Chapter XVII
CHAPTER XVII
LIR
The Sidhe king of the greenwood grew a wych elm in the cloister his room overlooked.
The badgers passing by screamed, racing for the nearest escape as Castle Oighir’s stone crumbled at the base of Lir’s tree and tossed debris.
Lir took another bite of apple, amused. Just as he’d suspected, his draiocht had grown more powerful.
“ Was that necessary ?” Filverel said in Rún from behind.
“No, but I enjoyed it,” Lir replied, switching tongues effortlessly as if both were his mother tongue. A product of the ages.
Filverel sighed, pouring himself a glass of Sidhe wine from a decanter before reclining in a chair draped with silver furs.
“You’re reckless when you become obsessive.”
“ Fionn could use some redecorating ,” Lir said, gesturing to the newly grown tree. An emerald in a drawer of pearls and glassy crystals.
Indeed, Lir’s chamber was all ivory and silver. Plush velvets, animal skins, shimmering snowflakes dangling from the ceilings overtaken by roots wrapped in ice, and a fireplace polished with frost.
Lir disliked Oighir and Fjallnorr as a whole. It was endless cold, frigid, and stiff. A land where lakes didn’t ripple, trees didn’t dance, and beasts hid in hollows or slumbered all together.
“Remind me then, why we’re here. We could be halfway to Lofgren’s Rise by now, one of our competitors stalled by your brother.” Filverel set his chalice down. His moonstone eyes studying the glacial embrace of Lir’s quarters with disdain. “And that’s excluding the reckless gamble you made of your axes.”
“ I made a vow the night of our union ,” Lir said, tossing his apple idly with one hand and slipping the other into his pocket.
“This is one vow I’d be grateful for you to break, considering the consequences of keeping it far outweigh those of breaking it.”
“I won’t live another day apart from her.”
“Because she’s the key to complete authority over the realm? Because her proximity strengthens your draiocht ? Because she’s a tool and a weapon to be wielded? There are other ways of establishing monopoly, Lir. Racat, for one, is at our disposal. Danu fears the dragún and humankind will quiver in his presence. And if it’s a queen you want, Peitho is more than willing. We—you don’t need Aisling.”
Lir met Filverel’s eyes but didn’t respond. The brush of morning winds, cooling the heat wrapping around Lir’s heart in violet fire, bound to someday burn it entirely.
Filverel exhaled, resisting the urge to spew his objections, of which he had many.
“Fionn’s tests begin tomorrow evening,” Lir said, glad to change the subject. “And knowing Fionn, he’ll spare no opportunity to spill my blood nor humiliate the greenwood.”
“Considering Oighir’s tradition of such tests, it’s possible he’ll design it in the same breath as his father, Delbaeth.” Filverel took another sip of wine. “Fionn declined a duel in favor of a test for a reason.”
“Because he knew a loss dealt by my hands was both inevitable and obvious?” Lir asked, the image of a fox.
“In part. But he also wishes to make a spectacle and correct the past.”
Lir leaned a shoulder against the wall, crossing his legs at his ankles as he continued to bite his apple.
“A wish in vain. The court of the greenwood will best Oighir once more.”
“You’re overly confident. You shouldn’t underestimate Fionn.”
“Underestimate? I’ve valued his worth and find it lacking.”
Lir rested his head against the wall, turning to look out the window. Down below, Aisling and a great armored bear emerged and passed through the cloister.
Lir paused, his body moving to face the window against his own volition. Heart thrashing till he bore half a mind to rip it from his chest to stop its intolerable aching.
Aisling was a forbidden spell. A prayer cast from the lips of the truly desperate, those ignorant to the weight of such shadowed magic. A spell Lir found himself unable to resist, considering it again and again, wondering if this time, he might bear the courage to cast it himself. To feel the supple curves of her dark femininity and memorize them.
Lir brushed his knuckles against his lips, apple still in hand. Even now, he tasted her. Felt her lips against his own, her body in his arms. A memory rich enough to relive again and again even after having cast it out each time it bloomed.
And the collar glimmering around her throat burned Lir’s bones till his thoughts for Fionn’s punishment grew more creative by the hour.
Filverel shifted, waking Lir from his reverie.
“Whatever you do, Lir, whilst we’re in Oighir don’t seek her out. Heed Fionn’s rules lest this all be in vain.”
Yet still, Fionn’s voice was a distant whisper as Lir followed Aisling from the cloister with his eyes, studying her shadow as it disappeared through another corridor.
AISLING
Aisling stood in a forest made of stars.
The branches clicked together, chiming like the bells laced through the branches in Annwyn. But there was no music. No foxes fixing tea nor the joyous weeping of willows. Only silence and the shape of a woman approaching.
The Lady.
Aisling paled, her body cold, numb, immoveable. Locked in place as though by invisible shackles.
“Aisling, you disappoint me,” she said as her face illuminated beneath the stars. “It could have been done with. Your wounds already healing.”
Aisling fought to move, finding, to her horror, her entire being bespelled. Save her tongue.
“You died. Reaped by Lir’s axe.”
The Lady cackled. “I am no fleshling. Tear apart my bones and rip my skin, my spirit lives in all, reborn again and again till time meets its end.”
Now, she stood before her, reaching out and grabbing Aisling’s throat. She squeezed. Aisling struggled for breath. Face purpling.
“You will pay for this, Aisling. I will stop at nothing to rip you and your Sidhe king apart if it means every last star must fall and the loom must break.”
Aisling sipped on a tea brewed with crushed moonflower petals, doused in cinnamon and nutmeg, and boiled in fae milk. It warmed her soul, but nothing could defrost the arctic aura of Fionn’s company nor the hours of restless sleep, haunted by the Lady herself.
The fae lord sat across from her at the dining table. Dwarven hares serving spiced porridge, broiled meats, and cardamom buns, forming a feast atop their table.
“Eat, mo Lúra .”
“I’ve already told you: if you wish to purchase a morsel of my compliance, then show me to the Roktan prince.” Aisling needed to know Fionn’s good treatment hadn’t ended the moment his deal with Lir was struck. The moment the collar around her neck had been sealed and forged around her throat.
“Again, you ignore your own blood, deign not to mention your brothers. Why is that?”
Aisling pressed her mouth into a thin line, setting her teacup down in response. She’d made her conditions clear.
Fionn exhaled, exasperated. “Your prince is well cared for I assure you as I’ve already proved at my masquerade.”
“Show me.”
A cord snaked around Fionn’s neck, visible just beneath the silk collar.
“I’ll have him brought to you at the first test, if it pleases you. As proof of my kindness.”
Aisling cleared her throat, content with his response. The first test was tomorrow evening and if Dagfin was present, alive, and well, the rest of her stay at Oighir would be easier to stomach. Especially considering the vast luxury of her stay, all provided by Fionn himself as well as his personal servants.
“You needn’t be so difficult with me, mo Lúra . I’m here to give you everything you’ve ever wanted, all that you desire, and anything you need.”
“Then tell me, what is it you forgot to tell me the other night?”
“You reference my relationship with Lir.”
“Aye, you’re brothers after all.”
Fionn considered, pressing the back of his middle and index finger to his lips.
“It’s a lengthy, tedious tale for another time.”
“We have time now,” Aisling insisted, taking another sip of her tea. “Especially if you’re intent on giving me everything and anything I covet.”
Fionn smiled, but it never met his eyes. At last, he lowered his hand, gripping the arms of his chair.
“Before Bres, Ina loved Delbaeth. My father. In that age, the concept of caeras wasn’t yet revealed, and so Ina and Delbaeth bore a child together.”
“You,” Aisling conjectured, glaring at the fae lord in a new light.
Fionn nodded his head.
“Despite this child, Ina succumbed to the allure of Bres during the start of the Wild Hunt: enemies at first, then traitorous lovers. A betrayal to Delbaeth and the rare son they’d forged together. So Delbaeth challenged Bres to a test. The winner would surrender their affections and accept Ina’s choice whichever and whoever that may be.”
“I’m guessing Bres won.”
“No,” Fionn said, wincing as though a bitter taste had just graced his tongue. “Bres cheated.”
Aisling swallowed a hot gulp of tea.
“Nevertheless, it hardly mattered. Ina ran away with Bres and met hers and her kingdom’s demise because of it.”
A war bred of envy, Aisling realized. But not because of the dragons. Because of love.
Fionn stood from his chair. Aisling watched as he approached, circling the table before holding out his hand in offer.
“Come, let me better acquaint you with Oighir.”
Coyly, Aisling accepted his hand, recognizing any opportunity to better explore the castle was an opportunity to better familiarize herself with her prison. One she’d burn if it weren’t for whatever icy shackles Fionn had wrapped around her draiocht , quelling what might she bore. A question she hoarded, awaiting the most advantageous time to ask.
Fionn led her from the dining hall and into an arcade that wrapped around several turrets nestled beside clouds as thick as cotton.
Down below, the open areas of the castle bustled. Servants scurrying to prepare for Fionn’s test, sentinels posted at every entrance, and music plucked distantly by woodland bards.
“Together, you and I could rule the realm from Oighir,” he said. “You’ll be gifted wealth, opulence, power, and eternal affection.” Fionn brushed her shoulder with his own as they walked, prickling every one of Aisling’s nerves. “We’d descend the realm into everlasting winter.”
Fionn waved his hand elegantly, and at the gesture, snow descended from the heavens in glittering flurries. Every bear statue roaring from their perches like gargoyles, every spindly turret, every silver sky bridge, every garland bleeding scarlet berries, became sugared and sparkling.
Fionn was trying to impress Aisling: this much she knew. And had she never met Lir, had never lived in Annwyn, perhaps this would’ve impressed her. But Aisling had already tasted Annwyn’s grisly, blood-soaked magic, its adventure, smelt the herbs of the forest, and bruised her feet dancing at a Snaidhm . Had felt fear, anger, joy, and pleasure. Had cried, laughed, danced, and reveled whilst a part of the fae king’s world: one glimmering, green, and savage. One she couldn’t forget so easily.
And as though summoned, Lir appeared around the corner.
From where Fionn and Aisling stood high up on an outdoor walkway, they peered down into a courtyard traced by cypresses and boasting a statue of Fionn reclined in his throne.
Gilrel, Galad, Filverel, and Peitho were with the Sidhe king of the greenwood.
Weapons in hand, they were sparring. Dealing brutal blows against one another as each lithely navigated their duel.
Lir, himself, was an armed shadow cutting through his opponents with wicked accuracy. Every movement was made with the next in mind, felling adversary after adversary as he’d done for centuries prior, leaving a bloody trail in his wake. Eventually, the courtyard was a portrait of defeat, Lir the sole victor, twirling his blades in his hands.
Aisling inhaled sharply, her knees suddenly weak. He wore no coat, no jacket, and no blouse despite the arctic air. Instead, he was sweating and bare-chested, his broad shoulders boasting every chiseled muscle in his back, his arms, and his narrow waist. Fae markings mocked Aisling’s attention as she studied them each as well, committing the wolf at his shoulder to memory, the runes along his forearms, the interlace where his trousers hung low?—
Aisling flicked her eyes away but it hardly mattered. Lir had already caught her staring, grinning up at her from where he twirled his axes down below. Their eyes meeting, attention pulled by the intangible cord between them till they were drawn together once more. The falling snow, the music, the world dissolving and blurring in their periphery.
“Aisling.” Aisling wasn’t certain how many times Fionn had spoken her name before his voice, at last, tore her from her stupor.
“Let’s not waste our time lingering,” he said, his voice dripping with malice.
“They’re training, aren’t they?” Aisling ignored him, asking her question instead. “For the tests?”
Fionn exhaled. “It appears that way.”
“Have you given them any indication as to the format of the tests?”
Fionn licked his lips. “The night before the first two tests, I gift a clue. It’s up to the discretion of the player to either successfully deduce the contents of the first two tests or fail. The last test, my challenger enters blind. Otherwise, they’re given no further information.”
“What was the clue for the first test?”
Fionn spoke it, although reluctantly. “ Cruachan .”
Cruachan . The word meant nothing to Aisling. It sounded western, but otherwise, it was useless information.
“Does every test require physical combat?”
“No,” Fionn said, quickly losing patience. “But enough questions, let’s continue on.”
Fionn wrapped his arm around Aisling’s waist, pulling her close until she fell into step beside him. A gentle nudge, encouraging her away from the overlook.
At his touch, Lir’s eyes flared. The mischievous arrogance of his knife-sharp smile swiftly became more dangerous, laced with brutal intent.
Lir made certain Aisling was watching before he spun on his heel and threw an axe at the statue of Fionn. The blade cut through stone, severing the head from the rest of the sculpture. It thwacked and split against the cobbles, rolling away with a gathering of foxes chasing after it in horror.
Aisling didn’t turn to see Fionn’s reaction. She felt it in the way his hand hardened against her waist.
Lir, on the other hand, turned to meet Aisling’s eyes, not a word except for a wicked quick wink.