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CHAPTER XXII

LIR

Lir scaled the side of Castle Yillen, invisible to all but the trees that thrashed in Niamh’s rains. Even her tempest couldn’t sense him as he worked his way toward Aisling’s chambers, gripping the slippery stones. Lir could have walked the corridors of Niamh’s castle, but he preferred the Seelie queen knowing as little as possible of his whereabouts and movements.

At last, Lir jumped atop the balcony attached to Aisling’s chambers. The doors were left ajar, the wych lace curtains a veil that separated Lir from the warm glow of Aisling’s rooms.

Aisling sat atop a mound of velvet quilts, moving Sarwen in shapely formations. Anduril buzzed gleefully from Aisling’s hips—its magic rippling from its metal and through Aisling’s veins.

Aisling’s hair was entirely undone; thick rivulets of ink spilling over her shoulders, framing the whisper-thin chiffon of her ivory night slip and robes. Her slender fingers slid over the grooves of Sarwen’s hilt, both the blade and its sorceress familiarizing themselves with one another.

The Sidhe king held his breath. Lir was still invisible, having cloaked himself with his draiocht , yet still he approached with caution. Aisling hadn’t yet sensed his presence, so he stood outside the wych lace for a heartbeat longer than he’d intended, watching his sorceress through the veil.

At the center of his chest, a familiar pang of jealousy struck him. Jealousy that anyone else had ever laid eyes on her. Jealousy that everything she was, could never be his.

A crack sounded at the other end of the room.

Lir jolted, instinctively stepping back.

Several blue rabbits entered the chambers from the corridor entrance, carrying porcelain pots. They hopped over to Aisling’s bed and began mixing syrup into Aisling’s tea. Even from where Lir stood, he smelled the fir needles, the ground spruce, the shards of starlight, and the crisp tongue of evening breezes: a night balm intended to deepen sleep and prevent night terrors.

Lir’s shoulders stiffened.

“I plead with you, Your Grace,” one of the blue rabbits said. “Take your tea lest Niamh grow angry you deny her hospitality.”

Aisling winced at the steaming cup offered by one of the rabbits.

“To prevent the Lady from entering your dreams once more,” another rabbit said.

Lir perked up, listening more closely. Nightmares and terrors were no stranger to Aisling, and Lir had known the Lady invaded her dreams on darker nights. Yet, he’d assumed the Lady’s connection with Aisling was severed upon entering the Other. A hope quickly disproven.

Aisling turned her head from the teacup like a child, refusing the brew. The sorceress sheathed Sarwen instead, draping the blade on one of her bedposts as she sank into the quilts.

“I prefer to know if the Lady infiltrates my mind—the balm does not protect me. It only blinds me to her intrusions,” Aisling said.

The rabbits sighed, setting the tea on a table beside her bed. Each rabbit hopped off, busying themselves with tidying her chambers, washing her gowns, folding, or organizing her jewels until, at last, they retired for the evening.

“Rest, Your Grace,” the last rabbit whispered as they shut the door behind them and vanished into the hall.

Aisling’s chambers were black with shadow, brushed by the storm breezes sweeping from the terrace where Lir stood.

Slowly, quietly, he slipped into the room.

A rogue, Lir slinked against the walls to the rhythm of light cast only by a stormy moon. He made not a noise as he approached Aisling’s bed to wake her. But where the Sidhe king anticipated the soft, feminine figure of his sorceress possessed by sleep, instead he was met with a blade to the throat.

Lir jerked back, unaccustomed to being caught off guard. He hadn’t seen nor heard Aisling move from her slumber, reach for her blade, or poise it at the bobbing of his neck. And once he had, it was too late.

“My knight,” Aisling bit between clenched teeth, her violet eyes fixed on him like a bird of prey. And at her hips, behind the mounds of pelt and quilt, Anduril shone mischievously. Lir cursed to himself, raising his hands in mock surrender.

“Get dressed,” he commanded her. “We leave in search of the Goblet at once.”

Aisling, too slow for Lir’s liking, lowered Sarwen.

“I am dressed,” she said, matter-of-factly.

“Hardly,” Lir replied, swallowing despite himself.

Aisling sheathed Sarwen and laid the blade at the foot of the bed. Like a flower inspired by spring’s bloom, Aisling rose from her bed, shedding her outermost robes till nothing but the slip remained. Lir hadn’t meant to stare, turning from the sorceress only to find her once more in the mirror at her vanity. Lir’s lips parted and the room grew several degrees hotter. He felt his draiocht snapping its chomps inside him, begging to sink its teeth into?—

“Do I distract you, mo Damh Bán ?” Aisling asked. Lir straightened, rolling his eyes in frustration with himself, carelessly caught by the object of his full attention. Aisling, on the other hand, smiled like a cat with a mouse between its teeth.

“You test my patience,” Lir said. A half-truth.

“Some privacy then while I ready myself,” Aisling said, disappearing behind a curtain of twinkling sapphire and azure beads beside her wardrobes. Fireflies fluttered from their perches the moment she stepped behind the veil and began fully undressing. Her purpled wine voice rising above and gracing Lir’s ears.

“In what direction does our hunt take us?” Aisling asked while she worked.

Lir needed a distraction and so he drew one of his twin blades from his back and tossed it idly in his grip while he waited. Still, the reflection of her silhouette in the vanity mirror haunted him. His eyes latched onto the supple shadow of her figure, reminding him what it felt like to slide his palms against her skin. She was his wife, and all at once, she was not. Anduril’s influence had bled her heart of anything she seemingly felt for the Sidhe king, and each breath he underwent, tolerating the Blood Cord’s spell, would be a breath spent destroying the belt with his bare hands once he discovered a way to remove it. For even now, her feminine silhouette was interrupted by the jagged prominence of the cursed object seated on the throne of her hips.

Yet, he couldn’t forget the promise he’d sealed with Niamh in Aisling’s name. What he coveted most, was never his to have.

“Toward a friend,” Lir said, but his voice betrayed the emotion he felt inside.

Aisling was silent for a moment, perhaps contemplating his response.

“Here?” she asked. “In the Other?” Every word thinly veiling the suspicion that laid beneath.

“Aye,” Lir replied. “Not far from Castle Yillen, so make haste.”

“Duty-bound knight,” Aisling addressed him, “make use of yourself and help me clasp this.”

Lir’s heart leaped, his body moving a step in her direction as though it bore a will of its own. Cautiously, he approached the beaded curtain—he, the hunter and she the creature he pursued with uncharacteristic desperation. What he felt for her, what her presence inspired in his body, left him breathless, foggy, and weak. Made his every step heavy and slow as he rounded the beaded curtain, squinting from the light reflecting off the beads, and allowed himself the indulgence that was the sorceress.

Clad in owl-white banners, drapes, and a sash that cinched her waist, her body was armored with silver plates that reflected the violet of her eyes till she stood like an aberration—a monstrous beauty that struck fear in the Sidhe king like no creature ever had. She was at once regal and feral. Both lovely and cruel. Both the star-drunk night and the sun-bright dawn.

“My commands must be met more quickly,” Aisling bit through the unholiest of ruby lips.

Lir straightened, realizing to his shame he’d been gaping. The Sidhe king cleared his dry throat and moved toward her as she turned, lifting bundles of curls from the nape of her neck. Her perfumes of lavender and dusky pollens, weakening his knees as he found the clasp to her breast plate.

Aisling had never been able to assemble a suit of armor on her own, always misplacing gauntlets for grieves and pauldrons for knee cops. It was a reminder that somewhere beyond Anduril’s influence, Aisling still lived.

The Blood Cord thrummed as Lir neared her, trembling fingers taking the clasp and beginning his work.

“Do you remember me?” The words slipped from Lir’s lips like a secret. It was a selfish question. He hadn’t meant to speak it, but his spirit had, forcing his body to comply with its insatiable demands for her.

“I know who you are,” she said, her voice laced with the growl of a wolf. “You’re the terror evening champions as its haunt. And never have you hidden the full face of your nightmare nor boasted any redemptive light.”

Lir ground his fangs into his bottom teeth. So, she recognized him. Knew him as she once did before they’d been handfast. But no longer did love or affection pulse at the mention of his name. He was only a story, an image, a myth that was breathed to life and placed in her life the moment Anduril locked at her hips.

“Tell me, sorceress, of the stories your clann told of the barbarian king of the fae. The ghoulish monster that sucked on children’s bones inside caves, between the forest’s claws, in the dead of night,” he asked.

Aisling was quiet for several breaths, her face concealed where she still stood with her back to Lir. The Sidhe king worked slowly, biding his time with his hunt at last cornered and rendered prone.

“Tell me,” Lir pushed. “Tell me a tale of my infamy.” He wanted to hear her speak of his terrors, of his villainy, of his demonic appetite, and condemn him. He wanted to hear her confess her hatred for him and perhaps, if the Forge was willing, he’d know it was Anduril and not Aisling who spoke. Perhaps , he pleaded in his mind.

Aisling remained silent, her hands curling into fists at her sides. Anduril rang hotly, seemingly glowing a brighter shade of Niltaor gold.

Niamh’s rains beat down, yet they both stood still as Lir clipped the last fastener. Aisling turned on her heel and faced him.

“Describe to me the monster you see,” Lir said.

Her violet eyes explored him, brightening and widening the way they once had when she was fully mortal. She tipped her chin up to see him fully, so small in comparison to the broad shadow he cast over her and yet, boundless courage as she faced the legend she’d been born to despise. And Lir knew such bravery was no work of Anduril’s. Even before Aisling could lift a blade much less wield it, she’d stood before him at their handfasting with the same determination she did now—fury and all.

Aisling took a single step toward him and then another. Her heart beat like a rabbit, fluttering beneath the shadow of his attention. Lir’s chest tightened, but he did his best to conceal the power she held over him. He closed the remaining distance between them until they stood chest to chest. Her breath mingling with his own. Her hands, her arms, her lips, just within reach.

Lir didn’t believe in monsters. Neither did he believe in heroes. There was only want , and Niamh was right: Lir wanted Aisling more than anything. Yet, for the first time, no manner of strength, of cunning, of dominion, would win Aisling for Lir. It mattered not the wildness of his wolf nor his reign overall. His soul and his word had been bargained. Their fate together was a lightning-struck oak, alive at the roots but burning to a taper. So if Lir couldn’t have her, he’d give everything of himself for her, to her, in honor of her. Just this time, despite the rage, the jealousy, the frustration scratching inside, he’d bite his tongue.

“I don’t believe in monsters,” she said, as though she’d stolen the words from his heart and spoken them as her own.