Chapter XIV
CHAPTER XIV
When the morning arrived, Aisling was haunted by the memory of him. Dreams of a winged fae lord sitting at her bedside, humming that song. At the time, there’d been some uncertainty as the memory was nothing more than a sleepy hallucination. But any doubts were quickly put to rest when Aisling was, yet again, alone in her bed, no sign of the fae king having come or gone. Save for Iarbonel’s dagger at her bedside, ruby winking in the morning light.
Aisling paled at the thought of him being so close. The eternal war-lord had watched her as she slept.
And just as Aisling padded out of bed, the chamber door burst open. The mortal queen lunged for her dagger before she’d had an opportunity to witness who’d entered.
“Morning, mo Lúra ,” Gilrel said, strolling into the mortal queen’s rooms, unfazed by the ebony dagger pointing in her direction. “I’m glad to see you’re returning back to normal. Your recovery has gone better than anticipated for a mortal. Miraculous, really.”
Aisling lowered the blade, sheepishly fiddling with it between her fingers.
“Apologies, I thought you might be someone else.”
“Your caera ?” Gilrel smiled wryly. Was she not concerned about Iarbonel’s dagger potentially being held at her king? Perhaps she didn’t believe Aisling capable of doing any such damage to Lir even if it had been him at the door, or perhaps the Aos Sí were warriors, violent savages even in the privacy of their relationships. Immediately, Aisling shook away the thought.
“I’ve caught word he’s returned,” Gilrel said, rummaging through Aisling’s cupboards.
“Here? To Annwyn?”
“Where else?” the lady’s maid retrieved a sleeveless, emerald tunic and various leather accessories to accompany it. Something far too form-fitting for Aisling to ever select herself.
The mortal queen dimmed. She’d known the fae king would return at some point, but she hadn’t been prepared for it to be today. She’d grown comfortable in her solitude despite the aching monotony of being cooped up in her chambers, a sensation that reminded her of life in Tilren––and not in a positive way. That was the one change Aisling had been eager for, to wander wherever she liked. These chambers may not have been the dungeon she’d imagined before marrying Lir, but it was certainly a form of imprisonment.
“Come, we must prepare you,” Gilrel said, already helping the mortal queen undress from her chemise.
“For what, may I ask?”
“Today is your opportunity to leave the castle’s walls,” the marten said, as if having read her mind. “Just to the training fields, beside the stables, but it’s better than nothing.”
Aisling had obviously never ventured towards the fae stables, but she’d seen them from a terrace further inside the castle while navigating the corridors with Galad. The stables stood beside the forest’s edge, at the end of a verdant pitch where many of the Aos Sí sparred, wrestled, swung their blades, shot their arrows, and exercised the stags. Trained to slay mortals , Aisling thought bitterly to herself .
Aisling awkwardly slipped her legs into the trousers, aware of how they hugged the curve of her legs. Next, Gilrel tugged the emerald tunic over the queen’s head, a vest and skirt of chainmail, all cinched by a leather corset. “The training fields?” The mortal queen swallowed.
“Peitho has requested you join her for the morning and, despite it being Peitho who asked, I thought you’d be delighted to receive some fresh air. As am I.” It was then that Aisling realized Gilrel wasn’t wearing her usual servant’s dress but was rather clad in two small shoulder plates, a bandolier, and a tunic of chainmail over her furry belly.
“You’ll be joining us?” Aisling asked the chambermaid.
“Only if you allow it, mo Lúra . I haven’t had the practice in some weeks and figured this would be a good time?—”
“Of course,” Aisling interrupted her. “I don’t think I could handle Peitho on my own, regardless.” Gilrel did her best to conceal the shock, perhaps even gratitude, flaring across her expression. So, she swiftly redirected her attention to the magpies busily folding Aisling’s chemise pooled on the marble floors.
“You underestimate yourself, mo Lúra . There is nothing the Lady Peitho despises more than a worthy opponent.” Gently, Gilrel swiveled Aisling on her heel till she faced the mirror.
The mortal queen stilled; she didn’t recognize her own reflection. Aisling had donned the guise of a warrior. The leather hugged her form, flattering what little muscle she brandished and lengthening her limbs. The chainmail padded her curves, hardening her countenance. Aisling looked as if she could swing a sword, raise a shield, defend herself.
“There’s no competition. She’s already lost.” For if Peitho still resented Aisling’s marriage to Lir, it mattered not. One couldn’t unseal the treaty Aisling and Lir had already sewn in blood and vows. Never mind the fact they hadn’t consummated the alliance, a secret Aisling pledged to protect. And if the southern princess chose to outright threaten their union, she threatened all of mankind. A threat not to be taken kindly by mortal clanns.
Gilrel weaved her paws through Aisling’s hair, braiding it tightly.
“And now, mo Lúra, you underestimate Peitho.”
This early in the morning, the training fields were empty. A long stretch of grass interspersed with round, shooting targets and dummies. Around its edges were the steep walls of the greenwood, standing as straight as sentinels.
Peitho sparred with three trooping females beneath Castle Annwyn’s edge. Five stags already saddled and huffing fat clouds into the misty mountain air beside them.
“I’m assuming you’ve never held a bow before?” Galad said, standing behind both Aisling and Gilrel. The knight had insisted he escort them lest Lir return and catch him neglecting his responsibilities.
“How difficult can it be?” Aisling replied, already starting towards Peitho and swallowing the nerves eager for her to return to the security of her quarters. She did this despite Peitho moving as lethally as she’d done the afternoon of the Snaidhm , defeating those who challenged her with relative ease.
And if her strength weren’t enough to inspire doubt, her beauty was; Peitho was autumn incarnate. Flaming hair, the twin spark to the vermillion of her feline eyes.
Peitho, however, wasn’t the only striking creature Aisling approached. One bore curls like ice, a jagged scar through her bottom lip. The other seemingly bathed in the southern sun and the last, forged by the supple, umber fingers of the forest’s streams. All four were much taller than Aisling, ever more obvious as each needed to tilt their heads to meet her gaze .
“ Mo Lúra ,” Peitho purred breathlessly, narrowing her eyes. “I was concerned you wouldn’t make it.”
“I wouldn’t neglect an invitation from the princess of Niltaor.”
“I only assumed because, since you’ve arrived, we’ve scarcely had the honor of passing you in the castle corridors or dining alongside Your Grace.” Peitho exchanged knowing glances with the others, still breathless from their activity.
Aisling smiled, considering her next words carefully lest she fall victim to Peitho’s silver tongue. After all, a lie risked being discovered, but the truth cost richly in embarrassment: to admit that her movement within the castle was limited. Indeed, the Aos Sí’s lack of trust trumped the only card she bore against Peitho: that she, a mortal, was queen of the fair folk and the fae princess before her was not. She couldn’t forfeit that advantage so easily.
“Mo Lúra , has been quite preoccupied with growing accustomed to our way of life since she arrived. Especially considering all the responsibility she’s undertaken while Lir’s been away,” Gilrel chimed, stepping into place beside Aisling.
The mortal queen stifled her shock, the gratitude rising in her chest, exhaling an inconspicuous sigh of relief. Before now, Aisling couldn’t have ever begun to imagine being indebted to Gilrel for her sharp tongue.
“So, it seems.” Peitho smirked. “Forgive me, I’ve been so rude, mo Lúra. These are my friends and soon to be yours: Blaine, Deidra, and Noirin.” The three fae bowed. “Each from territories in Niltaor, Vulra, and Saryn. As favorites of mine, they accompany me on all my”—she hesitated, eyes flashing with doubt—“political outings.”
Aisling nodded, understanding. Blaine, Deidra, and Noirin had likely been the fae selected to stand at Peitho’s side during her union with Lir.
“Do you know how to fight, mo Lúra ?” Noirin asked, eyeing Iarbonel’s dagger strapped to Aisling’s thigh. A weapon of mortal making.
“I’ve had brief experience,” Aisling confessed, for it was useless to feign otherwise. She was clearly slimmer and smaller than the Aos Sí before her. She didn’t possess their chiseled limbs or stealth-like grace. But Noirin already knew that.
“Will she be able to participate today?” Deidra asked Peitho, as though Aisling weren’t perfectly capable of responding herself.
“I’m eager to learn,” Aisling interjected.
“Is it wise to teach a mortal, one who sleeps with the king, to fight?” Blaine asked, her expression twisted with obvious derision. “Should anything happen to her…or him, it would be our heads beneath the axe.”
“She already killed the trow, can already stomach the blow at the very least,” Deidre added quickly.
Aisling cringed at the mention of the trow, at times forgetting all of Annwyn had witnessed her slay the beast at Lir’s command.
“Are you suggesting Lir couldn’t defend himself against his own caera ?” Galad piped.
“Most males cannot,” Peitho bit, no longer interested in hiding the venom of her tone.
Unamused, Galad gestured towards the stags. “Let’s begin if we ever wish to finish.”
“Eager to be done with this verbal sparring and onto more physical means of casting blows, Galad?” Noirin grinned.
“If the Battle at Beigarth’s Fjord is any indication, Noirin, you need the practice,” the knight replied, already turning towards the stags, finished with the conversation.
But the very mention of war sobered Aisling. After all, the Battle at Beigarth’s Fjord had been a bloody duel between the Aos Sí and the mortals, her very own clann having participated, Starn and Dagfin among those soldiers. They could’ve, should they have met more unfortunate ends, been one of the countless Lir, Peitho, Galad or even Gilrel had no doubt slain. The many they’d stained the earth’s blood with.
But Aisling knew better than to voice her irritation. She was smarter than that. So, the mortal queen bit her tongue and followed Galad towards one of the prepared stags. A beast who fanned Aisling with an aura of excitement the nearer she approached and eventually mounted. For riding was one skill Aisling did possess.
Its round eyes considered her, tilting its head back. Close enough for the queen to better marvel at the diadem of tangled bone. So, Aisling slid her fingers over the contours of each antler.
“What are we to do?” Aisling asked, straightening her posture atop the mount. Galad retrieved a bow and quiver for her, handing it to his mortal queen.
“You see that dummy at the end of the pitch?” Galad asked, pointing into the distance. Far off stood a humanoid doll, limply nailed to a stake.
“We call it the fire hand of the North”—Blaine grinned wickedly—“for inspiration.”
Aisling felt her blood boil, heating her skin till she nearly simmered. But losing her temper to these Aos Sí would be a loss. She couldn’t allow them to provoke her.
“It’s a game we train with. You’ll be paired up to race towards the dummy. The first to impale its head wins,” Galad explained, draping the quiver over her shoulders.
“Is there a certain distance I’m to shoot from?”
“You can shoot from here if you like. But you only have one arrow so make certain it’ll find its target. On the other hand, the longer you wait, the more opportunity you give your opponent to strike the dummy first.”
“You’ll need to manage your mount, aim your reed, time your shot against the race, and hit the target,” Gilrel elaborated, climbing atop her own stag. A funny sight if Aisling were being honest. But although small in form, Gilrel more than compensated with her confidence and unmatched resolve.
“Simple enough.” But once the words left her lips, she knew Galad had heard the uncertainty inherent within.
“It’s not so difficult, mo Lúra . Hold the bow with one hand and the arrow between these two fingers.” Galad demonstrated. “Set the arrowhead on your fist to steady it. I like to draw an imaginary line, a thread between the tip of my arrow and its target. Then inhale and shoot with the exhale. As for the riding, I’m confident in your abilities.”
“No one expects you to master it on your first try , mo Lúra ,” Gilrel said, nudging her hart closer to Aisling’s as the rest tested the weight of their arrows against their bows.
“No, we absolutely do not,” Deidra added.
Gilrel ignored the trooping Aos Sí. “We’ve had centuries of practice.”
“But by the way you hold that bow, I’m assuming you’ve had none.” Peitho brought her stag beside Aisling’s own.
“ An ragairl é fin , a Peitho?” Galad barked but the fae princess shrugged him off.
“Gilrel and Blaine, why don’t you demonstrate first?” Peitho tossed her fiery hair over her shoulder.
“Very well,” Blaine replied, eyeing the marten with shards of ice for eyes.
Both warriors commanded their mounts towards the starting line, a band painted across the grass with two torches lit on either side. The rest of their group joined them, spectating a few paces away. But the doll, far in the distance, was a mere speck at the other end of the field.
“What happens if they miss?” Aisling asked.
After all, the challenge they’d described was a feat—at least, Aisling realized, for a mortal.
“We don’t miss,” Galad said, training his eyes on the dummy up ahead. The mortal queen was on the brink of discovering whether that was true and if it were, she was indeed riding straight into a humiliation she didn’t believe Peitho would soon forget.
“Are you ready?” Peitho asked and in response both Blaine and Gilrel nodded, taking hold of their reins and leaning forward.
“Very well,” Peitho continued. “On the count of three.”
Gilrel narrowed her beady eyes to the horizon.
The group fell silent, allowing them their concentration. Their stags prancing anxiously beneath them. A punch of energy, of eagerness, of a drive to run, to feel the morning wind in their manes, the ground beneath their hooves, startling Aisling.
“One, two,” Peitho counted, “three.”
Both Gilrel and Blaine erupted from the starting line, an explosion as they became mere blurs of color in the distance.
They raced wickedly fast. Shrinking with impossible speed as their mounts carried them towards the dummy. Blaine raised her bow first, reaching for the arrow in her quiver and balancing it on her bow. Gilrel pulled ahead, both paws still clasping the reins. Her beast quickened with Gilrel’s guidance fully focused on her. Blaine, on the other hand, fell behind, near standing atop her mount. Poised to strike. She demonstrated a savageness Aisling realized was wonderful. A realization met by a familiar guilt.
“What’s Gilrel waiting for?” Aisling asked Galad, her heart hammering against her chest. Her hands squeezed the leather reins. For still, Gilrel hadn’t reached for her bow nor stood from her mount.
“Gilrel is prioritizing speed.” Galad watched intently as he spoke. “She’ll come closer to the dummy more quickly if she keeps her attention focused on the stag. It’s an easier shot the closer she rides to the dummy, but she risks her opponent succeeding on an early attempt. Blaine, on the other hand, prioritizes the shot. Her approach is more aggressive. If she can make the shot from far enough away, striking first, she wins despite the slowing of her stag.”
Aisling held her breath, straining to watch them both in the distance.
By now, Gilrel was far ahead of Blaine, increasing the distance with each of her mount’s steps. But Blaine, indeed, shot first. Releasing the arrow from a way’s back. The reed spun like a swallow and cut the fog, brushing past Gilrel’s ears. A magnificent attempt. One that put mortal archers to shame. Including those within her own tuath.
But alas, Blaine’s risk didn’t pay off. The arrow struck just below the dummy’s chin, a hair’s length from its intended target. Aisling squealed, clenching her hands into fists.
“Does this mean Gilrel’s won?” Aisling asked.
“Unless she manages to miss, then yes,” Galad said. And sure enough, Gilrel stood atop her stag—a tiny, mighty little creature—raised her bow, placed the reed against the string, pulled and released. The arrow cut across the length of the field, nailing the dummy in the center of the head.
A perfect shot.
Aisling yelled, unable to stifle her excitement. A gesture that summoned Peitho’s, Noirin’s, and Deidra’s twisted expressions.
“Don’t be too thrilled just yet, mo Lúra . Your turn is coming,” Peitho said, ignoring Gilrel’s hoots of victory from across the field.
Blaine and the marten plucked their arrows from the dummy and trotted back, Gilrel’s bow held above her in victory.
Noirin and Deidra lined up next, readying themselves just as Gilrel and Blaine had. Peitho, once again, counted down until they burst from their positions with equal fervor.
They raced fiercely, challenging their stags. Like twin stars, catapulting towards the Earth. They were closer to the target now than either Gilrel or Blaine had been, at last releasing the arrows in nearly the same breath. Noirin’s arrow struck first, landing in the dummy’s chin. Deidra released her arrow next, puncturing the doll right between the eyes.
“Who’s won?” Aisling asked Galad, watching as they both retrieved their arrows from the dummy. “They’ve both managed to hit it in the head.”
“Aye, but Noirin released her arrow first,” Galad said. “She wins this round.”
The two fae returned to the group. And as they rode, Aisling knew that with every step closer, time was fleeting before it was her own turn. She, whose skills in archery were only dismally better than her sword fighting, which was saying very little.
Aisling clenched her jaw, willing the flock of crimson-eyed ravens to settle within her stomach.
“Ready, mo Lúra ?” Peitho asked, already positioning herself before the starting line. “Will you count us down, Galad?”
The pitch stretched on for an eternity. Much larger than it had ever appeared from the terrace in the castle. The dummy was dwarfed by the distance and disguised amongst the landscape of trees that spectated as well.
Aisling’s hands grew slick with anger. The mortal queen was expected to fail and fail miserably. For no one expected her to compete against a member of the fair folk, pride unscathed.
Nevertheless, Aisling would rather suffer the loss than surrender. A more humiliating alternative.
“You needn’t fret, mo Lúra ,” Peitho whispered beside her, “despite your showing at the Snaidhm , all of Annwyn knows you’re no fighter. You mortal princesses are best suited for spectating rather than participating. It’s best your attentions remain focused on birthing an heir. The Forge knows you’ll need it”—Peitho beamed—“especially after what happened with his last caera .”
Aisling stilled, unable to utter a word without scalding Peitho with her unfiltered thoughts. Too angry, too ambushed by the insinuation of another caera to properly organize her thoughts.
“You didn’t know, did you? That Lir had another caera before you? Obviously, she died, or else you wouldn’t be here, now would you? Died during childbirth as did the child. So difficult for us Aos Sí to bear children, you see. Of course, you mortals don’t have much issue with that. Like cattle you breed endlessly.” Her face twisted with disgust. “I thought I’d be his second caera , against all odds. Considering how close we were.” Aisling sat frozen. “Don’t look so shocked. Be grateful I informed you of his past, mo Lúra . I don’t think anyone else would have . ”
Aisling struggled to find words.
A second caera ?
Filverel was right. All the fae had indeed anticipated Aisling’s union was nothing more than an execution. For Lir had entered that ceremony prepared to behead her. To go against the political union the mortals believed it to be. Just as Filverel had intimated. After all, Aisling didn’t know much about fae customs or traditions, but she knew them well enough to know a second caera was unheard of. In which case, Lir hadn’t expected Aisling to survive that night.
But there was another side to Peitho’s words. A part of Aisling’s heart that weighed heavy for Lir in a way she didn’t think was possible for a fae king. He who’d killed so many of her kind. And yet, she pitied him.
Aisling opened her mouth to speak but before the mortal queen could gather herself, Galad’s voice materialized, emerging from the fog.
“Three,” he said. “Two.” Aisling’s heart thrashed violently. “One.”
Peitho exploded from the starting line, flying down the field. Aisling did her best to shake away the thoughts, her stag bucking, desperately aware of the distance Peitho was increasing by the breath .
“Go, Aisling!” Galad shouted.
Aisling encouraged the mount forward, cutting through the morning air. She pushed the stag, whispering for it to run faster, quicker, harder. She could feel its determination, its fury, its will to win at all costs. She coaxed those feelings in the stag. Allowed the stag to feel her own desire to win, her need to claim this one victory.
Peitho was far ahead, already gathering her arrow and pressing its head against the bow’s rest.
Aisling clenched her jaw and narrowed her focus on the target. The stag flying beneath her. The ground below its hooves was a mess of color and texture. Aisling had never ridden this quickly. Never been allowed to. It was an opiate. That sweet sense of peril.
Aisling and the creature raced at Peitho’s heels. A feat she once believed impossible when she’d seen how far ahead Peitho charged. But the dummy was taking form in the distance and she was running out of time to attempt a strike.
Aisling reached for her bow, releasing the reins in one hand. The gesture alone challenged her balance, nearly catapulting Aisling from the stag and into the mud below. But alas, she managed the bow. Now the reed. Aisling took the arrow from its quiver, squeezing the stag beneath her thighs to keep her balance.
“ Set the arrowhead on your fist to steady it. I like to draw an imaginary line, a thread between the tip of my arrow and the target. Then inhale and shoot with the exhale .”
Aisling imagined the gesture, then performed it herself. Much, much more difficult done than said. For the arrow continued to fall off her fist, worsened by the rock of the stag beneath her. She couldn’t possibly aim under such conditions let alone on her own two feet.
Peitho was beside her now, the string of her bow pulled taut. At any moment, she’d release it, patiently biding her time.
Aisling inhaled and drew the string back—far more difficult than Noirin, Deidre, Blaine or Gilrel had made it seem. Her mortal muscles shook, not quite strong enough to hold the string in place for long. Body aching. All of her was as rigid as a board.
This was it. Aisling couldn’t hold the string much longer. So, she set it free. Fired the reed before Peitho.
The reed cut through the air and travelled across the field with wicked speed. Aisling caught Peitho’s disbelief as she herself released the string.
But who shot first mattered not, for the mortal queen’s arrowhead soared over the dummy and into the feywild beyond.
Not only had Aisling missed the target, she’d done so miserably.
Peitho’s reed, on the other hand, nailed the dummy in the mouth.
Clumsily, Aisling’s body relaxed, muscles going slack, still burning from sudden exertion.
Peitho brought her mount to a stop elegantly, admiring her work on the dummy before wrenching the reed from its head.
“A pleasure, mo Lúra .” Peitho grinned, the stag prancing beneath her triumphantly. “Don’t take too long searching for your arrow in those woods. I hear the Unseelie are feral these days.” And with that, the southern princess frolicked back towards the group, leaving Aisling alone at the brim of the woods.
The mortal queen fumed. Her entire body was charged only by the loathing she felt towards Peitho. A hatred, a jealousy, that thankfully distracted Aisling from all the fae princess had just told her. It could all be lies. It could be a deception Peitho delighted in. But Aisling, despite her own hopes, knew it wasn’t. Peitho had enjoyed spilling those secrets too much for any of it to have been a mistruth .
Aisling approached the woods on her mount, but the stag reared, unwilling to enter the forest.
The mortal queen cursed under her breath.
“Very well, I’ll go on my own!” she shouted at her stag, dismounting and marching straight into the greenwood’s keep.
The arrow was lost, and Aisling harbored little hope of ever finding it amidst the unruly brush. But Aisling preferred facing some other Unseelie than returning to the group empty-handed. Tangible proof she’d failed so miserably, she couldn’t find the arrow try as she might.
So, Aisling ventured deeper into the forest, ignoring the fear that brewed within her. Flashes of the Cú Scáth breaking through her courage the longer she searched. But her eyes didn’t catch onto an arrow. Only a snake glaring back at her. It was perched upon a low hanging branch, hissing sweetly.
Aisling approached it cautiously, half anticipating it would slither away. But it didn’t, rather it watched her through slit pupils, considering the mortal queen as she navigated deeper into the forest. Until someone or something pressed her against a tree. Pinned her to a rowan before she bore enough time to scream.