Page 39

CHAPTER XXXVIII

AISLING

“Sister,” Starn spat from the doorway.

Aisling sat on the floor of the room, back against the wall. She didn’t care to lift her head, only her eyes in acknowledgement.

“Rise,” he commanded. “Your presence has been requested on the main deck.”

Aisling looked up then. She searched past Starn and at the staircase beyond where torchlight, the taste of salt, and stars spilled from above. Aisling wasn’t certain how long she’d been held captive. There was scarcely any light, and the ocean rocked her to sleep at odd hours. And so, an opportunity—the possibility of fresh air––sent Aisling’s heart racing.

Aisling stood, hiding the quivering of her knees after days cooped up.

Starn unhooked the chains from the walls of her cabin. He carried them like a leash, tight and wrapped around his wrists.

Her brother led her up the stairwell and onto the main deck.

Aisling was fed a second life when the waxing moon’s light embraced her. She inhaled, eager to gulp breaths full of ocean air. The chains around her wrists suddenly became less heavy.

But where Aisling expected to be lost in a sea of stars at the center of the Ashild, she rather found herself drifting along the river roads of some eastern mortal kingdom that spilled into the Silver Sea.

The midnight black of evening’s cloak was gilded by the lanterns hanging on strings between the kingdom’s sharp towers, ornate domes, every narrow thoroughfare, and even across the great width of the river on which they sailed. Hundreds of mortal ships surrounded the one in which they bobbed, cannons loaded with iron, fire-laced ammunition.

Rain misted over the landscape, dusting the world in shimmers.

“Daughter.” Nemed greeted Aisling from the stern castle. The whole crew paused or slowed their business, turning to lay eyes on Aisling for themselves. Although the reprieve was slight, Aisling relished what fresh air surrounded her for the stench of iron and mortality fought for attention amongst her senses. Aisling frowned, wrinkling her nose as Starn pulled her toward their father.

They climbed two sets of ladders until Aisling faced her father atop the stern castle. They looked out over the ship, watching as the crew busied themselves once more. Iarbonel, Fergus, and Annind worked alongside the crew or spoke amongst one another. Clodagh, on the other hand, breathed deeply at the edge of the ship, pale with sea sickness.

“Tell me, Aisling, how does one hunt a myth?” her father asked. His violet eyes twinkled despite their age.

“You take it by force,” Starn said, smirking to himself.

Aisling exhaled. “You find its maker,” she corrected.

“Precisely,” Nemed said. Starn’s smile fell, replaced with a familiar scowl.

“There are countless legends of the gateways to the spirit realm,” Nemed said. “Most of Tilren’s folktales involve a ‘crossing over.’ But how is it done? Well, you enter as you would anywhere else,” Nemed said. “Through the front door.”

Aisling glanced at the inky waters beneath the belly of the ship and beyond. They rocked side to side, jagged and tipped with the gold light from above. The ocean––one of the twin gods’ eldest sons—both arcane depth and breathtaking beauty.

“The ocean is vast, father,” Aisling said, but her eyes drifted to the mist veiling their passage, dappling her cheeks with dew. Every droplet pricked her skin, sending shivers down her spine.

“Aye,” he acknowledged, “but a myth is vain, daughter. Legends are vanity incarnate. They refuse to be ignored. They crave your attention. And they long to be caught in the light.” Nemed’s eyes followed Aisling’s, appraising the sheets of rain.

Niamh’s rain.

“The Silver Sea rests between three storm lands in the east and we are at the center of it. Or,” Nemed reconsidered, stroking his chin, “close to it. With the help of your rescuers, we’ll arrive within a week’s time if not sooner.”

Aisling swallowed the lump in her throat. Her tongue had run dry, and her eyes burned.

“Why are you telling me this?” Aisling asked, doing her best to conceal the dread in her voice.

“Because when we lay waste to the spirit world, destroy their gate, and reclaim all that is rightfully mankind’s”––Nemed looked his daughter in the eyes––“you will not be here. But I wanted you to know.”

Aisling didn’t flinch. She steeled herself, straightening and keeping her father’s stare.

“No,” Aisling admitted, “because you recount dreams, father. But I only exist in your nightmares.”

Nemed’s expression shuttered with emotion. His brows knotted, eyes flicking to the iron cuffs at Aisling’s wrists that prevented her from casting magic.

Before either could speak another word, a bell rang from four different towers in the kingdom. The figures that speckled the landscape hurried indoors, slamming shutters, and locking doors.

Several shouts erupted across the ship and panic descended. Half the crew gaped at the surrounding kingdom, mouths hanging open at what traveled in their direction.

Aisling, Nemed, and Starn followed their line of sight.

As the ship floated, a dense fog rolled through the kingdom, across the river and toward their ships. It whispered frantically, taking odd and jagged shapes uncharacteristic of natural fog. Aisling was the first to feel it: the ripple of the draiocht as it spilled from a fresh source.

“By the Forge,” Aisling cursed beneath her breath.

“What is it?” Starn snapped, his voice breaking. “What have you summoned, fae?!”

Aisling shook her head silently, watching with wide eyes as the fog approached more quickly. The crew busied themselves, loading the cannons and lifting the sails. Yet, nothing could prevent what was coming. Nothing could be done.

Aisling knew not its name, but she knew its kind: Unseelie.

The fog arrived and it creeped up the belly of their ships. Various men released the cannons, leaped overboard, or fought to fit below deck in a panic. They struck one another in the frenzy, chaos descending.

Clodagh was escorted first by both Fergus and Annind, speaking frantically into the collars of their tunics.

Starn summoned his phantom blade from where it hung on the main deck, and Nemed gripped the banister of the stern castle.

“Onward!” Nemed shouted, directing the ship to sail forward and swiftly. But it was too late.

The fog creeped over the lip of their ship. It rolled in slowly, building anticipation before it brushed the boot of the first crewman remaining above deck. In a heartbeat, the fog snatched the man in a blur of blood and teeth and white mist, leaving nothing but splatter and ichor in its place.

The crew screamed, shouting prayers and begging for their lives.

“Release my bindings,” Aisling growled, lifting the iron fists wrapped tightly around her hands.

“Have you gone mad?” Starn simmered, face red with fear and anger alike. “None have forgotten what you did to the last ship you and I shared.”

Aisling’s mind flashed back to Dagfin’s ship, the Starling . Then, they’d been attacked by merrow, and to survive, to spare the ship and themselves, Aisling had lit the entire galleon on fire. And while she’d spared the lives of her clann, herself, and most importantly Dagfin, she’d forsaken the lives of the rest of the crew.

“Then you’ll remember you’re in debt to me,” Aisling bit back. “For had I not intervened, you wouldn’t be standing here today…unfortunately.”

Nemed shoved the skipper standing before the wheel of the ship and took hold of it himself.

“Your shackles remain, daughter,” her father said, jerking the wheel to the right. The ship obeyed, swinging from one side to the other.

Aisling flew across the stern castle, slamming into the side of the balustrade with her hip.

She seethed, watching as the fog continued to devour more crew members. Nemed couldn’t outsail or outrun this Unseelie. Whatever it was, it was determined to devour them whole, and they had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, and no way to fight the fog.

Aisling slammed her fists against the mizzenmast. The iron fists didn’t bend nor dent. Instead, her bones rattled inside, forcing a scream from her lips.

Starn whipped his head in her direction, raising his phantom blade at Aisling’s throat.

“Attempt something like that again and I’ll sever your hands off altogether,” he yelled, veins bulging at his neck and forehead.

Aisling slapped the blade from where it floated, poised before her. It clattered to the ground where Starn hadn’t expected retaliation. Her brother, swiftly, lifted it once more and drove it between Aisling’s eyes.

“Starn!” Nemed shouted, staring at them over his shoulder. Aisling wasn’t certain how they’d cut the curse breaker from her, but she assumed it wasn’t this way.

Aisling dodged the onslaught, stepping lithely to the side. Starn watched her move, eyes growing wide. Her brother swung again, this time for the legs. Aisling leaped, landing on her feet and swinging at the blade again. She knocked it to the side and even after the sword clanked against the floorboards, it continued to slide with momentum, falling off the stern castle and onto the main deck.

Aisling lunged for her brother, throwing the iron fists at his temples.

Starn staggered backward, clumsily avoiding her attacks.

“Enough!” he grunted as he moved his head side to side, but Aisling persisted, pushed her brother until his back was against the balustrade, threatening to send him off the edge in pursuit of his phantom blade.

“Where’s your magic, brother?” Aisling asked. “Where’s the Lady to help you now?”

She threw another punch, twisting with her entire body as Peitho had shown her. At last, the attempt hit. Her fist collided into the side of his face, sending Starn reeling. The top half of his body was backward and horizontal over the railing.

Aisling, huffing with exertion, took a step back.

Starn froze. As slow as the moon wanes, her brother turned to face her. Already the blow had painted an ugly, purpled gash across his cheekbone. He touched it gently with his fingertips, eyes becoming saucers when they spotted the blood at the tips of his fingers.

He met Aisling’s eyes.

“You’ll regret that,” he said, so softly it was almost a whisper.

The fog grew in their periphery, the ship rocking side to side in Nemed’s desperation. Yet, Aisling’s eyes remained glued to her brother’s, fury pulsing between them.

“Perhaps,” Aisling said, “but only that it wasn’t fatal.”

Starn shook with anger, the phantom blade rising behind him. It turned, sparkling between the bloodthirsty mists of the East.

The blade spun till its tip faced Aisling. He screamed and the sword darted for Aisling’s heart.

“That’s enough, Starn!” Nemed boomed, but he couldn’t let go of the wheel lest their ship spun into the city streets. He jerked the wheel and both Aisling and Starn were sent flying onto the main deck.

Aisling struggled to her feet, the weight of the iron fists bruising her wrists. She spun on her heel, biting through the pain of the fall. Starn was nowhere to be seen. The main deck was thick with fog and warm with death. Aisling held onto the main mast, slipping on the blood slick boards as the ship rocked.

“Where are you, sister?” Starn called, and from a distance, Aisling could see the glimmer of his phantom blade through the mist. He navigated carefully across the deck, averting his eyes from the men the fog devoured in his periphery.

Aisling pushed her back against the main mast. She considered climbing it or leaping overboard yet every direction spelled her name in death’s hand. She couldn’t climb with the iron fists, nor could she swim.

“Sister,” Starn called in a sing-song voice, the same way he had when they were children. The same way he did in her nightmares. “Come out of hiding, little sister.”