.
Names had power. Even mortals knew that. Ensorcellment , some called it. An ability of the fae to enslave those who’d freely given their names to the fair folk.
“Aisling,” the mortal queen replied, more confidently than she felt. For Aisling knew, ensorcellment or not, she was already bound to this fae. “You may call me Aisling.”
One way or another she’d need to find the courage to walk amongst them. To not live her life in terror. Or at the very least, learn to cope with the terror. This was her purpose after all, her sacrifice to Tilren, and she wouldn’t disappoint her family.
Aisling ignored his outstretched hand, making sure to avoid his touch as she brushed past, conceding to the invitation. Behind those piercing eyes, he studied her every move. If he was aware of her efforts to distance herself, he said nothing. Only held up the curtained entrance to the tent, bathing Aisling in his scent.
“Think twice before you consider using that dagger.” Aisling jolted, startled by the heat of his breath as she passed.
How had he known? Ever since Iarbonel had entrusted Aisling with the blade, she’d done her best to conceal it. Had slipped it into her sleeve the instant the canvassed doors had opened moments before.
“Or any other time for that matter. And if you plan to run, we’ll hunt you down quicker than a wolf catches a wounded animal,” he added.
“It is because I thought twice that I carry the dagger with me at all,” Aisling blurted, perhaps foolishly. It was unwise to provoke an Aos Sí much less a fae king. Especially one who Aisling was to…live with? Perhaps they’d keep her as a prisoner unbeknownst to the mortal world. In some rancid dungeon accompanied only by the rats.
Nevertheless, perhaps more unwise than provoking an Aos Sí was walking amongst the enemy unarmed, union or not. She’d thought twice about the dagger as Iarbonel had slipped it between her fingers and realized it was the most sensible way to protect herself. The only way. An ember of hope that she’d survive amongst the fair folk. So, she steeled herself against Lir’s warnings, continuing out of the tent, undeterred. After all, it would be Lir who decided whether or not she need use the dagger.
The night was not as dark as she’d anticipated. Stars lit the endless seas of midnight blue with radiant, twinkling light. She’d never beheld stars so bright nor so many. Above her were rivers of starlight, bathing in the milk of galaxies. The lights in Tilren must have washed them away, dulling their luster before it met their mortal eyes, for Aisling had never beheld the night sky so.
In some ways, she understood why the wilderness and man were destined to stand at opposing ends. Why the wilds were so hostile against the mortals that carved their buildings, raised their cities, paved their roads on the skeletons of what was once an agrestal kingdom. Only appreciating nature when it fed them, sustained them, and burning it when it did not.
Both Lir and Aisling approached the group of knights sitting around the crackling fire, burning some skinned creature knotted to a large beam, an image that matched the sounds she’d been listening to for the past several hours. Like wild dogs feasting on carrion, they tore large strips of meat from the unfortunate beast’s bones, washing down each bite with black wine.
Relieved it wasn’t some lost human huntsman or shepherd they smoked over the fire, a weight lifted from Aisling’s shoulders. Its build suggested it was some sort of pig, most likely a wild boar: an impressive, nearly impossible beast for a mortal to hunt in the amount of time it had taken the Aos Sí to find, kill, and prep the animal for consumption. A pang of anger struck Aisling then, thinking of how many mortal kingdoms starved, wasted away, too afraid to hunt or gather lest the fair folk attack. And yet, here were the Aos Sí with the entire wilderness at their disposal. The greatest predators in any land. But all land was mortal land despite what the Aos Sí staked claim to.
“ Man was born of nothing but nevertheless born first ,” Nemed taught. “ Man grew strong, mastered his own skills, and became great. Then the Aos Sí arrived, stealing man’s land. Taking what man had already conquered—the wilderness—and spinning it in their favor .”
This was all mortal territory and yet, the mortals were caged within their walls as Aisling had been all her life. Hidden away from those who stole and continued to steal what was man’s.
Aisling savored the feeling of her dagger pressed against her waist where she’d newly tucked it.
Their stags stood beside the mountain’s edge, calmly being fed and tended to by one of the fae. However, they were not tethered. Weren’t the Aos Sí concerned they’d run? Wander aimlessly into the night? Perhaps they didn’t care, but Aisling guessed that wasn’t the reason either. As Aisling searched for Saoirse, she heard voices erupting from the group of mounts. Not quite voices but murmurings, a rustle of sentient thought. There was a jolt of hunger, of weariness, of rejoicing at the wind against their pelts.
Aisling quickly tore her gaze away as though the sensation had burned her. She needn’t dwell on fae unknowns just yet. Fae mysteries that still turned her skin cold.
Meanwhile, eight or so knights prowled the camp, watchfully peering into the creases of the mountain, the valley, and the forests beyond. Aisling didn’t see the point. The greatest threat in all the continents were the fair folk. They haunted the wilds, the places even man found too untamable to possibly burn their mortal mark into the earth. Ironically, there was no place safer for Aisling to be than sleeping amongst the monsters themselves. So, who did they fear? Who did they guard against?
Before Lir could say a word, various of his knights stood from their spots and made way for the mortal queen, finding openings to wedge themselves into the circle. They glared at her, no doubt whispering about her beneath their breath. Aisling scoffed to herself; it mattered little if they whispered or screamed their disapproval at the peaks of the summit. Either way, Aisling couldn’t understand their tongue and thus, their likely spiteful words.
But one glance from their fae king quieted their musings, quickly snapping whatever sneers they’d brewed into bewildered yet obedient expressions. Aisling quite liked their expressions. They somehow made this strange race more…human.
Lir leaned forward and tore off a large bone wrapped with meat. He handed it to Aisling and the queen awkwardly accepted it. Aisling hadn’t expected silverware, crystal goblets, or pottered plates. Still, eating straight from the bone was strange—unnatural—entirely improper for a gentleman much less a lady, a princess, a queen. But Aisling couldn’t deny that she’d often wished she could throw such rules and etiquette at Clodagh’s sharp nose, and dive into the feast held within her mortal castle’s halls. Eat with her hands and her poor posture even if just a hair from its dignified, erect stance.
“Is it bewitched?” Aisling asked the fae king, turning it over in her hands. Lir raised his brows, considering her for a moment. Aisling resisted the urge to look away. There was something raw about the glint in his eyes, something unbroken and deadly, yet wondrous and inexplicably lovely.
“There will be food, going forward, that is not designed for mortal consumption. But you can trust that whatever I give you is safe to eat,” he said, taking a swig from his flask, “but the wine…never drink the wine.” He tapped one of the men beside him; Aisling believed she’d overheard him be called Rian earlier in the day. His red hair was cropped shorter but bore two lines on either side, shaved to the scalp. His fae markings ran around his neck, as if strangling him, before stroking the angles of his jaw.
Rian met Aisling’s eyes, standing and starting towards the stags.
“It’s enchanted then?” Aisling asked, considering the inky brew.
“In a sense, but not for the purpose of harming mortals.” Lir tilted his chalice so Aisling could see more clearly. “It’s simply not made for your kind. Humans are overwhelmed by what they see and experience.”
“And what do they experience?” Aisling continued.
“I’ve heard some say that humans are made vulnerable to the senses of the Sidhe—the way we feel, understand, interpret the world.” Lir glanced at the mountains and the forest, the gale sweeping through his dark hair. So, they called themselves the Sidhe . Not the Aos Sí. It struck Aisling as odd she’d never been taught that. “They can temporarily see, smell, listen, and touch the way we do.”
“And that’s too much for a human?” Aisling asked.
“It would appear so,” Lir said, taking another drink, watching her from behind thick lashes.
Rian returned, offering Aisling a flask of water. Water taken from the stags’ reserves considering they were the only ones, other than Aisling, who did not drink the wine. The queen accepted the flask, setting it on the ground beside her feet, and nodded to the fae knight.
“Eat,” Lir said, reminding her of the meat she still grasped in her left hand.
A moment passed where Aisling considered it could be a trick—a prank made to make a fool of the human queen should the food be enchanted, spelled to mortals. It was clear none of them wished for her company, but she was hungry, and if she didn’t eat she wouldn’t have the strength she needed to continue the journey. It was a strange balance she realized she must strike. To trust the Aos Sí enough to live amongst them but all the while maintain enough caution to not be deceived nor harmed by the enemy of her race. To remember who she was and where she came from. To both be apart and a part. Either way, she supposed, she must eat.
So, Aisling dove into the meat. She wondered what Clodagh would make of such manners. Perhaps she’d faint or her skin would flush beet red. At the thought, the corners of Aisling’s mouth couldn’t help but curl. After all, it was she who proposed Aisling be used as a bargaining chip and traded into the hands of the enemy. Whatever became of Aisling would be Clodagh’s fault. A sentiment that burned in Aisling’s core no matter how honored she knew she should be. No matter that this was her purpose, Clodagh or not.
Lir exhaled a laugh, watching her with a startled expression.
“Is everything alright?” Aisling asked Lir, noticing several of the fae knights’ attention shifting towards her.
“They— we haven’t been in the close presence of many mortals,” the king said, “other than when an iron arrow aims for our heart or a blade for our throats.”
Aisling often wondered what they thought of her. Did they smell her and grow hungry? Did they find her weak and brittle? Did their fingers itch to cast an enchantment on such a susceptible, unassuming target? Some of the Aos Sí acted as if they feared her, keeping their distance from her stag as they rode. But that, Aisling realized, was most likely resentment.
Upon arriving, the Aos Sí had hushed their conversation, awkwardly staring and whispering as she and Lir spoke. Now, their voices had risen once more, too distracted by their own musings to remember the mortal queen was still amongst them. Lir participated in their discussions as well—all of it nothing more than brutish babble to Aisling. Even if she dared to blend amongst them, laughing when they did, cheering when they did, clapping when they did, it would be an obvious if not embarrassing ruse for all knew she didn’t understand. Would it always be like this? Aisling felt like a phantom. No, not a phantom. A social pariah, a mouse in a lion’s den allowed to live because it did away with numerous pests. Nothing more. She should be happy. She should be grateful they were not tearing her limb from limb, drinking her blood, or using her when and how they liked. Still, Aisling found comfort in the dagger at her waist, its hilt cool against her hip.
All the attention eventually landed on another member of the Aos Sí. He grinned, pointed ear to pointed ear, baring those sharp canines. But it wasn’t a fearsome sight; he was happy, playful, blushing with too much wine as he stood shakily and waved at his comrades to settle.
“Cathan, eun fir nak fall big !” they shouted at him. Aisling’s gaze darted around the circle wondering what they were coaxing him to do. Although she couldn’t translate their words, there were certain tones, gestures, and social contexts that, the mortal queen realized, transcended race. Unspoken cues that helped Aisling follow along.
“ Eughlig ler mi gag ,” they shouted till Cathan, at last, nodded and cleared his throat. The group quieted their excited jeers and silence befell the group, all eyes pinned to Cathan. Several moments passed before he began to sing.
Just like the melodies Aisling had overheard, hiding in her tent, this one was different than anything she’d heard before. For one, she’d never listened to a male sing before. It was a pastime designated only to women in Tilren and, Aisling assumed, all the mortal world. But these male fair folk sang beautifully. The deep timber of their voices, wildly satisfying to the ears.
“ Never follow the songs you hear in the dead of night or if lost in the wilderness ,” Nemed forewarned Aisling and her brothers. “ The Aos Sí sing with voices so divine, a mortal couldn’t resist wandering into pits of unimaginable danger. This is one of many ways the Aos Sí lure innocent humans into the wilds .”
Aisling had always imagined pale, foul creatures blessed with such an ability. Not the glorious males that sat around her. Perhaps that was another deception Nemed hadn’t had time to divulge. To prepare her for. For already so much contradicted what she’d always been taught.
But it appeared as if his lullaby had done more than merely charm Aisling. The whole group had stilled, drinking his tune—gulping as quickly as their ears would allow while also savoring every note. Aisling closed her eyes. She focused on the foreign words, the roll of his tongue, the intonations so unlike her own language. What would Starn, Iarbonel, Annind, or Fergus think of his voice? Of this song? What would they make of all these strange fae customs?
“He chronicles the legend of Ina,” Lir whispered, startling the mortal queen. Aisling opened her eyes to find Lir leaning back on his arms, the flames illuminating his markings till they became molten. “She was one of the first of our kind to be cast in the Great Forge of Creation, shaped by the gods alongside the highlands, the seas, the rain, the sun.” He spoke as Cathan’s tune unraveled, translating each verse. “When the six Sidhe kings were chosen—Lugh, Bres, Mac Cuill, Delbaeth, Fiacha, and Nuada—so too were the six Sidhe queens—Dagda, Lottie, Niamh, Siofra, Aoibh, and Ina. Each appointed an enchanted weapon by the gods—a tool unique to only themselves: the mace for Siofra, the spear for Lugh, the axes for Bres, and so on.”
Cathan continued to sing, leaving even the stars enraptured by his voice. It felt as if, Aisling believed, the mountains themselves leaned closer to listen. As if the smoke from the fire took shape and gave life to each word, images in grey, wispy tendrils rapidly forming and reforming.
Aisling knew of the gods and the six kings and queens they’d chosen. These fae sovereigns had been the ones to begin the library known to mortals as the Forbidden Lore. But never had these monarchs been given names. Nemed believed it unimportant for all of it was fiction: lies, empty religion, and stories that dulled the mind.
“And what was Ina’s weapon?” Aisling asked, her voice heavy, weighted by the stupor of the lullaby. Her eyes pinned to the images spun by the smoke.
“She was not given a weapon,” Lir said. “Instead, they allowed her to peer into the Forge. A gaze that gave her sight , capable of seeing beyond the day in which we live and into the vast realm of another day, the day we might live should we make the choices she anticipates,” Lir said, glaring into the flames that danced between the logs.
“But as with all great tragedies, she fell in love,” Rian piped, meeting Aisling’s eyes. Lir shifted beside her, his gaze lowering, growing more distant than before. Then it always was. As if he was never truly beside another but in some distant, untouchable realm.
So, Rian could speak Aisling’s tongue as well. Could they all speak it and chose not to? Aisling swallowed the bitterness churning in the pit of her stomach. Fought the sneer burning the backs of her eyes.
“Ina was besotted with Bres, a sentiment forbidden amongst the Sidhe kings and queens. For the gods divided them across the Earth, giving them sovereignty of their own share of the land and the wilderness,” Rian continued, his accent thicker than his king’s.
Aisling bristled. The Aos Sí believed they’d been given divine right to the land? What would Nemed think of such lies? He’d most likely threaten to cut out their tongues and char their land—threats he’d managed to accomplish before, after taking fae hostages. Aisling remembered Nemed, his men, and Starn marching into Tilren’s gates, four fair folk bound at the wrists with iron shackles. Wool bags were placed over their heads. It was some years ago, but Aisling could never forget what he did to them before the whole of Tilren.
“ It is unfortunate that us mortals were not blessed with the strength or magic the Aos Sí wield, but given enough cleverness anything can be done ,” Nemed had told Aisling. “ There are no gods; do not let the religion of the Aos Sí deceive you, plague your mind. This world is an earthly one, designed by mortals and for mortals. The Aos Sí, on the other hand, are intruders, aberrations, a perverse mutation of mankind .”
Aisling chilled at the memory. That day, her father stood atop the great walls surrounding Tilren, lecturing Starn. Had Aisling not been following her brother around the castle, Nemed wouldn’t have bothered to lecture her. To waste his kingly time with a child who would never inherit his throne. His kingdom. His people.
Aisling shook away the thoughts, refocusing her attention.
“The northern continents went to Bres and Ina, the king and queen of the forests and the mountains,” Rian said.
“The forests and the mountains?” Aisling repeated. How could one rule the wilds? The mountains and the forest obeyed no one and no thing. Neither did the rest of the wilderness for that matter.
“Aye, all of the Sidhe belong to a certain court—courts already divided by the natural world.”
“And what then is your court?” Aisling asked.
“The forests,” Rian said. “Lir inherited the kingdom of the greenwood from his father.” Rian tipped his head in Lir’s direction.
King of the greenwood , Aisling repeated the title in her mind. Were the trees his subjects so much as the Aos Sí were? Aisling had known the Aos Sí to be vile creatures but never had she realized just how strange they were.
“If the rulers married, however, the gods feared they’d stray from their own kingdoms, leaving that part of the world unguarded.” Unguarded against who ? Aisling wondered but did not ask, fearing her questions would reveal a certain bias for her own kind, although such a bias would be inevitable. “However, Ina ignored the gods after having foreseen Bres dying in battle.”
A battle against the mortals? Aisling had never heard of this war. Had never learned of it. Perhaps she’d fallen asleep during her lessons. Did Starn, Fergus, Iarbonel, and Annind know or remember this tale? It seemed unlikely considering Cathan’s rendition was already blasphemous to the mortal understanding of their collective history.
“Ina raced to Annwyn, the forest court, leaving her kingdom vulnerable, knowing the outcome. A selfish mistake that cost her her land and countless Sidhe lives alike. And in the end, she was unable to prevent Bres’s death. What she’d seen, had come to pass.”
Aisling shifted her eyes back to the fae king. Lir’s expression had turned cold. Unreadable. A thick wall of ice.
“What became of Ina?” Aisling asked Rian, leaning forward. The fae took a large swig of wine, licking his lips after, but it was Lir who spoke first:
“She was punished by the gods; both she and her mountain kingdom were cursed for all eternity.”
The air was thick, flammable as the silence stretched between them, only Cathan’s song easing the tension in Lir’s shoulders. The smoke morphed into the form of beautiful creatures below the shadow of the mountain, falling to their knees and writhing in pain as something was taken from them. As they were cursed.
Finally, Rian continued, “An entire kingdom doomed to a damned legacy. But before that, it’s said”—Rian hesitated, eyes flicking towards the fae king—“it’s said, she had one last vision. A prophecy she shared with her only son.”
Aisling turned to the knight then, her eyes wide. Was Rian implying Ina carried and birthed Bres’s son? Aisling opened her mouth, curiosity itching to know what the fortune had been, but she stopped herself short. Lir’s expression spoke for itself. Those sage eyes brewing with some intemperate storm. A muscle flashed across his jaw as he stood and walked away. Silent.
Rian said nothing, merely clapping when Cathan finished his song, the world spinning back into motion, momentarily swelled by the tune. But Aisling watched Lir over her shoulder, disappearing into the night, his right hand clutching one of his twin blades. Blades she never saw him without .
Lir entered their tent a handful of hours before dawn, collapsing into the bed beside Aisling and waking the mortal queen. Aisling said nothing, somehow managing to fall back asleep on her edge of the mattress, listening to his breathing slow into slumber itself. Every one of his breaths reminded Aisling of winds weaving through the trees.