Chapter XXXIII
CHAPTER XXXIII
“Is this the fae whore our beloved prince is to marry?” Ciar’s pale eyes were sharp enough to cut.
Fergus choked on the fae lamb’s leg he’d dived into––he and Galad the only ones interested in devouring their meals rather than nudging it with their ivory forks like the rest of them. Not that the fair folk used such utensils.
“I recognize her,” Ciar continued, sliding her naked nails down the edge of her plate. “She was amongst those who pillaged Aithirn’s towns when I was but a child. Although I must admit, her face has changed now that it’s no longer painted with the purpled guts of my people.”
“I’m glad you remember me so fondly,” Peitho simpered, “and I you: the cowering princess shrieking till I nearly believed your fat head might pop. But please, now that we’re on familiar terms, please refer to me as the princess of Niltaor and mercenary for the southern Sidhe armies.”
Ciar hardened into stone, the only life in her otherwise still form was the loathing churning around her pupils as a single white curl fell from her tightly coiled braids.
“My name is Dagfin,” the Roktan prince piped, startling Ciar. He stood from his seat and bowed. “It’s an honor, princess. I look forward to our union and the change it’ll presage.”
Peitho didn’t move. Didn’t so much as uncross her arms as she met his eyes. It was difficult to tell what the fae princess was thinking. Even Aisling wasn’t entirely sure what to make of his greeting. The way he considered Peitho long after he’d taken his seat.
“Are you certain this is what you want Nemed?” Lir asked, leaning back in his chair as his ringed fingers toyed with the stem of his goblet.
“I was the one who requested another interracial union, wasn’t I? It’s for the best of both our kinds that we continue to blend our worlds. We won’t know true harmony until that’s a reality,” Nemed said, the scar along his face still bright red from the excitement earlier on in the night.
“I don’t think you’ve fully grasped just how rare the success of the first union was,” Filverel interjected, brushing one of his white braids over his shoulder. “What you’re asking for could incite more war should it not unravel the way you intend.”
And what were the odds, Aisling thought to herself, that the Forge had knotted not one but two interracial unions by the same thread?
“You refer to the bonds you believe certain couples bear while others don’t,” Friseal spoke up. Aisling, alarmed by the familiarity of his voice, whipped her attention towards him. Her childhood tutor shot her a quick glance before focusing on Filverel once more. “We’re aware of your customs. Whether we agree with them or not is another matter entirely.”
“You can condemn our ways all you like but at the end of the day it’ll be your prince’s head rolling towards your feet.”
“Savages!” Ciar stood from her seat, hands balled into fists. “You shall not touch him!”
“Sit down, Ciar,” Nemed commanded. “We each agreed to this union knowing it was a risk. To build and foster a new age between man and Sidhe, sacrifices will be made, challenges faced, and risks waged. This shouldn’t come as a surprise.” The fire hand opened his arms wide, gesturing towards every mortal sovereign, flaith, and advisor seated around the table.
“Now, on to topics that haven’t been overly digested,” Nemed continued, ignoring Ciar as she slowly took back her seat. “Whilst we’ve agreed to this gamble of yours, a loss would indeed be disastrous.” Nemed took a bite of red meat. “So, in order to ensure our gamble is worth this possibility, we ask for more in return: an offer of ‘good faith’ on behalf of the Sidhe.”
Lir smiled casually at the fire hand, the image of cool, easy arrogance.
“What is it you want, Nemed?” The fae king asked outright, and as he spoke the tips of his fangs scraped his bottom lip. A detail neither Ciar nor Clodagh missed for their complexions paled.
“Your Unseelie are growing bolder, inching their way towards our villages, towns, cities, and, worst of all, our capitals. There are even those who’ve dared to scale our walls, breaching mortal territory. If I recall correctly, the terms of your union promised the Unseelie would abstain from preying upon our kind lest a human venture into their land. That was the agreement, so why hasn’t it been upheld?”
“Isn’t that why you have the Faerak?” Lir said coolly. “Or are they as useless as they sound?”
A muscle flickered across Dagfin’s jaw but he kept himself composed, stilling the ivory knives he perpetually spun between his fingers. And as a mortal barmaid scuttled around the table nervously, filling chalices with more ale, mead, wine, and ciders, Dagfin covered the top of his glass with his hand, refusing any alcohol for the second time that night.
“The closer the Unseelie venture into our borders—wyverns, golems, ogres, and selkies—the more they rouse suspicion,” Fínín said, his voice gravelly and aged. “There’s already talk amongst our peoples that the fair folk and the Unseelie are”—he considered for a moment, carefully searching for the correct words—“due a categorical separation.”
“So, your lies are slipping through the cracks in your hands?” Aisling challenged, her heart pounding the moment the words fell from her lips. “Tell the subjects you claim to adore the truth of who and what either the fair folk and Unseelie are. Print the Forbidden Lore for them to decide for themselves what they believe, what to think of the gods.”
Fínín glared at Aisling, an expression designed to melt the flesh from her bones.
“It appears your daughter has stolen more than just their magic ,” he spat across the table, and as he did Aisling felt Lir darkening beside her. “She’s adopted their boorish tongues as well.”
“Settle down, Fínín. Aisling is an equal amongst the northern sovereigns now. Refrain from speaking to her with such disrespect,” Feradach, king of Roktling, chided.
Over the years, Aisling had built a close relationship with Feradach. For one day, they’d all believed he’d be her father-in-law. A relationship that, although never concluded the way she’d anticipated, she was grateful for now.
“You speak of respect, Feradach?!” Ciar’s complexion flushed with such potent acidity it soured the air around her. “She’s no queen if all she’s done is open her legs to the Aos Sí. I’d rather choke than honor her with such a title.”
Aisling gripped the arms of her chair, willing the draiocht contained. But she wasn’t the one imbuing the air with magic.
Amidst the silence, the lady of Aithirn did choke; eyes like saucers, she gagged before erupting into a fit of useless coughs.
The table hesitated, confusion muddling every mortal mind.
“What do you think you’re doing just standing there?! Get her some water!” Fínín barked at the barmaid, the sentinels, any who would listen.
But what began as one or two small coughs grew into a frenzy, the Aithirnian queen standing from her seat, spilling Nemed’s mead on Clodagh’s lap, and clawing at her throat. Sim desperately slapped her back. But it wasn’t until leaves spewed from her mouth, combined with her own saliva that all shook with horror. Thorns, small weeds and verdant grasses, even flower buds spat from between the Aithirnian queen’s shriveled lips.
“Speaking of boorish tongues,” Lir purred, blithely cracking his neck from side to side.
And as the lianas fell onto the table, writhing like worms, Friseal whacked them with his fork.
“By the Forge,” Iarbonel cursed, as each of his brothers fell out of their chairs and staggered back, weapons uselessly drawn.
“Make it stop!” Sim shouted, his voice cracking mid-sentence. But none could expel the enchantment save for the fae king. For even the mortal guards and Dagfin knelt beside Ciar now; no potions, no weapons, no iron available could dampen Lir’s draiocht .
“This is a direct offence to a mortal crown!” Fínín boomed.
“I believe it was the Aithirnian queen who initially began the offences.” Filverel couldn’t help but exhale a laugh, downing the last gulps of water from his glass.
Lir grinned murderously, leaning back in his chair. “I suggest you give the queen of the Sidhe her due respect, lest your wish be granted.”
All, now standing, turned to the Aithirnian queen, hopelessly choking, panicking, her saliva rapidly dyed red. But Lir didn’t move, didn’t flinch, patiently waited until, at last, Ciar fell onto her knees. Until at last, she pressed her nose against the Centari carpets beneath them and bowed to Aisling. Clodagh gasping with disgust or relief, Aisling couldn’t tell.
“That wasn’t so difficult,” Lir said, and the Aithirnian queen heaved a clear breath, congested no more .
Five or so mortal sentinels escorted Ciar from the council after Sim agreed to be her voice for the remainder of the night. But no mortal guard, advisor, flaith, queen, or king dared unleash their eyes from Lir. Every twitch of his lips, every smooth movement, every flick of his eyes, beneath their scrutiny.
“I’m willing to excuse your use of enchantments for now, Damh Bán , but another spell and my patience will’ve been exhausted.” Nemed casually called the horrified barmaid over, gesturing for her to pour him another drink, frowning when she spilled cider across his plate.
Lir laughed but there was no humor in it. A sound that sent shivers down Aisling’s spine and for a moment, she believed even her father hesitated at its cadence.
“By all means, lose your composure.” The corners of Lir’s lips curled up. “As you mentioned earlier, it was you who requested this union. So, I suggest, high king, that lest this union slip through your mortal fingers, you avoid exhausting my patience and provoking me once more.”
Aisling’s stomach clenched; the dark authority the fae king exuded, spread throughout the tent like ivy. Wrapping around all that it touched and squeezing till it tasted every dissenting breath and smothered it.
Nemed smoldered as he tipped his glass back, too proud to release the fae king from his gaze.
“That won’t be necessary.” Feradach spoke up. “Besides I’m more interested in the current stability of your relationship with the Unseelie, Damh Bán .” All eyes turned towards the Roktan king.
“You see, I own over one thousand vessels spread throughout the Ashild and beyond. Every crewmate, captain, every stowaway aware of those creatures that lurk in the deep. No one is ignorant to the risks of sea voyage, especially considering the territory lines, the walls, the divisions between Seelie, Unseelie, and mortal worlds that exist on land are impossible to build or mark in the oceans. Unseelie encounters are, therefore, near inescapable at sea. But in the past several months, every one of my ships has had an encounter. Masts ripped to shreds, freightage lost, men either drowned or devoured, and entire carriers nothing more than splinters.”
“Is there a specific Unseelie committing the aggressions or several?” Filverel asked, leaning to one side in his chair.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Feradach countered, a flash of irritation cutting across the Roktan king’s bronzed features.
“You must first ask a question before it’s to be answered, Your Grace,” Peitho chimed.
Feradach levelled his temper. “Has your relationship with the Unseelie changed since Aisling’s union or not?”
“Yes,” Lir said rather bluntly, reminding Aisling of what he’d once told her:
“ You believe we lie? It’s possible but difficult for us. To tell a mistruth requires great concentration and even then, it is poorly told .”
But Aisling was familiar with how cunning the Sidhe could be. How clever the Sidhe were regardless of their inability to outwardly lie.
“The Unseelie are chaotic in nature. For the most part, they lack moral dependency. Like the undomesticated animals and beasts your kind is familiar with, the Unseelie respond to social and instinctual cues far more than even the Sidhe. The chemistry and dynamics of a pack, a herd, a colony, a nest.” Lir stretched his fingers, curled them in, then repeated the motion. The veins that protruded on the back of his hands near spellbinding to the mortal queen.
“Take away their food source, take away the hunt for your kind—hammered into their bones by the Forge—and they’ll react, do anything in their power to steal it all back, beg their king to forsake the treaty. Devour the very princess who made such a union possible.” All eyes shot towards Aisling. For indeed the trow, the Cú Scáth, the fomorians had all attempted.
“Or,” Lir continued, licking his fangs, “find another monarch powerful enough to put an end to their losses: the destroying of boundaries and the lawless, uninhibited hunting of mortals. Someone more aligned with their chaos than even the Sidhe.”
The mortal sovereigns exchanged glances, as if speaking telepathically so none of the Sidhe nor Aisling could understand. And as the last words left Lir’s lips, Filverel’s entire form tensed. As if he’d deigned for his king to speak the truth, the whole truth. And for what reason? Lir cared little for his relationship with the mortals other than ensuring the benefits it awarded him. So, Aisling could only assume that the truth would get Lir whatever it was he desired.
“And is there another? One who is stronger, more powerful than you?” Sim asked, his pale hair falling into his eyes.
“No,” Lir said simply, his axes catching the light of the fire. “Never has there been. Never will there be.”
Aisling’s skin shivered at his words. A flock of silver-eyed ravens flapping madly within her belly.
“The Unseelie then,” the Bregganite king interjected. “They retaliate against your authority, Sidhe law, rejecting your sovereignty now that it no longer benefits them?”
Lir swallowed his annoyance––Aisling knew by the tightening of his jaw––silently nodding his head in response.
“What now, Damh Bán ?” Nemed asked. “Our treaty explicitly agreed to new conditions amongst our kind, to the end of war, the burning of forests and Sidhe villages. All in exchange for the ceasing of Sidhe and Unseelie violence towards mankind lest they venture into your respective lands. Only then would such an agreement be revoked. But now, it appears your own kingdom turns their bloodlust against you, threatens to dethrone the Damh Bán , and the mortals suffer regardless of our alliance. I didn’t exchange my daughter for nothing, and you’ve been unsuccessful in upholding your end of the deal.”
“Negotiations with the Unseelie are still ongoing,” Galad said.
“And how many more of my men, my ships, will be lost while you negotiate?” Feradach raised his voice, losing patience.
“Is it just me or does it appear more and more as if the Faerak truly are useless?” Peitho’s lips curled, eyes fluttering mockingly in the Roktan prince’s direction.
But Dagfin didn’t take the bait. “The Faerak hunt and slaughter the Unseelie to protect mortals and their livelihoods. Not to remedy the mistakes of Sidhe kings.” He met Peitho’s smirk with a smug expression of his own, staking his knife into the table.
“Did you really believe the new law would be successful instantaneously?” Lir challenged. “That from the moment Aisling and I were handfasted, peace would reign throughout the land?” The fae king scoffed. “I’ve been alive for three centuries now. Change—reformation––is slow. Often painful. Heeds no man nor Sidhe nor Unseelie. Doesn’t bow to the death of mortal sailors. You all knew the sacrifices, the lengths the treaty would demand before it was perfected. And perfection—even after your descendants rule, after death has claimed your frail hearts and you rot beneath the earth you burned, when I still rule—perfection will be far from within our grasp.”
Nemed placed two fingers to his lips, considering for a moment. Just a moment before his mouth stretched into a cruel grin. One Aisling had witnessed on only a handful of occasions .
“Very well, Damh Bán ,” the fire hand spoke slowly, indulging in every word. “The mortal sovereigns of Rinn Dúin will give you three years to adjust your leadership.” At this, Clodagh immediately whipped her head to face her husband. Disbelief softened her sharp angles. “And if there has been no change in three years’ time, consider the treaty null and void.”
Aisling felt the draiocht pinch her fingertips. Aisling had sacrificed everything. Been traded like livestock only for Nemed to suggest negating it all. To threaten the treaty’s nullification. To disband and render meaningless all she’d been through in the name of such a union. And here her father dangled it above the fae king, as if it were another means to get what he wanted. Just as Aisling had always been.
Lir’s anger matched Aisling’s own, tightening his fists. The flaring of his nostrils as cold rage enveloped him. Terror thrumming through the room at the sight of his fingers moving. Dreading, anticipating the mad release of more magic.
“And before you make any rash decisions, Damh Bán ,” Nemed continued, relishing in the fae king’s vexation his words inspired, “in return for the advice you’ve just lent me, here is my own token of knowledge perhaps you’ve already become well acquainted with in your centuries.” The fire hand took another large swig of wine. “The sins of the father often become the sins of the son. Passed down generation after generation. Growing more potent. The only curse breaker”—the last word like honey on his iron tongue—“the son who is strong enough to resist such sin. Such desire. But in your case, Damh Bán ”—Nemed grinned—”I suppose it’s the mother’s sins you should be wary of repeating.”