Page 34

CHAPTER XXXIII

AISLING

Traveling through water felt like being born. Or so Aisling imagined.

The sorceress rose from icy depths like a banshee clawing through a haunted wood, screaming with a tongue covered in saltwater tears. Yet, Aisling didn’t weep. She was surrounded by the savage churning of the Ashild sea, slapped by frothing, pearl tipped waves.

Aisling flailed, panicked, gulped mouthfuls of ocean water. Her head was swallowed by the waves time and time again. Already disoriented by the magic of such travel, the storm only worsened the conditions, spinning, dragging, whipping Aisling’s body to and fro like a fish it’d banished from its depths.

Aisling reached for the Goblet of Lore. Moments ago, it had been in her hands and now, it was gone. Her fingers searched for it to no avail. The artifact lost and gone from the sorceress.

“ Aisling ,” a familiar voice called from a distance. Was it a hallucination? A vision? The voice sounded different, cut off time and time again by the merciless thrashing of the sea.

“ Aisling ,” the voice continued, until something rough wrapped around Aisling’s body and pulled. It scratched her skin, rubbing against the wounds still healing from Eogi’s knight.

Aisling lit like a violet comet, an animal cornered and afraid, baring its teeth to preserve itself. Whatever had tangled itself around her body shriveled, releasing her to the will of the sea.

“ Aisling ,” the voice continued, but this time, it was followed by a splash. Four legs kicked her own, fighting to swim themselves. They reached for her, but her flames grew brighter. A misfortune for what came next stole Aisling’s breath from her lungs. Whoever surrounded her, tied her in chains of iron and dragged her writhing body through the storm.

Aisling shook her head, doing her best to focus her vision, her thoughts, her mind. Yet, it was futile. Futile as she was lifted by both the chain and a body that held her from the tossing sea.

Aisling blinked repeatedly, still choking on salt water as she fought her captor.

“Drop her here!” another voice said. They didn’t speak Rún. Their tongues were round and blunt. A stark contrast to the lilted, melodic voices of the Sidhe.

“Careful,” someone else said. “Set her down gently…that’s it.”

“How long will her magic persist?” the first voice asked.

“Until she’s calm,” the second said. “The iron will make quick work of such a process.”

“It’s harming her,” a new voice added.

“A necessary evil,” the first said. His voice was deep and filled with memory. One that had, at one point in Aisling’s life, been the center of her small world. A pang of deepest sorrow filling her to the bone with grief. Grief and unfathomable anger.

“Leave her,” the second voice said. “She’ll exhaust herself soon enough.”

But Aisling didn’t feel she’d ever be calm again. The pain of the iron, the stench of humans, the vomiting of salt water, the weakness of her muscles. It crossed her mind she might die here: a flower of flaming violet slapped against creaking floorboards that rocked side to side.