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CHAPTER XIV

LIR

The smell of warm milk cider floated from the old fox’s cottage in a wispy tendril, teasing Lir where he crouched in the rain. The cottage was overgrown with ivy and wildflowers, sprouting atop the shingled roof, the cracks between stones, and even the smoking chimney, nestled between a family of pines.

“ Through the wetland it comes, hungry, hungry for more than crumbs, mo Damh Bán ,” the trees said between the groans of thunder overhead. “ Not too long from now .”

Lir didn’t trust the trees here in the Other. They spoke in riddles, spoke too loudly, and too often. So had it not been for Lir’s own sense that what he was attracting was indeed coming, he wouldn’t have relied on their messages that his waiting was almost over.

Lir dipped his fist back into the wetland and exhaled. The draiocht howled inside, summoning a rich magic that vibrated with the surrounding storm. Wetweed bloomed inside his fist and then spread throughout the body of water. It grew dense and lush, transforming the wetland into a feast.

At last, the waters rippled and moved, forming a mound of water as the monster approached.

Lir stood from his crouch and watched as the creature lifted its head, springing for the Sidhe king. Lir anticipated this. Most Unseelie were chaotic in nature, driven by hunger and hunger alone.

Lir didn’t flinch. Instead, roots rose like tentacles, reaching and grabbing for the slippery fiend. They tangled around its head, its throat, binding the massive creature in a bed of wetweed.

It shrieked an unholy cry, squirming for its life after having fallen prey to Lir’s trap. Yet, its struggle was in vain. And once it stilled, Lir could see the green of its slimy flesh, the coarse mane that grew down the ridge of its head, its neck, and its back. Its square teeth and glowing red eyes.

A kelpie.

“ Asteria missto pastera lek ,” Lir said. It was a command for the Unseelie to bow to its sovereign: a necessary display of subservience to the more dominant between the pair. And so long as the kelpie understood Lir was in control, it would obey.

The kelpie wailed, thrashing in Lir’s vines. The more it struggled, the more tightly Lir held it with his roots, inspiring the wetweed to grow bountifully.

“ Asteria missto pastera lek ,” Lir repeated, and after several painful heartbeats, the kelpie surrendered.

Lir untangled his roots, slithering away like a nest of snakes. The smell of the kelpie’s wounds from its skin having been rubbed raw, stained the air where milk cider once had.

“ Protect these waters and the old fox who lives here ,” Lir continued, “ and you shall not want for your next meal .”

Both cautiously and weakly, the kelpie took its first bite of wetweed. One bite became many, and soon the Unseelie was devouring what Lir had grown with ravenous gulps. And with every swallow, the bargain between the old fox and Lir was satisfied—the draiocht stirring through the surrounding forest in great howls of wind.

So, by the time Lir entered the fox’s cottage, doubling over to fit inside the small door, the fox had already sensed the completion of Lir’s debt as well.

“Take a seat, mo Damh Bán .” The fox greeted Lir, leaping from his stool to fetch another for the Sidhe king. The fox was dry now and wrapped in a woolen shawl, cupping his pottered bowl filled generously to the brim. “I’d offer for you to remove your weaponry so you might be more comfortable, but considering who you are, I’ll abstain. Simply know that welcoming a sovereign, even an Aos Sí king, is my utmost priority.”

“So, you know my title then,” Lir said, scowling at the bowl the fox offered him. The fox’s understanding of Lir’s identity was a risk considering information of such a caliber could jeopardize their role here in the Other and, more importantly, jeopardize how quickly Lir could find Aisling.

“Don’t be cross with me, mo Damh Bán . I recognized you the moment I saw you emerge from my wetland,” the old fox insisted from the far end of the cottage, ladling cider from a cauldron still bubbling over a fire. It was a small abode, made smaller by the plethora of herbs, spices, flowers, and weeds hanging in bundles from the rafters, the stacks of pots and pans, and the jars of pickled dragons, pixies, and newts lining the shelves. Bookcases stuffed with dusty, jewel-encrusted tomes were pressed against the walls while the windows fogged with the heat of the cottage’s interior.

The old fox was wise and skilled, that much Lir could tell. There was a millennium of experience with shadowed magic, with potions, and charms behind the forge-born beast’s red-bright pelt. And proficiency, talent, ambition, and potential were virtues Lir both admired and respected. Qualities he sought in those he held closest.

“Yet, you feigned ignorance?” Lir asked as the fox placed his bowl on the table.

“I wasn’t certain if you’d skin me for such knowledge. I can only assume your presence here in the Other is of some importance. Especially considering you weren’t offered a royal welcome upon arrival. Instead, you emerged from my wetlands like a ghoul.”

Lir pushed his wet hair from his eyes and cleared his throat, “You mentioned earlier that our separation from our friends was intentional? You believe Niamh did this?”

“Sshh!” the old fox hissed, leaping from his stool and racing for the windows. Startled, he watched as the fox shut every window and bolted their padlocks, drawing thick, velvet curtains till the only light bloomed from the crackling hearth. “Apologies, mo Damh Bán ,” the fox said, taking his seat once more. “So long as the rain falls, Niamh will be listening, watching, wondering. Even sipping cider is a risk we can scarcely afford.”

“You’re afraid of her,” Lir conjectured.

“I am too old to fear Seelie queens or kings,” the fox said, eyes fixing on Lir. “And still, too old to underestimate their reach. Niamh had no reason to keep a watchful eye on myself or my cottage…until you arrived. You see, Niamh breathes through every droplet of moisture in the Other and so, she controls the passage between our realm and yours. You can rest assured she intended for you to arrive here in the wetland and not in Castle Yillen. For what reason? You’d have to ask Niamh yourself.”

Lir toyed with the edge of his fangs with the tip of his tongue, considering. The Sidhe king had never met Niamh and never harbored any ill will or a reason to consider her an enemy. But purposefully separating himself from Aisling would make an enemy of Niamh quicker than most other crimes.

“Whatever you know about Niamh and are willing to share, I encourage you to do so,” Lir said, the green of his eyes gilded by the hearth. “My court’s intentions are to spare the Sidhe from extinction at the hands of the mortals and other powerful adversaries.”

The fox snorted, abruptly realizing his place and collecting himself.

“Do not appeal to my sympathy for the Aos Sí if you request my allegiance, for you’ll find such empathy has long turned to apathy. A sentiment I’m surprised the forge-born beasts in your realm do not share.” The old fox exchanged glances with the covered windows, perhaps thinking of the creatures that scurried between the trees just outside his cottage.

“Many of my knights are beasts such as yourself, swearing oaths and dedicating their blades to Annwyn,” Lir said, thinking of Gilrel as he spoke. “If you cannot trust the Sidhe, then trust my oath to my blade, to my honor, and to the Forge when I say that the victory of fae folk is the triumph of the Forge at large, including Seelie, Unseelie, and all forge-born beasts like yourself.”

“The arrogance of the Aos Sí will be their downfall. When the last thread is spun, the Aos Sí can no longer blame the mortals nor any other race,” the fox said. “Niamh and her court have banished most forge-born beasts to the mortal realm despite their equal claim to this land. Only those who’ve proven useful were permitted to stay and so, here I am, called upon when Niamh needs my use of spells, of herbs, of knowledge, and of history. Even so, she has no appreciation for those she uses to achieve her ends.”

Lir’s brow furrowed as he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. The chair squeaked in protest to his great height and weight.

“When the realms were divided, the gods slept. But before the gods laid their heads to rest, they allowed some Sidhe and forge-born creatures to remain for the purpose of guarding over the Other in their stead. This includes beasts of all make and nature, no matter their size or stature,” Lir said.

“Aye, you know your history well, mo Damh Bán ,” the fox said. “But Niamh grew restless, grew bored sharing such a responsibility. And so, she stormed and stormed until, at last, the gods gifted her the Goblet of Lore and their favor, making Niamh the sole keeper of the Other. The queen and guardian of gates between worlds.”

“And then she banished your kind,” Lir said. “At least those who didn’t prove useful to her ends.”

“Indeed.” The fox took a sip of cider. “And at the cost of my skills, I lost my family. I, one of the few forge-born creatures cursed to live in the Other alone. Separated from my companions and forced to live alongside these draiocht -maddened fae.”

There was silence for a long while. Niamh’s tempest pounding against the windowpanes as though eager to eavesdrop but unable. Her presence was palpable. Lir could almost hear her heartbeat in the surrounding woodland, her influence affecting the nature of the elms, the willows, and the birches that grew wild and crooked and gnarled here in the Other. Every leaf veined with secrets.

“Then we’re aligned,” Lir said, breaking the silence. “As king of Annwyn and of the Sidhe at large, we plan to replace Niamh as the favored child of the gods. Your loyalty would be both greatly valued and rewarded.”

The fox did a double take of Lir.

“If Aisling is successful, defeating our greatest threats, her will is that of the Forge; for one day, Seelie, Unseelie, and forge-born to live all united in one plane.”

“The mortal plane?” the fox asked.

“So it is believed,” Lir replied.

The warm glow of the hearth inspired shadows that danced across the planes of the Sidhe king’s face. His soaked leathers and armor still dripping onto the floorboards.

The old fox’s ears twitched, beady eyes glossing over with an expression Lir found difficult to read. His whiskers shook and his wet nose scrunched up.

The fox stood from his stool and buried himself in the pile of books tossed beside the slanted shelves. And when he at last emerged, he carried a tattered scroll in his paws, spreading it onto the table so that all could see its illustrated map.

“Niamh’s castle is here: Castle Yillen,” the old fox said, pointing to the drawing of a floating fortress at the center. If you begin your journey now, you’ll arrive before the end of Niamh’s L? Brear . But make haste. The rains and the beasts of the wood are no small obstacle.”

Lir gathered the map and stood from his chair, remembering last minute to duck his head before he hit the ceiling beams with the back of his head.

The ramshackle cottage still huffed from its chimney as he braced against the outside storm. The old fox’s newfound kelpie was deep within his wetlands no doubt devouring the wetweed that grew plentifully there, thanks to Lir. Bound to protect the cottage until the end of time.

“Farewell, nightmare,” the old fox said, waving at Lir before he disappeared into the wilderness.

“Not ‘ mo Damh Bán ’?” Lir asked.

“I’ve neither witnessed myself nor overheard the presence of mo Damh Bán ,” the old fox replied mischievously, winking at Lir. “You’d best find him in Annwyn.”

Lir smiled, recognizing the trust weaving between them, thread by thread.

“Until we meet again, Cara,” Lir said, addressing the old fox by his name.

The forge-born beast, taken aback, widened his eyes. He hadn’t told Lir his name, but the trees had, and Lir would remember it.

“And, nightmare, take the left wing of the forest by the cliff edge of the river. You’ll reach Castle Yillen more quickly avoiding the storm floods and the rot that spreads,” Cara called after him.

Lir nodded his head in thanks, recognizing—not for the first time—Cara had proven himself a worthy ally.