12. A More Comfortable Prison
A isling had been too afraid to speak and too weak to fight back when she was pulled into the midst of a battle ripped straight from the pages of a horrific storybook. But unlike during the ritual, she kept her eyes open this time, for all of it. For every nightmarish, surreal moment. The terrific clash of forces was almost awe-inspiring: the way the lithe Fae warriors fought was as graceful as a choreographed ballet, and as frightening as the attack of a ferocious predator. Amongst them, smaller, stockier faeries barreled into each other with outsized swords and thick wooden shields. There were beings that shot through the air like bullets on wings that fluttered so rapidly they were but a blur, and those that approached on thundering horseback.
And now, she’d witnessed firsthand the devastation that Kael’s shadows wrought: on the enemy, on his own men. On the Unseelie King himself. The blackness didn’t only shoot outward, but twisted in winding, lightning-like patterns from the tips of his fingers on up into the cuffs at his wrists. When she saw them cresting over the neckline of his armor, crawling towards his jaw, she imagined they had crept all the way up his arms, unseen beneath the leathers and gleaming metal. In her terror, Aisling clung to thoughts of home. Of her life before she was called the Red Woman, when she was content with her apartment above the hardware store and her job at the library, and the most difficult challenge facing her was the decision of whether or not to return to the mainland. When the closest she’d come to the Fae were the afternoons spent lounging on the couch with Rodney flipping through magazines. Before her skin knew the Unseelie King’s touch, and before her body knew his magic.
As his shadows seized her, much like before, Aisling was prepared for death. Her mind went blank and her body became paralyzed. She’d already given up. But this time, those midnight-black fingers seemed somehow gentler, the abrasions they left behind less severe. Even still, she felt her energy being drawn into their darkness and her vision grew spotty and clouded. She’d likely have passed out had she not been thrown off the rearing steed—then it was the violent crack of her head against the ground that brought her to unconsciousness.
Aisling awoke not minutes later to the discord of agonized screams. Those who were still alive—just—begged for the sweet release of death. No one moved to give it, though. Not on the enemy side, where there were no survivors left capable of tending to the mortally wounded. Even amongst the ranks of the Unseelie Court, those warriors still standing remained rooted in place watching Kael wrestle his magic into something close to submission. His expression was unreadable, a contradictory mask of triumph and pain. Of pride and disgrace.
She could manage little more than to shrink away as Kael approached alongside a skeletal black warhorse with bone-white eyes. He crouched close to her, studying her pensively before taking her by the waist and hoisting her onto the creature’s back. The sudden movement nearly rendered her unconscious all over again. The horse scarcely looked robust enough even to be saddled, yet once Kael had Aisling seated in front of him it carried them both away from the battlefield in a swift gallop with ease.
Every impact of the horse’s hooves on the packed dirt sent another arcing shock of pain into the base of Aisling’s skull, each one a merciless reminder of the violence her body had endured since she’d returned to the Wild. Wind rushed past, biting at her exposed skin and bringing tears to stream down her cheeks. Her senses felt dull, her thoughts swirling in a haze of pain and confusion. She struggled to keep her eyes open to make sense of the shifting landscape as they rode on.
Despite her own discomfort, Aisling couldn’t ignore the tremors that wracked Kael’s entire body. Through his armor and against her back, she could feel the convulsions that beset his muscles. His grip around her waist, though tight, was far from steady. If the animal moved with any less grace, she was sure they’d both fall from its back. She clutched its wiry mane to anchor herself.
The journey was a blur of agony that felt both interminable and fleeting as Aisling slipped in and out of consciousness. She wished for Kael to say something, anything, but she didn’t know what it might be. She couldn’t imagine what she could say to him, either. Would she thank him, or curse him? She’d seen the flash of indecision in his cold eyes before he threw her out of the way. He’d likely saved her life by doing so. It was the High Prelate who’d kept her there, murmuring his quiet incantations.
“Tell me how it feels,” he’d demanded when Kael’s shadows began winding up her bare legs. “Tell me what you’re doing.” As if he thought she was calling to them or controlling them in some way. But she wasn’t—the only thing Aisling could do was attempt to calm her rising panic.
So the pair rode in silence. Kael’s armor was uncomfortable where it dug into her back but if she wasn’t braced against it, her head and neck jostled excruciatingly, churning her already-throbbing migraine into a fiery storm.
When the Undercastle came into view in the distance, Aisling’s fingers tightened in the beast’s hair. On their approach to the obsidian structure, she held onto the faint hope that there would be some respite once they were within its cold stone walls. Yet, even through the fog of pain and the sounds of the battle still ringing in her ears, she recognized where she was being taken once Kael handed her off to a Prelate waiting at the bottom of the spiral staircase.
Time didn’t exist in the dungeon. In the dark, damp cavern, day and night blended invisibly into one long stretch, impossible to measure. Aisling’s body quickly lost its rhythm, sleeping in fits and starts, cycling through hunger and thirst at random. But she couldn’t drink, nor could she eat even the plain breadcrust a robed Prelate tossed into her cell periodically. Maybe that was how she could have counted the days passing, but often it was already lying at her feet when she woke. There were three pieces scattered near the bars now, but she had no way of knowing how many times each day they attempted to feed her. It was unlikely they adhered to any sort of schedule at all.
Groaning, she rolled up onto her knees to be sick into the dirt. Despite the roiling in her stomach, the only thing she could manage to bring forth was acidic bile that stung all the way up her raw throat. When Aisling raised her head from the floor, the solemn face of a Lesser Prelate swam before her—the same one who had received her after the battle. He’d quietly let himself into her cell and was kneeling down close. His features were distorted as the dungeon spun around her.
“You are unwell,” he said in a voice that nearly sounded kind—a marked contrast to the harshness she had come to expect from the Unseelie Court. Aisling could only nod meekly. She’d had migraines before, but never one such as this. If he had told her that she had an axe in the back of her skull, she wouldn’t have been at all surprised. As it was, he reached a hand up to the side of her head and his fingers came away slick with blood. The wound from her fall was still open and was by now caked with dirt and filth.
The male grasped Aisling under her arms and guided her to her feet, supporting her when she swayed unsteadily. A cold shot of fear flooded her veins. Surely, he couldn’t be taking her to tether the king’s shadows a third time. She wouldn’t survive it—she wasn’t even sure she’d survive the climb up that spiral staircase.
“Please.” The weak word came out softer than a whisper, barely audible over her shaky breath.
“You’re in no condition to be kept down here.” He began leading her to the open door of her cell. “I am taking you to a chamber where you can rest.”
Aisling sagged against his arm in relief and she let him support most of her weight as the pair ascended. The stairs were arduous, but the air at the top was clean and sweet and Aisling dragged in lungful after lungful gratefully. It was far from fresh, but at least not so laden with mildew and humidity as the stale air of the dungeon.
The Prelate was tall, nearly taller than Kael. His arm was slender but strong, all wiry muscle hidden beneath the billowing black robe that hung from his shoulders. His firm guidance kept her trudging forward through the corridors of the Undercastle. Once he had led her out of earshot of the redcaps still standing guard, he lowered his head so he could speak quietly into her ear.
“I’m a friend of the púca,” he said.
Aisling stumbled, tripping over her own feet in surprise. “Rodney? Is he here?”
The male chuckled. “ Rodney, ” he repeated. “What a remarkably human name. No, he isn’t here. ”
“Oh.” The disappointment was crushing. Aisling would have given anything to see her friend’s sly smile and that shock of orange hair. Vaguely in the back of her pain-addled mind, Aisling wondered whether this was the acquaintance Rodney had been intent on finding—though she couldn’t recall the name he had given her. But the Prelate didn’t offer any further insight into his relations with her friend. With the sheer effort it took to keep herself standing, she was unable to formulate a clear thought, much less ask any further questions. For now, she was simply content to be led away from her prison and to trust that the male was telling her the truth.
He led her slowly to a chamber, small and simple, similar to the plain stone room where Aisling had lain with Kael. The bed was a welcome sight, and with the Prelate’s support, she sank onto the soft mattress. Her body trembled with exhaustion and pain. The male pulled a tiny vial from a pocket inside of his robe and held it to Aisling’s lips.
“Drink,” he instructed. Another flare of fire at the base of her skull was enough to override all rational thought, and she did as she was told. The shot of liquid was thick and cloying and almost immediately brought her eyelids to flutter closed. Every sore, knotted muscle in Aisling’s body relaxed, the tension dissolving into a warm wave of relief.
The calm didn’t last long, though, and once Aisling was alone she grew hot and anxious. With the draught having dulled some of her pain, she felt sure this was her window to escape. She tried to sit up quickly but swore when she found that her body didn’t possess the strength. Rolling onto her side, she tried again, more deliberately this time, using her hands and elbows to bear her weight. She had to stop and rest halfway before she could make it fully upright. With one hand still steadying herself on the mattress, she shoved the heavy blankets off her legs and swung them over the edge of the bed. The room pitched and reeled as she struggled to her feet, but her eyes remained focused on the heavy wooden door at the far end. It cracked open just as her knees gave out and she collapsed back onto the mattress.
A slight female bustled in then, slender arms hooked through the handle of an overlarge wicker basket half her size. The faerie was scarcely taller than the doorknob and looked to be nearly as old as the Shadowwood Mother. A hob, Aisling guessed. Her thin nose wrinkled at what was certainly Aisling’s own odor: sweat, dirt, and stale blood. Aisling tracked her path as she flitted around the room lighting candles, but her vision couldn’t quite keep up with the movements of her head and it blurred around the periphery.
“Methild Nym,” the faerie said. That she’d given the entirety of her name so freely to Aisling meant that she was already under the servitude of another, likely a courtier or maybe the Unseelie King himself. “I’ve been sent to look after you. May I?” Her thin lips curved into a pitying smile and she waited for Aisling’s permission before approaching.
It was a welcome surprise, being asked for her consent. Throat still raw from her earlier retching, Aisling managed only a weak nod.
“Your head plagues you,” she observed. Aisling’s head throbbed as though responding to the mere mention of the pain. The female’s touch was cautious as she laid a damp cloth across Aisling’s forehead. She shivered and drew the blankets up around her shoulders. With twig-like fingers, Methild parted Aisling’s matted hair and spread a thick salve over the wound there. Aisling winced, expecting some discomfort, but the herb-scented balm brought nothing but relief.
“We’re unaccustomed to visitors from your realm,” Methild remarked with a touch of wistfulness while she worked the medicine into Aisling’s scalp. “You are a rare thing, indeed.”
She spent the rest of her time in the chamber working in silence to wipe Aisling down with wet rags, lifting her limbs and turning them this way and that to scrub roughly at the dried mud that had crusted over her skin. If she had any energy left at all, Aisling might have been embarrassed by the intrusion, or at the very least uncomfortable with the attention. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d allowed herself to be cared for in this way. Now, she didn’t have much choice. In her current state, she could hardly even help the hob by holding up the weight of her own arms.
Methild scurried in and out of the room a handful of times to refresh Aisling’s water or reapply the salve, but Aisling hardly registered it. She was adrift in the feverish recesses of her mind, somewhere between home and kaleidoscopic memories of the ethereal Nocturne revelry. It all seemed so much darker in her head: the pointed, leering faces of Fae spinning around her in double-time while somewhere unseen the Shadowwood Mother laughed and laughed at her frantic dancing.
The next time Aisling consciously opened her eyes, though, she felt better. Still weak, but her stomach no longer ached and her skin no longer burned with fever. Her migraine, too, had largely subsided. Her mind felt less like a battleground and more like her own.
When a cool hand pressed against her forehead, her heart leapt into her throat. She hadn’t heard the scuffling of Methild’s rough slippers on the floor; she thought she’d been alone in the room.
Kael was seated nearby, his form rigidly perched on the edge of a chair. A book was cracked open over his knee where he’d turned it to mark the page when Aisling stirred. His expression was indecipherable in the dim light.
“Your fever has broken.” Kael’s voice, while far from kind, was unexpectedly soft. Aisling’s surprise to see the Unseelie King sitting at her bedside, addressing her in a tone not laced with malice, was obvious on her face. His lips curved in a faint, almost wry smile and his posture shifted as he began to rise.
The king’s movement startled her, and with shaky urgency Aisling attempted to sit up. She was more successful in her effort this time, but only made it partway before Kael’s hand landed on her shoulder, urging her gently but firmly back against the pillows.
“Let me see your hand,” he requested, holding one of his own out to her. It caught her off guard, and reflexively she withdrew it from beneath the blankets and placed it in his. Aisling hadn’t noticed before how rough his callused palms were. So distracted by the feeling of Kael’s hand on hers, she had no time to react when, in one swift motion, he locked a manacle around her wrist. He leaned down to secure the other end to the bedpost.
Aisling’s pulse quickened, a mixture of shock and betrayal knotting her insides. She looked up at him, her eyes searching his face for an explanation. In his gaze, she found an odd sort of blend of pragmatism and something that might have been sympathy. But if it was, she was surely imagining it there. She understood, then, that she was still his captive. Albeit in a more comfortable prison, but still trapped all the same.
“You’re stronger now.” His explanation, curt and unyielding, arrived like a cold gust of wind. “I will not risk you attempting to escape.”
Tears welled up in Aisling’s eyes, distorting Kael and the room behind him as sobs of frustration and helplessness shook her shoulders violently.
“Please,” she choked. “Please, no, I swear I won’t.” The words got caught in the grip of her dry throat, constricted by anguish. By panic. She could do nothing but beg.
Kael dropped her hand back onto the mattress. It was an abrupt dismissal, a clear indication that her pleas were heard but would remain unanswered. As he left, the sound of a lock sliding into place on the outside of the door was the final echo of his cruelty.