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CHAPTER XLII

AISLING

Sapling satin curtains swayed gently in a warm, summer breeze. Aisling blinked, doing her best to focus. The room smelled of plums and sugared teas. Aisling gripped the bed on either side of her, fingers filled with sable-soft pelts.

“Ssh!” a small voice hushed. “She’s waking!”

Aisling bolted upright, hands blazing like twin comets.

“ Ell —” another voice started, stopping itself short. “Aisling,” the voice finished.

Aisling turned, coming face to face with the Sidhe king of the greenwood. He bent over the bed, one arm leaning against the headboard carved from the trunk of a plum tree, its branches, leaves, and bulbs, stretching across Aisling like a canopy.

Aisling extinguished her draiocht .

For whatever reason, the Sidhe king’s place in her memory continued to elude her now. Nevertheless, he’d aided her in her escape, lived up to his title as her knight, and that was sufficient to win him more of her trust. For now.

“Where am I?” she asked, searching the bedroom in which she lay.

Lir’s expression flickered, and had Aisling blinked, she would’ve missed it: a moment of sincere concern gone before she could make sense of it. His bitter disdain for her, returned.

The chamber was empty save for several pine martens cowering from Aisling behind the curtains. They bore a striking resemblance to Gilrel and carried trays full of tea, buttered rolls, truffle cakes, and goblets full of Leshy’s tears. But the tables at her bedside were strewn with bandages and salves.

“We’re in the Simril Glade,” Lir said, “a haven hidden in the wilds of the mortal plane for the forge-born.”

Aisling stood from the bed and approached the windows. Robes sewn with threads of unicorn hairs spilled around her bare ankles. As white as mourning and as delicate as the death that precedes it.

Aisling admired the handiwork, smiling at the martens. Surely, it’d been their gentle hands that’d cleaned, mended, and dressed her.

The martens squealed when she acknowledged them, looking to Lir for guidance.

The Sidhe king nodded his head. “Leave us.”

The little beasts scurried past, gently shutting the door behind them as they took their leave.

“Do they live here?” Aisling asked, tipping her head in the direction the martens had fled.

“In a way,” Lir said. “They’re changelings.”

“Unseelie.” Aisling knew.

Lir nodded his head. “Unseelie that aid the passage of bairns passed too soon, helping them onto the galleon that’ll sail them into the misty afterlife of the Other. So, too, do they care for them here: in the Simril Glade.”

Lir didn’t flinch, but his voice thickened. A change so subtle, Aisling was surprised she’d noticed it at all.

“A nursery,” Aisling conjectured. “But they look like common beasts.”

Lir moved his hands into his pockets.

“They slip into new forms depending on their audience. Whatever shape will bring comfort to those they wish to care for is the form they’ll inhabit.”

Aisling stared at the shut door long after the changelings left, wondering why, of all places, Lir would bring her here.

At last, she inhaled and pushed apart the curtains.

She stood in a sharp, ornate tower chiseled from the bones of opals. Every speck of the tower was carved by the methodical, precise, and whimsical fingers of the Sidhe, narrating tales of beasts, forests, and winged knights with glowing sabers. The tower grew from the center of a crystal-clear pool, filled to the brim by the sleek silver waterfall slipping over beds of wildflowers and moss. The rest was dense forest populated by fruitful plum trees, soft glowing orbs drifting aimlessly, and the hum of insects.

Most marvelous of all, however, were the clear skies up above.

The moon sighed, laying its head on quilts of clouds, dreaming up stars that scattered across the sky.

Aisling leaned out and over the edge of her window, drinking up the view for several moments.

“Do you…” Lir began, startling Aisling. He moved closer to her, joining her at her side by the window. “Do you feel alright?” he asked.

Aisling appraised herself, inspecting the bandages around her wrists, hands, and abdomen with her eyes. Indeed, her wounds still hurt her. Yet, the fresh air here was enough to strengthen her by the breath full—void of either the mortal flesh or iron she’d been forced to inhale.

“Aye,” Aisling replied, meeting Lir’s eyes. “And I’m eager to return to the Isle of Rain.”

This close, Lir was nightmarish in his beauty. He carried himself with both feline elegance and the promise of brutal violence. Both enough to bring most people to their knees at the mere sight of him. But his eyes grew deeper the longer Aisling looked, pulling her into a forest of shadows and bloodthirsty beasts till she couldn’t find the way back.

Aisling dropped her gaze as if burned by the image of him. And if Lir noticed, he didn’t react.

“We’ll return you to Castle Yillen as soon as you’ve gathered your strength,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

Aisling chewed on her bottom lip. “Did you bring me here?” she asked.

Lir looked at her, shifting slightly.

“Yes,” he confessed.

“Thank you,” Aisling said. “Thank you for helping me.”

Cautiously, Lir studied her with his eyes, never meeting her own. He traced her wounds, her shoulders, her brushed hair, her flushed cheeks. His gaze lingering on the edge of her lips.

Aisling swallowed.

“Do not thank me,” he said after several quiet moments. “It’s my oath.”

“Why then did you bring me here? Weren’t you meant to return me to Castle Yillen?” Aisling asked, gripping the windowsill more tightly. Her rational mind didn’t trust Lir. Her mind insisted he was a stranger she’d scarcely spoken to—every memory of him, quick and slippery. And yet, her draiocht spun madly in his presence begging her to release it. A strange knowing that if she were not injured, exhausted, or spent, her magic would devour them both whole whilst in his presence. Was this the effect the high king had on everyone? Aisling shook her head, swatting away her thoughts.

You’re confused, tired, and lost , Anduril said. Do not believe the questions sprouting inside your mind now .

“You needed to rest and regain your strength,” Lir said. “As soon as you step foot in the Other, you’ll need to focus on the Goblet once more. The Goblet of Lore is the only way to prevent the mortals from destroying the gateway. And with the fire hand close to discovering its location…simply put, the Forge and time are no longer aligned.”

Aisling nodded her head in understanding. Still, his answer didn’t satisfy her. He spun words like a spider spins its web, effortlessly snaring unsuspecting insects.

“And yet you brought me here?” Aisling pushed. “When our haste is of the utmost importance?”

Lir worked his jaw, staring out and over the forest—as if doing his best to avoid meeting her eyes.

“I—”

“You’re wounded as well,” Aisling conjectured, answering for him. Indeed, Lir no longer wore his intricate Sidhe leathers. Now he donned a loose knight ritter blouse, the strings undone so all his fae markings shone along his throat, collar, and the beginning of his broad chest. His abdomen narrowed tightly at the hips, belted by several humble, leather straps to secure his trousers. And still, his axes winked at his back, crossed like wings on his shoulder blades. But it was the gauze peeking beneath his ritter that caught Aisling’s eye.

Burn bandages.

“ I’ve wounded you,” Aisling said.

Lir had leaped off the ship with Aisling swathed in flames. She’d smelled the burning of his flesh as they’d fallen into the sea, knotted together.

The Sidhe king had ventured to the mortal realm for her, rescued her, and held her despite her destructive magic. He’d sacrificed and risked a great deal, reminding Aisling of herself: she too—at one point in time—had risked everything for mankind. She recognized the obligation of duty on not only his crown but on his heart. Why had she never noticed such virtues before as she did now?

Lir hesitated, uncharacteristically tripping over his words.

“I’ve suffered greater pains,” he said, not bothering to acknowledge the blood still seeping through the gauze and staining his ritter.

“You need to rest,” Aisling said. “More so than I.”

Lir shook his head. “Kings do not rest. Especially now.”

“Then why bring us here? When the fate of the Sidhe rests on my shoulders, why waste more time than we can afford?!” Aisling asked, raising her voice. Her ears burned, her temper flaring. The Sidhe king’s actions confused her and so, she felt frustrated. She trusted him and yet knew he was keeping something from her. She simply wasn’t certain what.

Lir ran a hand through his hair. He tugged on it, mirroring how Aisling felt.

“To allow you to heal,” he said, repeating his answer from before.

“Liar,” Aisling snapped. There was no reason for the Sidhe king to care for her health or her recovery. He needed her as did all the fae: as a weapon.

“Your impatience makes you ignorant,” he said, his voice like dark velvet. “The Sidhe cannot tell a lie.”

Aisling shuddered, praying to the Forge the Sidhe king didn’t notice it.

“The truth is no match for your mischief, dark lord. As all the tales go,” she said, steeling herself against him.

“Then you’d be wise not to provoke me,” Lir growled. “Weren’t you just thanking me for your rescue?”

Aisling bit down on her anger, holding it between her teeth.

“Rescue?” Aisling asked, baffled. “I would’ve escaped on my own given time. I thanked you for helping me and nothing more.”

“What gratitude,” he said, both words dripping with ire.

“You may be king, but I will not kiss your boots as do the others.”

“Perhaps you’ll kiss something else then?” he asked, his eyes darkening. He spoke in jest to ridicule her, to humiliate her, and yet, her abdomen stirred hotly at the sound of such intimacies on his lips. Their night at Dorkoth’s tavern sprouting inside her mind and flushing her complexion.

“You disrespect me with those words.”

Lir snapped toward her, meeting her eyes for the first time since she’d woken. He leaned closer to her, dropping his arms at his sides.

“So be it,” he whispered—the sound of canopies rustling in the wind. And yet, it felt more like an arrow to the chest.

Aisling narrowed her eyes, her draiocht swelling like a storm in her throat. The tower shuddered with the energy pulsing through its bones. Their chests rising and falling with the pace of their breath in anger.

A heart for a heart . Aisling’s mind flashed like lightning, descending into darkness a heartbeat later.

A knock sounded at the door.

Both Aisling and Lir whipped their heads in its direction, startled by the welcome distraction.

The door creaked open, and a pine marten stuck its head through the gap.

“ Mo Damh Bán , mo Lúra ,” it greeted them.

Mo Lúra . The title clung to Aisling’s mind like talons in flesh, digging deeper the longer she considered it.

It means bride of the forest , someone had told her once.

The memories are your imagination , Anduril said. Do not trust false visions .

“The bell will ring within the hour, mo Damh Bán ,” the pine marten said before bowing and slipping from the room again.

Aisling turned to the Sidhe king, expression filled with questions.

“Very well,” Lir said. But when Aisling searched his face for answers, it’d already slammed shut. No longer was there anger, frustration, or mischief. It was void, washed clean, and without a trace of the temper she’d provoked.

Lir glanced at Aisling one last time. He lingered for a breath and grabbed her hand. Slowly, he brought her fingers to his mouth and kissed the backs of her knuckles. And to Aisling’s surprise, she let him.

“ Ellwyn ,” he said in parting, cold and cruel.

Aisling watched the door long after he’d left. And at last, she decided to follow him.