Page 44

CHAPTER XLIII

NIAMH

Niamh slipped through the corridors of Castle Yillen like a midnight breeze, howling through the stone. Her gown left a trail of water in its wake, cleaning the cobbles as she passed.

Tonight, she’d commanded her hair be braided from her face and a veil draped over the crown of her head. The fabric was made of morning mist and dappled with droplets that shimmered in the fae light. She was a specter, haunting her own castle and eager to go by unnoticed as she slipped into the Yillen libraries.

The books paused briefly to greet their newest guest.

Niamh bowed at the hips, dipping her chin with respect. Without further delay, the flying tomes, scrolls, and booklets resumed their hushed chatter and flight, proceeding through the labyrinth of shelves.

The Seelie queen sucked in a breath. She pushed past the desks, the mess, and the statues that adjusted their spectacles to get a better look at her. Still, she continued, eager to reach the darkest recesses of the library.

At last, she arrived, coming face to face with the behemoth statue of one of the twin gods. Arawn.

Niamh shivered. The vacant eyes of the statue measured her, incense curling from his lips like basilisks.

Immediately, the Seelie queen fell to her knees.

She folded the veil over her head and prayed in Rún.

“ By the Great Forge of Creation ,” Niamh began, “ I have sealed a bargain .”

Silence filled the room, devouring even the distant chatter of books and the scraping of their flipped pages.

At last, the incense that curled in great wispy, milky tendrils thickened at his lips and surrounded the Seelie queen.

Niamh shivered, swallowing hard.

“ I request a morsel of your magic whilst you sleep ,” Niamh said.

The statue grumbled this time, shaking the library like the rattle of nearby thunder.

Niamh steeled herself, remembering why she scarcely visited the second god to pray. His magic was oppressive, heavy, and disorienting. Her mind felt clouded by the smoke, her lungs full of water, and her heart slowed by the vibration of the statue’s breath. The gods slept but during prayer, it was believed they heard the voice of their kin. A practice Niamh dreaded after she’d learned the cost of a prayer asked wrongly.

“ I pray to return something to the Sidhe king of the greenwood that was lost ,” Niamh said all at once. “If my bargain is met .”

Silence again.

Niamh endured every terrible, quiet breath, waiting on the knife’s edge of Arawn’s judgment. The god grumbled, moaned, stirred, and watched, weighing each of Niamh’s words with the patience of an immortal.

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.

A voice sang from behind Niamh. Startled, the Seelie queen bolted upright from her kneeling position and turned to face her intruder.

Galad, Lir’s first knight, leveled his gaze with the Seelie queen, singing “The Architect of Yillen” from memory.

Listen to the rain, child

But don’t be beguiled

For she’ll drown you in her tears

Or she’ll steal you away for years

To her castle in the sky

Just so that she might not be so lonely.

If only, if only.

Galad finished, the room descending into silence save for the perpetual beating of the outside storms.

“Your reputation precedes you, Lady,” Galad said, calm as the woodland yarrow in midsummer. His sapphire eyes did not yield, his back straight, and his boots planted onto her marbled floors.

Niamh sat still as prey cornered as if feigning death. She didn’t speak, did not move, did not blink until, at last, she’d collected herself.

Niamh straightened, throat bobbing as she swallowed.

“Where did you hear that song?” she asked.

Galad smiled. “Your libraries are a wealth of knowledge, my queen.”

Niamh’s nostrils flared, but she didn’t protest nor deny the narrative of the melody. By blood, she was bound to speak the truth and alas, it’d already been sung.

Niamh rubbed her temples, the outside storms hushing into a “pitter patter” against the library’s dome.

At last, the Seelie queen of Rain and high queen of the Other met Galad’s eyes, measuring him before speaking.

“You interrupt me,” Niamh said.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Galad replied, holding his ground. His blue eyes were striking even when draped in shadow.

“You know not of what you speak,” Niamh replied.

“Does it matter? There is no trust between us,” Galad said.

“It will be your loss if you do not,” Niamh argued.

“Is that so?” Galad challenged. “For as far as I can tell, a Seelie queen with a hidden motivation sneaks through her own castle when she believes none are looking, praying to a god that’s slept for centuries.”

“My only motivation is to aid Aisling,” Niamh maintained, lifting her chin in defiance.

“So you pray for the gods to return something?” Galad asked.

“You cannot understand?—”

“Maybe not,” Galad confessed, “but it hardly matters. My duty is to protect both my king and queen. Stand before me and I’ll not hesitate to repay your crimes—Seelie queen or not.”

Niamh’s eyes darted to Galad’s sapphire blade strapped to his back. It winked when lightning flashed and lit the room, greeting the Seelie queen of Rain in turn.

They stood face to face for a long while, neither surrendering to the other’s calculated suspicion. They were at a stalemate, accompanied by Arawn’s thick breath and the beating of the outside storm.

“My relationship with Lir, his mother, and now his bride is complex,” Niamh confessed, releasing a heavy breath. “I have fought against my lonely fate for as long as I can remember, forsaken at the edge of the world. I’d initially hoped Aisling would be my salvation from such a fate at long last. A gift from Ina after years of suffering alone in my castle. But the once-mortal princess did what no Sidhe, Seelie, or Unseelie could: she brought our worlds together.”

Niamh shifted, her veil falling further down her back where she’d folded it over her head.

Galad held onto her every word, his eyes narrowed as he thought.

“Was it man who did that?” Galad asked. “Or Aisling?”

“Indeed, war has brought our Sidhe kingdoms to their knees and forced us to retreat together, here in the Other, but it is the hope we all place in Aisling that unifies us. That every beast, every forge-born creature, every monster, every Sidhe, and every bairn is looking to. Whether they be grisly monster or Seelie queen, we look to her now.” Niamh gulped. “ I look to her now. I must for she is our only hope.”

Galad exhaled, exhaustion sitting heavily on his shoulders. His eyes studied the Seelie queen and then the statue of Arawn behind her. He weighed her for longer than Niamh believed necessary, but she tolerated it. She endured his judgment for she knew helping Aisling was the only path.

“You wish to align yourself with Aisling and Lir fully?” Galad asked.

“Aye,” Niamh said. “I believe Aisling and I can close the gate before the mortals enter or destroy it entirely.”

Galad ground his fangs against his bottom teeth, seemingly deep in thought. His sapphire blade, dimming in thought as well, it appeared.

“And yet, I maintain that you cannot be trusted,” Galad insisted, crossing his arms over his chest.

Niamh frowned.

“Not a soul in this castle or Castle Annwyn is exempt from the tragedy of their own decisions,” Niamh said. Every word weighed with exhaustion. “Filverel, Lir’s advisor,” Niamh called out. “Had your king listened to his advice and slaughtered Aisling the night of their union, the Sidhe would be doomed.”

Galad shifted but didn’t relent. He remained quiet, staring straight ahead at the statue of Arawn.

“Peitho,” Niamh said. “Her duty to your Niltaor and the South is unfulfilled. With no union with the high king of all the Sidhe and the power of Racat, her kingdom remains in rubble.”

Galad turned to the side, understanding dawning on his expression.

“Gilrel,” Niamh focused on next, “her loyalty and courage know no bounds and yet, you played a role in her sister’s death.”

Galad held his breath for he seemingly knew what came next.

“And Galad,” Niamh continued. “He who failed to protect his own caera from the violence of man.”

Galad didn’t flinch. He held himself straight, keeping Niamh’s stare as she spoke.

“And myself,” Niamh said. “She, whose isolation, indeed, drove her to lunacy at the cost of my dearest friend…Ina.”

Lightning flashed and the stained-glass portraits doubled over in tears.

“And yet,” Niamh said, “I wish to help.”

Galad uncrossed his arms, his expression softening slightly.

“I mean no disrespect, m’Lady.” Galad dipped his head respectfully whilst still maintaining cool confidence. “But whilst your power might protect you from formal consequence, it will not when weighed and measured by public perception. We’ve all witnessed how the Unseelie and even the forge-born can turn on their sovereigns and wage inner conflict, and so, how long will your reign last if the Sidhe world knew of your sins against Ina?”

Niamh flinched as if physically struck, pursing her lips and weighing Galad’s sentiments in her mind. “Fate,” the Seelie queen began, “is the fourth anonymous god. It creates, it breaks, and it never sleeps. My hand in Ina’s death was a tool used by the will of fate to accomplish its ends. The choice is yours to either believe me or condemn me, and yet, in time you’ll each come to recognize this truth for yourselves; your agency is a gift taken often and mercilessly by the crown of fate itself.” Niamh sucked in a breath before exhaling. “Ina was always destined to die whether it be by my folly or another’s.”

Galad stood quietly, turning her rationale over in his mind. The great hall boasted seven souls all bearing the weight of centuries on their backs. Niamh, however, carried a millennium.

“I boarded the galleon in which Ina sailed into the afterlife of the Other. I kissed her cheeks and wept by her body, staining the silver of her hair with my tears. One last time, she opened her eyes. And one last time, she shared a vision with me:

Black is the sky with smoke, huffed between the clenched teeth of iron beasts. Red is the color of the soil in which they reap their crops, puddled with the ichor of their wild conquests. White are their lies with which they poison their new world, erasing the natural history like books burned in piles. But green and violet are the tales whose heart still beats beneath the waves, within the wind, just beyond mortal touch .

Niamh closed her eyes, her hands shaking at her sides. She dug her nails into her palms as she gathered her hands into fists, exhaling slowly.

“I cannot claim to understand this vision fully. But, in some capacity, the mortals will triumph over the Sidhe—this, Ina has foreseen. I believe both Aisling and Lir are pieces fate moves often across the board in which we find ourselves, either for the sake of our damnation or salvation—of this, I am uncertain. The only thing I am certain of, is that there is hope,” Niamh said. “I choose to believe Ina placed the curse breaker and the power of change in Aisling—of transformation—for a reason.”

The room stood still, books pausing mid-air to better eavesdrop.

“You may not be capable of trusting my motives considering my sins,” Niamh explained, “but you can trust I’ll do whatever is within my power to do what Ina could not: spare the Sidhe from extinction.

“And should that mean Aisling reigns over the Other in my stead, then so be it. But let it be because she is the hope—the change––Ina believed her to be. Let her claim her victory herself and not be given it,” Niamh said.

Galad dropped his head. Niamh hoped that although he didn’t trust the Seelie queen, he might still empathize with her motivations. Perhaps he, too, thirsted to make amends for his mistakes and he’d give everything for the chance.

“Very well,” Galad surrendered, at last. “We stand a better chance together.”