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CHAPTER XLIV

AISLING

Aisling tiptoed down the slippery stones, spiraling toward the base of Simril Tower. Not another soul passed her on her journey nor inquired of her whereabouts. Only the delicate chirping of pond toads, the “hush” of the waterfall, and the babbling of bugs accompanied her descent.

At last, she arrived at a steepled door. Framed by a garland of glowing flower bulbs, Aisling heard several voices whispering enthusiastically on the other side. She pressed her ear to the wood, listening to what was being said.

“We’ve been commanded not to!” a small voice insisted.

“But surely if they’ve sent this much correspondence…we cannot continue to ignore them,” another voice said.

“They’re merely concerned where they’ve disappeared to. Once they return, all will be well,” a third voice said.

“For our sake, I hope that’s true,” the first voice said.

“I trust mo Damh Bán ,” the second agreed.

“As do I,” the third piped.

Time in Simril’s Glade passed differently than anywhere else and so Aisling wondered how long they’d been gone.

A moment of silence passed before Aisling, at last, chose to open the door.

Moonlight unspooled in a pillar of light, cloaking Aisling like a specter. On the other side of the threshold, three martens—changelings––stood quivering, gaping up at Aisling.

“ Mo Lúra .” The center changeling greeted her between the chattering of his teeth. All three bowed, wet noses pressed against the opal floors.

Mo Lúra . That title again. Aisling frowned.

“Rise,” she said, offering each a simple smile.

“Is there something we can assist you with?” the center changeling asked.

“I’m searching for the Sidhe king,” Aisling explained. “Do you know where he went?”

The changelings exhaled, their shoulders slackening. Seemingly relieved, they spoke to one another through silent glances.

“Of course, mo Lúra ,” the third changeling said. “ Mo Damh Bán would enjoy nothing more than to see you.”

Aisling quirked a brow, taken off guard. “He would?” she asked, her heart beating several paces quicker.

The changelings exchanged puzzled glances.

“Of course,” they said in unison, gesturing for Aisling to follow them.

Aisling fell into step behind their small paws. They climbed down the opal stairwell that descended into the surrounding pool stopping short of its waters. From here, the waterfall was hidden on the other side of the tower. The surrounding forest, on the other hand, circled the Simril Glade and yet, it was unreachable lest Aisling chose to swim. There was no bridge, no stepping stones, nor a pathway on dry ground.

The first changeling reached into his small, quilted coat and pulled out a water lily. Gently, the changeling set the flower into the waters. It floated away, tipping from side to side on the gentle rock of the current, traveling around the tower and toward the waterfall.

Aisling watched curiously, wondering how they’d reach Lir with no aid.

But then another changeling arrived, paddling himself forward with a gnarled staff on the back of an enormous turtle. The changeling smiled in greeting at his comrades, turning to Aisling with a gulp.

“Come, mo Lúra ,” the first changeling said, cautiously but politely grabbing Aisling’s hand. He led her toward the last step, soaking the hem of her gown in the pool. The turtle neared, close enough for Aisling to step on top, the newest changeling helping her aboard.

Aisling teetered slightly, almost losing her footing. The shell of the turtle carried more than just Aisling and the newest changeling. Atop its shell, grumpy toads sat, snowdrops sprang, and bundles of tufted moss grew, enjoying the steady sway of the waters beneath them.

“ Mo Lúra wishes to accompany mo Damh Bán ,” the first changeling explained. The newest changeling nodded his head and shared a nervous smile with Aisling before paddling away once more. The turtle lurched forward, and Aisling dropped to her knees to keep her balance. Her gown dragged through the waters: a veil of shimmering white amidst the glittering waters of Simril.

After several moments of nothing more than the chorus of croaking frogs, the gargling of waters, and the stirring of the surrounding forest, the turtle rounded the edge of the tower, bringing the waterfall into full view.

Giant lily pads floated delicately at the surface of the pool. Twenty or so pine martens—changelings––stood atop the pads, staring ahead as if in assembly. Spectators of he who stood before the waterfall, waist deep in the waters.

Lir.

His clothes stuck to his muscled body, sprayed by the roar of the falls. He sparkled in the moonlight, kissed by stars that circled his head where a crown was destined to rest. He didn’t turn nor look over his shoulder, his eyes focused on the waterfall ahead.

Aisling rose to her feet, lips parting.

The changeling opened his mouth to announce Aisling’s presence, but the sorceress quickly shushed him.

Lir hadn’t noticed her arrival and Aisling hoped it remained that way. She wanted to see for herself what the dark lord of the greenwood preoccupied himself with within the privacy of the Simril Glade.

A bell rang thrice over. Aisling searched the glade, at last, finding the bell’s resting place at the top of the tower. It swung side to side, ringing till the forest vibrated with its strength.

The draiocht thickened by the breath full, saturating the air with a warm, lush breeze. It ran its fingers through Aisling’s curls, brushing her cheeks, and sliding beneath the folds of her gown. The taste of ripe plums and glittering black wine, licking her senses.

The waterfall split like a tapestry, pulling apart at the center till a steepled archway was made. Darkness filled its void, seemingly nothing beyond but the shadows of an ancient cave long since asleep.

Aisling held her breath. The draiocht in the air was becoming feverish, clotting and tugging at the magic inside her.

Lir stepped forward, approaching the waterfall’s threshold.

Aisling awaited a beast: a starving, salivating aberration that skulked in the Sidhe king’s wicked depths. And yet, it never came.

Instead, a lily pad materialized from the shadows, passing through the waterfall’s threshold and into the moonlight. Aisling squinted, doing her best to see what the lily pad carried.

A bundle of tartan wool, filled by the cries of a bairn.

A mortal child.