Chapter XV
CHAPTER XV
“The mortal princess appears unable to resist certain peril,” Lir purred, his face mere inches from her own, her feet dangling above the ground to meet his great height. “You shouldn’t be out here alone. Where’s Galad?”
“Let go of me!” Aisling squirmed beneath him, but it was fruitless. His grip was impenetrable, one arm around her waist and the other pressed against the bark of the rowan, closer than Aisling had been to any individual much less a male. So, she cursed the simmering of her skin, the fire coiling tightly within her abdomen.
“It’s never wise to release prey so panicked.” His breath hot against her skin.
“Prey suggests a hunt, My Lord, a comparison mortal women don’t take kindly to.” Aisling bared her teeth, wrapping her slick palms around her dagger’s haft, still strapped to her thigh.
“Because the opposite is often more accurate,” Lir said, eyes miraculously bright, even in the morning haze. He caught Aisling’s wrist before she could draw Iarbonel’s dagger from its scabbard, thwarting her attempts. Aisling cursed beneath her breath. She hadn’t planned on harming him. Simply threatening him enough to release her .
Aisling’s face flushed with anger.
“You blame the cornered creature for baring its fangs.”
Lir breathed another faint laugh. “I hardly think of you as a ‘cornered creature’ or prey for that matter. There’s more that runs in your blood than your people would credit you for.”
At last, Lir released her, her feet finding the earth inelegantly. He towered above her once more. The flashing of his eyes implied he’d acknowledged Aisling’s fae leathers for the first time, her chainmail, boots, and tunic a stark contrast to her usual floor-length gowns.
Aisling exhaled, still counting each of his breaths should he move too quickly, too violently. This time, Aisling would have the dagger poised to strike the fae king who filled her thoughts. Thoughts she foolishly attempted to burn over and over again. But always they regrew from the ash, sprouting and taking claim to her every passing whim. And now that he looked down at her, a tangible form to all her terrors, her blood burned. No longer simple words spoken around a fire.
“You speak as though you know my people,” Aisling bit.
“I’d wager I’ve known more mortals than yourself, princess. Enough to convince me you’re all the same.”
“And yet you don’t know me,” Aisling spat.
“I know enough,” he said, pupils dilated in a sage eclipse. No more was he the dream-spun stag sitting at the edge of her bed. The luminous king even in the shroud of evening. He was once again the wolf. Angry, formidable, ravenous.
“You’ve been tainted by an upbringing designed to breed hatred towards the Sidhe.”
“And I’d bind myself to an enemy a thousand times over for the sake of my clann and my kind. To keep them safe. As would you.” For Aisling was not the only one who’d sacrificed something. Lir too had bound himself to the mortal princess for the sake of the fair folk. Or at the very least, had resolved to behead a mortal princess to preserve his kin even if it meant war.
Aisling steeled herself, hardening against all emotion lest she dwell on the fact that the fae king had borne every intention of severing her neck. And far worse, Aisling batted away the sympathy as quickly as it blossomed. There was no reason for her heart to ache at the thought of Lir’s past.
Briefly, his emerald eyes flickered with understanding before collapsing into that thick, impassable wall of contempt. That cool arrogance rippled through his every muscle as he leaned against a nearby tree.
“Your people are still in danger. As are mine,” Lir said, some of his amusement vanishing.
“You refer to the Unseelie, don’t you?” Aisling surmised, searching his expression for answers. She’d wondered endlessly about the Unseelie. About what Lir was possibly doing in the feywilds all this time. But none seemed willing to impart any information. Not Gilrel nor Galad nor the birds, and certainly not any of the other Aos Sí she’d encountered.
“Yes,” he confessed.
“And have I endangered Annwyn?” The question was one Aisling had mulled over often. For hadn’t it been intimated that Aisling’s mortal scent was attracting the Unseelie to Annwyn’s borders?
“The Unseelie are a threat regardless of your presence,” he said. “They’ve been worsening for some time.”
“That’s where you’ve been, isn’t it? Securing Annwyn’s perimeter?” Aisling asked in earnest.
Lir grinned. “Concerned for my welfare, princess?”
“Of course”—she held his eyes—“so long as it affects my own.” At this, Lir laughed, the sound caressing Aisling’s senses.
“Aye, securing Annwyn’s perimeter amongst other things,” he continued. “Dealing with the Unseelie is complex. They’re not a single race. They’re many with various lords, chiefs, matriarchs, and leaders. Ranging from pure beast to conscious, intelligent creatures. All chaotic, archaic, opposed to order and governed solely by hunger and need.”
“And what of your sovereignship? You’re their king are you not?” Aisling asked.
“Aye and we’ve managed to coexist for many centuries, constantly dancing on the precipice of conflict. For some time, they’ve questioned the leadership of the Sidhe and now that I’ve taken a mortal bride, they’ve grown angrier than ever before.”
Aisling wondered why he divulged so much. No members of the fae court, thus far, had deigned to reveal anything so specific to the mortal queen. But Aisling said nothing for fear he would stop. Perhaps fae lords grew lonely just as mortal kings became. She’d seen such loneliness spread within her own father. The way he carried his shoulders, the vacant look in his eyes that Clodagh could never warm. For monarchs were burdened by responsibilities the average man couldn’t fathom. And to carry such weight for centuries as did Lir…Aisling couldn’t imagine.
“Galad suggested my scent lures the Unseelie to Annwyn.”
“Partially. The Unseelie have always hunted mankind and the Sidhe have allowed them to in exchange for their aid in protecting the feywilds, our kingdoms. This arrangement has proved effective over the centuries. But peace between the Sidhe and the mortals leaves the Unseelie without an incentive for their loyalty.”
Aisling bristled, anger abated only by the passing thought that based upon this agreement between the Sidhe and Unseelie, perhaps mankind had mistaken the two fae categories all these years. That would explain the impossibly inaccurate accounts of what the Sidhe truly looked like. How they ate mortal babes in caves and tricked children into rivers. But this by no means exonerated her father. Nemed had fought the Sidhe for decades, captured them, tortured them. He would be well acquainted with his enemy.
Aisling was drawn from her thoughts by the shouting of her name in the distance. Galad and Gilrel were calling for her.
“You should return to the others,” Lir said, pushing off the tree. His voice was both coy and cold, iced, like the evergreens sparkling in the gems only the frost could afford.
“And what of you?” Aisling asked.
Lir eyed the surrounding woodland, and it was only a moment later Aisling heard what the fae king already had: others approaching. And sure enough, through the trees, Aisling could see the faint shadows of Lir’s knights making their way towards the castle.
“I’ll meet you tonight,” he said, already stepping back, away from her and towards his knights. “And then you can explain to me how a mortal princess learned to ride like that.”
Aisling didn’t move, only watched as he disappeared into the forest, as wild as a wolf and as elusive as the stag. And despite Galad and Gilrel’s calls, she stood there, watching Lir vanish, catching him glance back before disappearing entirely.
It was a snake that at last diverted her attention. The black flame of a creature cautiously approached the mortal queen, abandoning her reed before her boots.
Aisling sunk into the tub. She’d already bathed in the steam, sour pudina, tayberry tea, and suds for the better half of the day with little desire to ever emerge.
But just as he’d promised, a lanky fox knocked on her chamber doors on behalf of the fae king, requesting Aisling join Lir for supper. And by the time the sun set, Aisling was expected to be sitting in the dining hall. A room she hadn’t explored, much less been invited to. Until now, all her meals had been delivered to her chambers. A product of the distrust Aisling didn’t blame the fair folk for; her tuath only need send word for Aisling to betray her newfound world .
“Come, mo Lúra , we must get you dressed,” Gilrel said, approaching the basin with a pile of warm towels in tow. Reluctantly, Aisling indulged the handmaid, allowing Gilrel to dry her, brush through her knots, spray her with the winds of Innisfree, and select a gown for the evening.
The dress was sky blue with large, transparent sleeves billowing before cinching at the wrists and elbows. The bodice ribbed like a corset. A foil to the loose, sweeping skirts that spilled from the waist in waves of cerulean. Giant moths’ wings Aisling realized, stroking the soft surface and powdering her fingertips.
As with all fae gowns, it was a stark contrast to Tilrish fashion: the countless brown, grey, and black dresses Gilrel had stuffed into some unbothered drawer upon her arrival, her Neimedh tartans the only respite from the drab collection, tartans she cherished, woven in the threads of her ancestry. But Aisling hadn’t donned these mortal gowns and fabrics lest she stand out like a beating heart in a graveyard. Or because Gilrel would contest it to no end. But whatever the excuse she gave herself, Aisling knew the true reason: these gowns were far superior to anything mortal hands sewed. No mortal land, township, kingdom, nor village existed where Aisling could sport beetles as jewels and spider-webs for skirts, swathe herself in petrified rain, or bloody her neck with cave rubies. So why, Aisling began to ask herself, should she deny herself the guilty pleasure here?
Once Gilrel’s magpies had stitched Aisling into the gown, the lady’s maid began weaving her fingers through Aisling’s hair. She tied it tightly behind her head as she always did. As Aisling always insisted.
“Perhaps, Gilrel,” Aisling began, “you may try something different tonight.” For Aisling was realizing more and more each day just how much she resembled Clodagh with her hair pressed against the scalp and knotted in a crude bundle.
“ A woman’s hair is a self-reflection. For that reason, a lady never wears her hair undone. It is to be safely pinned, as prim as the lady herself. To wear one’s tresses loose and wild implies the woman is just as impetuous as her hair suggests ,” Clodagh would say as she raked a brush through Aisling’s locks.
“How would you like it, mo Lúra ?” Gilrel asked, securing the tethers she’d already placed.
“Undone,” Aisling replied. The lady’s maid considered the mortal queen before putting herself to work, struggling to hide a satisfied grin as she removed the pins one by one.
“Easily enough done,” the chambermaid said, already barking orders at her magpies. Birds who gathered Aisling’s hair in their beaks, knotting disheveled braids to complement the loose mane of unkempt black.
The gilded doors parted, and the mortal queen stepped into the dining hall. Barreled ceilings dripped with showers of hanging butterwort, bittercress, bilberries, buttercups, and bogbeans. Chandeliers of waxing wendies hung low, sweeping the heads of the Aos Sí seated at their tables spilling over with chartreuse gelatins, pudding pies, stewed rabbit, tea-toasted buns, and goblets of strawberry wine to name a few. And while several bears stood guard along the periphery of the hall, it appeared the entirety of Annwyn’s royal court was in attendance. Violent reds, blues, greens, golds, and silvers dying their tunics, the females’ rich Gúnas, their capes, their tailored trousers. Flaunting their attire as winged Aos Sí twirled in the air with their partners, wings tickling the vaulted ceilings and showering the hall in loose petals.
As Aisling entered, the fair folk turned to look, their feline eyes exploring her gown, her hair, her bare feet padding across the marble floors speckled with leaves and insects.
“Are there always this many Aos Sí attending dinner with the king?” Aisling asked her handmaid, following shortly behind.
“It’s to celebrate Lir’s return to Annwyn,” Gilrel explained, nudging Aisling forward.
“ And remember, Aisling: even in your dying breath, never give them the satisfaction of seeing you wilt, witnessing your fear. You represent all our kind when amongst them now. Never forget that .”
From across the room, through the maze of Aos Sí, Aisling’s eyes met Lir’s. The fae king danced amidst the crowd of fair folk, taller than even his fae subjects, stepping to the flutes, fiddles, and bodhrans. That intangible cord between she and Lir growing taut, groaning with every inch Aisling grew nearer.
He was dressed in an ebony tunic embroidered with sage thread, split down the center so Aisling could see the white of his shirt beneath, its undone tethers, the chains he brandished around his neck, and the skin below his collar where fae markings proudly graced.
And if it weren’t for his elegant, masterful skill for the dance, Aisling wouldn’t have noticed his partner, Peitho, as radiant as the southern sun.
“ Mo Lúra ,” a voice said from nearby, shattering Aisling’s trance. The mortal queen whipped her attention towards the source, her stomach instantly plummeting.
Filverel approached her, a sparkling chalice of wine in hand.
“You’re looking well,” he said, cocking his head to the side and probing her with his opalescent eyes. “I’d ask if you’ve heard back from your father but I’m already aware of the answer.”
Aisling’s jaw set, face reddening.
“Any idea why that may be?” he pressed, smiling even as he took a large sip of his wine.
“Have you nothing better to do than concern yourself with my father?”
“I’m Lir’s first court advisor. It’s my job to concern myself with the fire hand of the North. Especially when he’s been so silent. I think you’d agree his sudden, if not abrupt, tranquility is cause for concern. I can’t remember a time the high king of Tilren wasn’t clumsily trampling on fae sensitivities.”
“Because there’s never been a time presaged by a peace treaty. One Nemed proposed.” Aisling made a point of peering around Filverel, more interested in concluding the conversation than prolonging it. But Filverel laughed, bearing his pointed canines.
“How naive you are if you believe Nemed to abandon all he covets for the sake of peace.”
“If that’s what you believe, then why did any of you agree to the union?”
“You may recall my admission that I was among those who advised against it,” Filverel said, running his fingers through his silken hair. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. I had your best interests in mind, mo Lúra . You should be thanking me. It was Lir who believed your head was worth the risk.”
Aisling’s brows knotted, irritated that in this sense, she agreed with Filverel. Especially after what Peitho had already divulged.
“ He is the worst of them: ruthless, merciless, no more than a beast driven by hunger, need, and power. But, unlike the wolf, he is insatiable .” Nemed had been right about Lir. Had known, and Aisling had never doubted his word. So why now did Aisling feel the prick of a sharp shadow following the truth of Filverel’s argument?
“Aisling,” his voice called, one Aisling could identify in her sleep. Not because she’d heard it often but because it was a voice that belonged to the fae lord.
Lir approached, his cunning eyes fixed on the mortal queen. Peitho was no longer visible amongst the hordes of twirling fair folk .
“You drive me mad waiting.”
“You shouldn’t claim to wait upon that which you dread,” Aisling quipped, shooting daggers at the king from beneath her dark lashes.
His expression lifted slightly, the corners of his lips curling.
“Care to dance?”
Aisling hesitated, his eyes fluttering across her every feature. The last time Aisling had partaken in such revelry with the fae king, she’d been enchanted, on the precipice of her sanity.
“Perhaps the fleshling requires sustenance,” Filverel suggested, his empty concern maddening.
Lir considered Aisling again, eventually gesturing towards his throne and the empty seat beside it, “I’ll settle for dinner then. But I warn you, a debt to a fae is a perilous debt indeed.”
Lir offered his hand to the mortal queen. Aisling considered it for a moment, the rage and sorrow she felt towards the fae king collapsing into complete dissonance. Lir’s past challenged Aisling’s preconceived expectations of him—a nightmare when compared to the waking fantasy, each a blurry truth existing simultaneously. But, to Aisling, it mattered little what she personally felt or thought of the fae king. What mattered was the treaty, her duty, the strengthening of the mortal world as a result of her union with Lir.
So, Aisling accepted Lir’s hand. Her chest tightened at his touch. And if it hadn’t been for the muscle flaring in his jaw, the hesitation, Aisling wouldn’t have believed he also sensed that strange string curling between them. They’d touched hands once before, when they were handfasted, and even then the sensation had been enough to unbind her. An acute, near painful jolt of energy. The joining of that which grows with that which kills.
Lithely, Lir collected himself, guiding Aisling towards the dining table with both Filverel and Gilrel following shortly behind.
Aisling recognized many of the knights sitting around the table: Galad and Rian were positioned the closest, along with, unfortunately, Filverel. Cathan, Yevhen, Tyr, Einri, Aedh, Hagre among others, sat further down until the knights dissolved into trooping fae Aisling was both familiar with and not. Among those she knew were Peitho, Blaine, Noirin, and Deidra. Aisling intentionally avoided their watchful eyes as Lir led her towards the seat beside his own.
Gilrel sat to the left of Aisling, waiting for the mortal queen to settle before doing so herself.
And as the mortal queen took her seat beside the king, she couldn’t help but notice her plate was different from the others, her meal specifically prepared for mortal consumption. Even her chalice was one of water instead of wine. For only demons and monsters could eat poison and live , Aisling thought to herself.
Those seated nearest to the mortal queen, nodded their heads in her direction so Aisling stiffly returned their gestures. Filverel inspecting her every twitch as though she might burst into flames before his very eyes.
It didn’t take long for the table to resume their conversation, fae babble to Aisling’s untrained ears. They devoured their meals with bare hands, ignoring the ivory utensils set before them. An orchestra of drunken laughter, heated arguments, clumsy songs, and outlandish tales. So unlike Castle Neimedh’s suppers: meals to be eaten in silence or idle, soft chatter. No discussion of politics or business, humor or controversy. All rules which Starn, Iarbonel, Fergus, Annind, and Aisling broke on several occasions. Fergus, in particular—for as much as he hated the fair folk—would find enjoyment in meals like these: endless food and the permission to indulge with wild abandon.
Galad turned to Lir then, murmuring something in Fae to which Rian glowered in Galad’s direction, pointing his knife at the fae knight. Rian gestured at Aisling next and Lir grinned wolfishly. The mortal queen bristled, eyes darting between the knights as they continued back and forth. Speaking of her as though she were a child and beneath their direct acknowledgment.
“Galad says you can outride most of Lir’s knights, including Rian,” Gilrel at last translated in Aisling’s ear.
“If the mortal queen can outride me, as you say, then Galad would grow dizzy watching the circles she rode around him,” Rian bit back, shoving the sapphire-eyed knight in the shoulder.
“If only you were all there to witness her nearly outrace Peitho,” Gilrel said, speaking to Cathan and Einri as well now, who had leaned in to join the conversation.
“She started half a field behind and passed Peitho still,” Galad added, daring a glance at the fae princess too far down the table to overhear their conversation amidst the chatter and music of the hall. This despite her incessant glances at Lir and Aisling.
“What stag did she ride?” Einri asked, his hair tied away from his face in a loose bun, exposing sharp cheekbones and deep-set amber eyes.
“Faolan,” Galad replied, shoveling another mouthful of pudding pie.
“A stubborn, willful old brute,” Rian said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. “That beast listens to no one. Would rather graze than be ridden.”
“And how does a mortal queen learn to ride more proficiently than a member of the Sidhe?” Cathan asked, lowering his head to look at Aisling.
“Forgive me, but I hardly believe it. Galad is known to exaggerate the truth and Gilrel is her lady’s maid.” Einri waved his hand dismissively before lunging across the table for another loaf of bread.
To Aisling’s surprise, both Gilrel and Galad flared in their seats, opening their mouths for the rebuttal.
“I saw it myself,” Lir piped first. “She was more spirited than Faolan himself, an energy the beast recognized. Animals respond to fearlessness in their masters; they seek that courage.”
Lazily he leaned back in his chair, his body tilted to the side as he stroked the intricately carved arms of his throne. Every lean, elegant finger was bedecked with fine rings.
“Courage to ride a stag?” Cathan scoffed.
“When you’re as small a mortal as she, capable of breaking every bone in her body should she lose her dominion over Faolan, fall and be crushed upon impact,” Lir growled, “then yes, there’s courage in riding a stag.”
Cathan and Einri shrank at Lir’s tone, tails between their legs, their goblets suddenly quite fascinating.
“Such courage will prove useful in the days to come,” Filverel interjected, flashing Aisling a taunting smile.
“In the days to come?” Aisling asked, eyes darting between the fair folk around her.
Lir leaned toward Aisling, the smell of him encouraging Aisling to do the same but she willed herself steady.
“Do you remember what I told you earlier about the Unseelie?” Lir searched her expression.
“Yes, the agreement you struck with their kind, now rendered obsolete by our union, puts Annwyn in jeopardy of their wrath,” Aisling summarized, cautiously looking around the table for some indication as to what this was all about.
“Not just Annwyn. All of the Sidhe,” Lir added, petting the stem of his goblet, a gesture that was wildly distracting.
Aisling tore her attention back towards the discussion at hand. “But you’ve made progress with the Unseelie during this time you’ve been away?”
Lir exchanged glances with his knights.
“Not quite,” he said, licking his lips. “The Unseelie are… difficult.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” Rian interjected.
“Such creatures don’t respond well when they feel slighted,” Lir continued. “Often they refuse to speak with us and when they do there’s little progress to be made.”
“Elusive beasts.” Galad shook his head.
“Can’t you command them? As their king?” Aisling asked, uncertain why they suddenly chose to speak of the Unseelie in her presence, but too curious to risk them stopping.
“The same way mortals command the weeds growing in their gardens? No, they simply pluck whatever deigns to acknowledge their self-assigned authority from their path; would you have us do the same with the Unseelie?” Cathan’s eyes narrowed, his words designed to cut Aisling where she sat. But she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction, so she sat still, unprovoked, unbothered by his misplaced rage.
“Such a strong hand could cause a revolt on their part if it hasn’t already,” Lir said, tilting his head down to meet her gaze once more. “I can’t risk them spilling Sidhe blood to make a point.”
“And what of the mortals?” Aisling asked.
“They’re equally at risk of the Unseelie’s wrath,” Filverel said, “if not more so.”
So, it was just as she’d feared. If only she could speak with Nemed. If only he’d reply to her letters.
“But fret not, mo Lúra ,” Filverel said, reading her expression once more, “you’re going to help.”
Aisling’s heart leapt. “What do you mean?”
“We need the Unseelie to acknowledge our attempts at reconciliation and there’s nothing the Unseelie respond to better than their own appetites,” Filverel continued, his words laced with sadistic delight.
Galad crossed his arms. “You’re going to help us negotiate with the Unseelie.”
“You’ve showcased your talents well, a vibrant perfume to the trow and then the Cú Scáth. So, this will be your first opportunity to serve the Sidhe as their new sovereign, luring the Unseelie from their hiding.” Filverel beamed. “The perfect bait.”
Aisling met Lir’s gaze, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
“We leave tonight,” Lir said, downing the rest of his wine without another glance in her direction.