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CHAPTER XXXI

LIR

The clouds parted and the sun screamed awake. It shook like a prisoner in a cage, reaching through the bars of its cell with its rays.

Niamh watched Lir closely from the largest throne. She was framed by both her water mares, delightedly eating salted candy from a giant daisy’s disk. The room was shaped like the moon and as the day faded, so, too, did the light spilling in from the glass ceilings above. Rain tapped against the panes steadily, accompanied by the rabid breath of mist.

“And so we begin,” she said, more to herself than any of the other Sidhe sovereigns paying attention. A round table of myths, speaking amongst one another.

The Other froze in suspense, waiting for the Sidhe sovereigns to address the matters at hand.

“This is our last chance,” Katari said, opening the conversation. Katari of the Gilding Sun reigned from southern Niltaor with Siwe at his side. Siwe, his bride and Peitho’s mother. They ruled by daybright with the brilliance of summer’s buzzing heat. And so, Lir knew the sun thrashing up above was no coincidence.

“Aisling must protect each and every gateway,” Lottie said. “Not one can be left vulnerable. We must act now. Use the Goblet now.”

“It’s too soon,” Percy said. “The Goblet can only be sipped beneath a storm moon. We must wait for the next. Regardless, it’s impossible to destroy every gateway.”

“Nothing is impossible with the Goblet,” Mac Cuill added.

“Perhaps she should destroy them all,” Tara offered.

“And confine us to the Other for all eternity?” Fionn asked, outraged, frost flying from his fingertips as he gestured. “Perhaps it would be better to destroy but a few and not all.”

“There may be no other choice,” Lottie said. “There’s nothing left for us on the mortal plane regardless. Each and all our kingdoms have been taken over, burned to the ground, or destroyed entirely, forcing us here and now.”

“Here, we can rebuild,” Dagda said, agreeing.

“And yet, there was reason the gods sent us to the mortal plane. We weren’t meant for the spirit world alone,” Percy said.

“What other choice do we have?” Lottie asked.

The question floated through the room, hanging above all their heads as they exchanged glances in the great hall. Every Sidhe sovereign forced into a corner here in the Other by the hands of Aisling’s father.

Tara leaned closer to Lir.

“Your concern distresses me,” Tara of the Howling Winds whispered to the king of the greenwood. “I thought your sorceress was well-equipped to destroy the mortals.”

Both Tara and Lir looked at Aisling, silently sitting on the other side of the table. She laid the Goblet on her lap, her fingers stroking the stem as she listened to the Sidhe sovereigns discuss back and forth.

“She is,” Lir assured her. “She wouldn’t be here in Castle Yillen, alive, if she weren’t.”

“Those were my thoughts as well,” Tara said. “But here and now, with the growing pressure of the mortals and their destruction in the mortal plane…the reality of our losses is fully tangible if not already felt.”

“Aisling will go forward as she’s done thus far: with determination. Fate will decide the rest,” Lir said, his words as sharp as he felt. Lir didn’t trust any of the sovereigns; the Sidhe were both truth-tellers and deceivers. If there wasn’t mischief afoot, there was something far worse lurking in the dark corners of the rooms they passed through.

“You believe in her,” Tara conjectured, studying the Sidhe king’s face closely.

Lir considered for a moment. The Sidhe king knew legends, myths, folktales, and prophecies were slippery with the blood of those condemned to worse fates. He knew the loom frayed, broke, braided, twisted, and knotted at the call of its own whims. But with certainty, he knew Aisling was salvation.

“I cannot articulate it well,” Lir confessed, running his fingers through his dark hair. “And were it sheer faith I’d doubt myself. But this is different. I feel it in my bones. Aisling will change everything.”

“Why not Niamh?” Tara asked.

“It is not in her making,” Lir said plainly. “She does not smell of the Forge as does Aisling. Stand close enough to the sorceress so that you can sense her, listen to the pitter patter of her once-mortal heart, taste her perfume on your tongue, and hear the melody of her voice as it blends with the immortal coil of destiny. She was born of the Forge like none before her.”

“And yet, is this once-mortal princess, capable of what you claim? Rewriting prophecy by both the Lady and Danu themselves?” Tara asked, eyes darting around the table to ensure none were listening to her’s and Lir’s private aside.

“I witnessed her courage not long after we wed,” Lir said. “a ‘once-mortal princess’ locked eyes with a Cu Scath and raced a Sidhe knight on stagback without hesitation. That was only the cusp of what I’d come to witness of her mettle.”

Tara smiled. “It will take more than courage.”

“Aye,” Lir agreed. “It will take more.”

“And so, she is our salvation,” Tara concluded.

“Are you not yet convinced?”

Tara hesitated, brows pinching. She lifted her eyes to find Aisling still seated across the table.

“Yes, I’m convinced,” she answered honestly. “I’ve long awaited the end to Niamh’s reign over the Other.”

“You disapprove of Niamh’s sovereignty?” Lir asked, his interest piquing.

“Isolation has made Niamh…” Tara considered her words carefully, daring a glance at Niamh in her throne. Niamh was wholly absorbed by Katari’s words, back straight as she darted between the Sidhe sovereigns who spoke aloud. “Unhinged,” Tara finished.

Lir looked at Tara now.

“What do you speak of?”

Tara shook her head, biting her bottom lip. “Under any other circumstances, I’d keep silent, but with the current political climate and your sorceress being our potential salvation, I fear I might not be allotted another opportunity to speak my mind.”

Lir narrowed his eyes. “Then speak.”

Tara exhaled, reaching her hand out and catching drops of gold in her palm.

“You northern Sidhe kingdoms have been spared from Niamh’s trickery. In recent centuries, she’s been hunting for something or someone, stealing Sidhe brides, Sidhe children, forge-born beasts to the Other.”

Lir held his breath.

Seven storm seasons come but never go.

Come child, I hear the wild horns blow.

A western faerie weeps, broken by a lonely heart,

Cursed to the Other, destined to live apart.

The eerie melody of “The Architect of Yillen” moaned alive in Lir’s mind.

“And what became of them?” he asked.

Tara frowned. “Never seen or heard from again. As I said before, rumor claims she’s looking for someone or something. And all those she’s deemed unworthy of entering the Other, thus far, are collected by the Other’s galleon and sailed to their death. One after the other.”

Listen to the rain, child

But don’t be beguiled

For a faerie will drown you in her tears

Or she’ll steal you away for years

Just so that she might not be so lonely.

“How can you be certain?” Lir asked, but even as the question slid between his fangs, he knew the answer himself.

“I cannot be certain, but I distrust Niamh and so does the southern Sidhe world.”

“And yet, why would she leave the north untouched?”

Tara’s eyes drifted toward Lir.

“Niamh’s fear of you has kept her at bay, but fear is easily stifled by desire,” Tara said. “High king of the Sidhe on the mortal plane, master of Racat, with a grisly reputation and a penchant for violence. No other has reigned so powerfully, so forcefully, nor as wildly as you in the history of the Sidhe. Niamh is wise to avoid making an enemy of you…or, she was wise.”

Lir opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it. He looked to Aisling.

The sorceress gripped the Goblet more tightly. He could feel the magic of both Anduril and Racat bristling and waking with heat. He could taste it popping on the tip of his tongue as Aisling’s knuckles grew white and her pupils flooded her eyes black.

Lir frowned, recognizing once again the target Aisling’s power placed on her back and the hunters that gathered when she turned.

* * *

AISLING

Between the clouds, Castle Yillen shook with music. Bears, foxes, badgers, toads, and Sidhe danced until mortal feet would have bruised, drinking wine, spilling mead, and gulping special punches from the bulbs of giant tulips.

Below Castle Yillen, sat a lake as silver as any blade. A forest huddled around it like groves of druids falling to the knee to sip from its waters, rippling with the force of the storm around them.

This was where Aisling bathed while the rest of the Sidhe world celebrated the acquisition of the Goblet. The evening grew feverish with their celebration, the Other eager for the first sip to be drank from the chalice’s lip beneath the storm moon—the first since she’d obtained the artifact.

Aisling lifted the Goblet. She’d filled it once, twice, thrice with silver lake water only for the water to transform violet the moment it slithered over the Goblet’s brim. She poured it over her head and rinsing out the dirt, blood, and sweat from her tresses. Glittering, she stood waist deep in the loch. A dark body of water said to be where the gods once cupped their hands and collected their tears.

Aisling had snuck away from the crowds, the parties, the lights, the drinks, and the foods. She’d been overwhelmed with attention since she’d woken from Eogi swallowing her whole, then spitting her out.

She felt war inching closer, tasted the rot her father was infecting the Other with—grin spreading through the forest, even here by Castle Yillen, like a plague.

So, Aisling scrubbed the past several days off her skin, washing herself till the thoughts stopped spinning so quickly in her mind. A moment for her to sip from the Goblet alone and test its power for the first time. To once and for all seal the mortals’ fate with the treasure she’d earned. But in the same breath Aisling had poised the Goblet before her, the loch was transformed by the vibration of its draiocht . Like the Forge itself, the loch bubbled black, gurgling strangely as if struggling to speak. Crests and peaks formed atop the surface, its dark waters lunging for Aisling in great splashes, liquid edges stretching like fingers for the sorceress.

“ By the Great Forge of Creation and the twin gods, a new master has stepped forward ,” Aisling said, both her irises and her pupils fading to pure white as she spoke. Aisling shivered, her spine tingling as every word wrung with the echo of someone or something that was entirely Other. A voice possessing her body and using her lips to speak.

“ Vow your allegiance to the Forge and to the draiocht ,” the Other spoke from her mouth. She knew it was the realm itself—its spirit watching and waiting for her.

“I vow it,” Aisling said.

Thunder clapped and lightning webbed across the sky. The clouds gathered more thickly, blending with the canopies from the forest that thrashed side to side. The storm moon smiled, watching Aisling with glittering eyes from up above.

“ The Goblet of Lore is now yours to drink, in the name of the Forge. ”

Aisling brought the Goblet to her lips and tilted the legend back.

Aisling , Anduril sang to itself. Aisling , it repeated. Aisling hesitated, the brew a hair’s width from reaching her lips yet still not close enough to taste. She lowered the Goblet further.

Aisling , Anduril said again, this time louder.

Aisling forgot the Goblet, focusing on Anduril’s voice.

Aisling .

Aisling allowed the belt this brief respite. Allowed it to sing at her waist considering it’d kept her alive outside of Eogi’s cave.

But then another voice spoke her name aloud.

Aisling , a feminine voice sang.

Aisling cocked her head to side, immediately startled.

“Who are you?” Aisling asked aloud, feeling silly once she had. But the incorporeal voice continued, repeating her name again and again.

Aisling , it called.

Aisling .

And then Aisling’s ankles were yanked and she was dragged beneath the surface of the lake, the world dissolving to black.