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CHAPTER IX

AISLING

Starn was familiar with the fleshy sensation of his blade sinking into the tree. It felt more alive than most trees, and that was before he’d looked the beast in the eyes. Or so, that was what the Lady allowed Aisling to hear from Starn’s thoughts as he crouched in a blackened clearing of a coastal forest. Blood, sap, and mud sat in his cupped palms, turned over by earthworms as he thought.

That single moment of hesitation had cost him. The tree slithered from his grasp for the second time, bloodied and wounded but escaping, nevertheless.

Starn cursed beneath his breath. His men were shouting at him from behind, at last, catching up with the pursuit.

Next time.

Next time, Starn would kill it.

* * *

Gasping for air, Aisling emerged from a pond.

Lily pads stuck to her arms and algae caught between her fingertips while she clawed for dry ground. Rain showered upon her as she toppled over the edge and onto flagstone, heaving, and lungs on fire.

Immediately, she staggered to her feet. Aisling’s heart thundered inside her, her fingers still trembling with adrenaline—with draiocht crackling inside her veins. Her vision blurred, focusing in and out without her consent, the world tilting side to side on its axis.

Aisling gripped the edge of something , quickly realizing it was a balustrade. She held her head in both hands, doing her best to focus.

“Lir,” her lips spouted before she could think clearly. Not a soul replied but Anduril, buzzing like a gong and tightening painfully around her hips.

Lir . Her mind pawed at the name, unfamiliar with its presence. Her draiocht , however, warmed to it, sung awake by the magic of a memory. She knew it belonged to the fae king and so she banished such warmth, grimacing at its rich taste on her tongue.

A moment ago, Aisling was falling into the fountain, its warm, supple waters embracing her, wrapping their limbs around her and pulling her under. Then, everything became cold, dark, and in between . And when the light returned, Aisling was swimming up and toward the surface of water.

Aisling’s eyes widened, devouring the view before her.

A kingdom of slick stone bridges, gardens stretching into the clouds, flying buttresses, and thousands of spindly glass-like towers, was neatly squeezed between two floating cliffs—its bottom suspended in the air as a waterfall wept over the entire kingdom. A mirror to the cloudburst that descended from above.

A castle in the sky.

“The Isle of Rain,” Aisling said, breathless.

She stood alone, suspended on a moss-covered turret somewhere at the center of the kingdom, floating bridges both below and above her, carrying figures Aisling couldn’t focus on well enough to recognize.

Aisling turned on her heel, her heart regaining its rapid pace.

Where was the fae king? He’d claimed to follow her into Ina’s gateway, but was it possible he’d deceived Aisling into going alone? Aisling soured. Of course it was possible. Aisling bore little memory of the fae king, but she remembered the tales she’d been taught as a child: he, a blood-soaked nightmare incarnate. His mischief was unmatched, and his mind was centuries old. There was no telling what he intended or didn’t. Regardless, Aisling was glad to be rid of him and certainly, he of her.

“The not-so mortal queen in the flesh.” A voice sounded from the threshold to the balcony. A steepled entryway, that’d been tightly closed until now, opened wide with three figures at its center.

Aisling jerked her body upright, disturbing the pond in which she stood.

The stranger was resplendent. A Sidhe creature forge-born with pointed ears, long limbs, large eyes and an eerie, fearfully beautiful face. Yet, there was more. More to the female who flashed her fangs, a gown made entirely of wispy clouds transforming, constantly moving as the rain and the waterfall touched it. Her crown, a delicate circlet of water beads, framing her braided, blue tresses. Her flesh, sparkling and shimmering wet.

Niamh. The Seelie queen of Rain and the keeper of the Goblet of Lore. Two mares made of what appeared to be flesh and bone stood beside her, but upon closer inspection, it was running river water purling through their manes, their hooves clacking against the flagstones, and their flattened ears. Both elegant and wild at once.

“ Elliati merla tu sakka. Sarwen ,” she said in Rún, but Aisling’s knowledge of the divine language was not yet so advanced to understand. A fact Niamh understood for she repeated herself.

“I heard her voice and so I came. Sarwen.” Niamh’s voice was both the timbre of thunder combined with the feminine melody of spring drizzles.

Aisling, without thinking, glanced over her shoulder. Sarwen, the blade Peitho had gifted her at her coronation and Aisling had dubbed Sarwen after Niamh’s legendary sword, was still strapped to her back. The mortal reaper.

“Like twin souls, both their halves speak to one another in a tongue only they share,” Niamh continued, taking a step nearer. “My blade recognized yours.”

“ Your Majesty ,” Aisling said, dipping her chin. “We’ve come upon invitation: the Seelie queen of the greenwood and?—”

“The Seelie king of the greenwood, the dark lord of the forest, the barbarian king of Annwyn. Yes,” Niamh said, “I know. It was I who invited you, was it not?”

Aisling hesitated, carefully measuring what she wished to speak.

“Although,” Niamh said, her dress parting at the top of her thigh as she walked toward Aisling. “I see no Lir.”

Anduril hummed softly. The belt, however, refused to glow as it had in Annwyn. As though it were hiding from Niamh and the magic of the Other altogether.

Niamh continued to study Aisling. Pale lips pursing before they spread into a thin, amused smile.

“I’ve come alone,” Aisling said.

“So, you are no bride of Annwyn whilst without your king…for now,” Niamh conjectured. “Then what is your title?”

Aisling hadn’t thought of this answer. Her mind was a forest veiled in fog; the trees of her mind moved in her periphery only to freeze when she turned to acknowledge them directly. The animals skulked along the forest’s bed of leaves, whispering strange incantations to one another the longer she tried to sort through her memories. Pieces were missing and others were replaced. And should she catch a glimmer of what she believed was the truth, Anduril gripped her tightly, sparing her from her madness and delivering her back to reality.

Sorceress , Anduril whispered inside her mind.

“Sorceress,” Aisling said. “My title is sorceress.”

“Court sorceress? Sorceress to the Sidhe? To the mortals? The gods?” Niamh pressed. “Titles establish allegiance. What is yours?”

Aisling straightened, unwilling to let even a Seelie queen of the Other toy with her as though she were a pet.

“I envy those of pure blood such as yourself,” Aisling said. “Your allegiance was chosen for you and interlaced with your destiny. I boast no such clarity, for while my love for the Sidhe grows parallel to the growth of my hatred for humankind, wisdom would compel me to only ever stake allegiance in myself.”

Niamh’s eyebrows rose, the droplets streaming down her cheeks running more quickly.

“What of love?” she asked, an intensity piercing from her pale gaze.

Aisling’s heart inexplicably twisted. Her draiocht snapped its jaws and Racat’s eyes opened from their slumber, alive with a fire Aisling recognized but couldn’t understand.

“ My love is a blade ,” Aisling said, but the words were not her own. They were Anduril’s.

“Or perhaps a shield,” Niamh countered, glaring at Aisling from head to toe with narrowed eyes. “And yet,” she continued, “I smell him: the dark lord of the greenwood. He’s here—in the Other.”

Aisling’s heart jolted. So Lir was alive and well somewhere in the Other. He’d made it across, but why had he separated himself from Aisling? The sorceress bit her bottom lip, mind racing. The fae king hadn’t lied when he’d claimed to follow Aisling into the gateway and yet, he was missing still. His absence was reason enough for suspicion.

“Or…” Niamh trailed off. “Do I smell him all over you, sorceress?” Her attention honed in on Aisling. The sensation of a lightning bolt striking the tallest tree in a wood.

“Like lust and want and need and?—”

“ I am here to request the gods’ favor, ” Anduril interjected through Aisling’s lips despite Racat’s writhing, the dragún ’s biting, the dragún ’s growling. “I understand I must first find the Goblet to prove my worth, and so, I humbly submit myself to the task.”

Niamh seemed taken aback, pausing for a moment, the rain falling silver down the straight edge of her nose. As though any deceit might make itself known by staring straight through Aisling’s very flesh and into her soul.

Niamh tore her eyes off Aisling. She moved slowly . The urgency of a queen who bathed in the suds of eternity. Ancient limbs carrying the weight of a millennia each moment she so much as blinked or tipped her chin.

“Of course,” she simpered, eyes narrowing as she bared her fangs in a toothy, hollow grin. The image of someone who knew not what a smile was but desperately attempted to mimic one.

Aisling shuddered.

“As an honored guest of mine, you’re welcome to stay in the Isle of Rain for as long as you please. Tonight, we shall celebrate you as our guest of honor.”

Aisling tried to bite her tongue, but it was too late. The words slipped before she could catch them.

“And Lir? Will he make it tonight?” Aisling asked against her own volition, Anduril pinching her the moment the fae king’s name left her lips. Aisling, too, despised herself for how her voice cracked the moment his name was spoken.

Niamh quirked a brow, staring down at Aisling. Aisling was tall for a female and still Niamh towered over her. Larger than life, Niamh was statuesque and made of heaven’s tears.

“Fate will decide such outcomes,” she said, “but I’m certain the Sidhe king of the greenwood can handle a bit of bad weather.” Niamh giggled, turning on her heel with her beasts right behind.

“I’ll have you escorted to your rooms,” she called back. “Welcome to Castle Yillen,” Niamh said just before she crossed the doors.

Panic bubbled inside Aisling’s throat, rising to her tongue and escaping from her lips.

“I don’t think—” Aisling piped again, but this time, she bore the clarity of mind to stop herself.

“Careful, sorceress,” Niamh replied. “Stand there too long and you might catch a chill.” Niamh met Aisling’s eyes over her shoulder before disappearing into her castle, the roar of the waterfall echoing inside Aisling’s mind while the storm soaked her to the bone.