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CHAPTER XXX

AISLING

Seven storm seasons come but never go.

Come child, I hear the wild horns blow.

The song carried on like a ghostly chant, echoing into oblivion by the voices of thousands of Sidhe humming despite the rain.

Most of the Sidhe sovereigns stood before Aisling.

Lir, Fionn, Niamh, Katari, Lottie, Tara, Mac Cuill, Percy, and Dagda. Some were original Sidhe sovereigns, whilst others were the descendants to their throne, having accepted the crown after their fathers and mothers passed in similar fashion to Lir and Fionn.

Their draiocht together popped Aisling’s ears and burned her nose. Their magic tasted ancient and bygone; a beast itself rolling awake since the last moment they were all together in one place.

Katari beamed, sparking with embers of light as though his excitement struggled to contain his magic.

“Will she live?” Tara asked, her voice a midnight breeze as she joined Fionn at his side. Her dark curls were windswept, tickling her lovely features even as she frowned with surprising sincerity. A female whose complexion was richly dark, seemingly kissed by cool breezes, by hailstorms, by blustering nights, and hurricanes. The intensity of her gaze was breathtaking, almost a distraction from the whipping sheets of highland gales that draped across the lovely curves of her figure.

Aisling’s heart beat in her throat, but she barely felt it for the booming of the world around her.

They stood around her chamber bed in Castle Yillen, watching her closely.

“Shh, she’s waking!” Lottie said. A female of mint complexion, the scales of her gown shimmering like a deep-sea fish before they morphed into the froth of coastal waves near the hem. And when she nodded her head in recognition, her veil of freshwater pearls clicked enthusiastically.

Sidhe, bears, foxes, badgers, falcons, pine martens, tortoises, frogs, and even mice cheered from outside, pelts soaked with the rain that descended from the bed of clouds above and around them. Some Seelie flew as high as the billowing flags and banners, eager to find the perfect spot for spectating what Aisling was certain was a once in a millennium event: this many Sidhe sovereigns together in one room.

“If you aren’t the gods’ favored one,” Niamh said, standing at the center of the Sidhe sovereigns, “then you’ll surely be mine.”

Fionn shifted, but Lir stood still, eyes void of emotion.

Aisling hadn’t the courage to look at Lir just yet, but glancing at Lir now—dressed in form-fitting dark armor, his axes crossed at his back, dahlia-black hair falling into his eyes, and the jade of his gaze, heartless, arrogant, and cold—she struggled to take a breath without blinking tears. Anduril trembled weakly at her hips where she lay.

Niamh noticed Aisling and Lir’s stolen glance, nostrils flaring.

Swiftly, Lir averted his eyes.

“Welcome back, sorceress,” Niamh said, giving nothing away as to her thoughts.

Aisling could barely hear the Seelie queen over the trumpets and the cheers. The world shook beneath her bed. Sarwen lay beside her, glinting like the high-born knight she was not. Yet, Aisling was done underestimating herself. For who would have faith in her if she did not have faith in herself? She was a sorceress, a queen, and the reaper of men.

Aisling swallowed, straightening her back.

“The Goblet,” Aisling said. But as the words fell from her lips and she sat up straight, a glittering object fell onto her lap.

The gleaming Goblet was forged of violet glass, humming with the strange voice of a creature Aisling feared. Something all-knowing, something curious, something alive, and eager.

Aisling gasped, lips falling apart in amazement. She turned to Lir to gauge his reaction. He smiled proudly, genuine joy spreading across the exhaustion beneath.

“You’ve done it, Aisling.” Niamh grabbed Aisling’s hand and squeezed it. “You can rest for a time.”

“No,” Aisling said, almost leaping from the bed. “They’re coming. On the last moon of the storm season,” she blurted, eyes growing wide with urgency. “They will come.”

“The mortals?” Filverel asked, brows raising at Aisling’s sudden excitement. Filverel, Galad, Peitho, and Gilrel smiled at her, their presence in the Other bittersweet for it suggested Annwyn, too, had fallen to the mortals—a thought, a possibility Aisling couldn’t stomach just yet.

“My father,” Aisling said, “my brothers…”

“You need to rest,” Tara said, setting a gentle hand on Aisling’s shoulder.

“There is no time,” Aisling said. “They will come on the last moon of the storm season. They will try to enter the Other.”

“How can you know this?” Dagda asked, both anger and panic detailing their voice.

“The Lady,” Aisling said. “The Lady showed it to me.”

“She cannot be trusted,” Fionn said, seemingly unaware of the irony in his warnings.

“No, she cannot,” Aisling admitted. “But she hasn’t given this information to me kindly. She’s done it to scare me—to convince me my defeat has already been written.”

“We cannot know for sure,” Lir said, his voice blooming and standing out amidst the rest. Aisling warmed to it immediately, lingering on his gaze a moment too long.

“The last moon of the storm season is approaching,” Niamh said. “If Aisling is correct, time is fleeting indeed.”

The room fell quiet, each deep in thought. They exchanged glances, but the reality was clear: war was on their doorstep and they were unprepared to greet it, each and all of them still licking their wounds from the falling of their kingdoms in the mortal plane.

This was the beginning of the end.