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CHAPTER XLVII

AISLING

Only one moon remained of the storm season. The Sidhe were falling and their end was rushing toward them, unstoppable. The mortals worked in the dark, veiled by the Lady, but the forest grew black and bloody and filled with rot each moment their influence inched closer to the heart of the Other.

They were coming.

They were coming and Aisling’s draoicht sensed it, lighting her fingertips each time her heart leaped with nerves. The journey back to Castle Yillen, jumpy and anxious as she navigated the waters in between and was spat back out in one of Niamh’s courtyards.

Aisling swiftly changed and ate three full plates from the kitchens before searching for Galad.

They were running out of time.

Galad swung his sword like a blue star burning through the sky. He lunged to the left—a feint, for he swiftly changed direction and struck on the right. Peitho, on the other hand, avoided the onslaught with the grace of a dancer, her feet moving swiftly between each strike. Their duel, a collaboration more than a fight.

“Without strength, make use of your agility and your speed,” Galad said, moving his heavy blade in a devastating arc. Peitho responded swiftly, dodging the tip of his sword by a breath’s width. She found her footing, leaping and striking before Galad could raise his giant sword again. She threw herself toward him, Luinagren burning bright as she swung. In the last moment, Galad raised his weapon, shielding himself. Both swords connecting in an ear-splitting clash.

They came apart, heaving and exchanging nods.

Aisling stared at them both, Sarwen between her fingertips.

“Would you like to give it another go?” Galad asked Aisling, approaching her at the side of Niamh’s floating, glass ballroom.

Aisling shook her head, sweat dripping down her temples after hours of training.

“Perhaps destroying my clann will demand magic rather than the blade,” Aisling said. “Forge willing.”

“Don’t be discouraged,” Peitho said. “You’ve improved greatly over the past several days.”

Hours after Simril’s baths, Aisling and Lir crashed through Niamh’s giant gateway.

Galad and Gilrel woke angry. Both the knight and handmaiden had fallen asleep against an oak, waiting on their return with no word or sign from Lir as to their whereabouts. Both were rushed inside Castle Yillen where Niamh gave them both a verbal lashing.

Galad and Peitho had occupied every hour of the past several days training her in Niamh’s ballroom for what might lie ahead. She hadn’t a moment to breathe and thankfully, neither did she have a breath to think of Lir—he who creeped into her mind if left unguarded.

She’d deceived him at Simril’s Glade, eager to understand what’d bewitched her mind. Someone or something was toying with her and she’d known from the beginning Lir’s hand played a heavy role. This much was made clear by the changelings arguing outside Simril Glade’s tower. Lir was keeping her there, away and without anyone else. And so, the memory of her mischief made her lips curl. Anduril growled hotly.

Still, it hadn’t been entirely a lie: a confession she hadn’t mustered the courage to admit to herself just yet.

“Use whatever is at your disposal,” Galad said, tearing Aisling from her thoughts. “If you cannot wield your blade, summon your draiocht . If you cannot summon your draiocht , use your wit. There is always a way, no matter how large or small,” Galad said.

The first knight clapped a hand on her shoulder, smiling encouragingly.

“And remember, never ignore your instincts,” he said. “Act quickly and confidently.”

He walked her to the threshold, nodding a farewell at Peitho as they left.

They wandered through the moving corridors of Castle Yillen, bracing against the storms when there was no covered walkway.

“How are you faring?” Galad asked Aisling as they made their way.

“Well,” Aisling said. “The blisters on my palms will fade by nightfall and by morning, I’ll be prepared for whatever comes.” Indeed, Aisling knew the mortals were on their doorstep. It was only a matter of time before they knocked down the doors and demanded blood. And so, the Sidhe world was preparing for war come morning.

Galad nodded his head.

“I’m glad,” he said. “But how are you faring after your encounter with your clann?” he asked, sapphire eyes searching her expression as they walked.

A dark coal bloomed red with hatred inside her chest at the mention of her family.

“They’ll face justice soon enough,” Aisling said, her voice short. She swatted at the image of their faces in her mind. She drowned their words and slashed the feelings they’d inspired inside her. She despised them more with each waking hour.

“They’re searching for the gateway to the Other,” Aisling said. “To destroy it.”

Galad’s lips pressed into a thin line as he considered.

“So I’ve learned,” he said. “Lir’s received word from Sakaala that their mortal fleets are circling the center of the Silver Sea. Do you believe they’ll find it, or Leshy?” he asked.

Aisling bit her bottom lip until it bled. “I hope they do.”

Galad looked at her.

“For the next time we’re reunited, will be the last,” she clarified.

Galad exhaled a laugh. “Forge willing.”

Indeed, Aisling’s clann had not only imprisoned, tortured, and murdered Galad’s caera , but Starn had branded the first knight’s flesh in remembrance of their horrors. His thirst for revenge was rich in the blue of his iris, eager to be slaked.

“And so,” Aisling said, “I’ll give you a hand in their destruction.”

Galad grinned at this.

“It would be my honor,” he said. “My honor to serve and honor your everlasting reign, Ash.”

Ash.

Aisling’s heart leaped. Galad hadn’t called her so since before she’d fled Annwyn. A name she’d given him as a friend. The first friend she’d made in Annwyn. But he’d held her at arm’s length after her betrayal, foregoing their familiarity in place of duty.

To hear her name in the cadence of his voice was warm and bright, motivating Aisling.

“And so shall you,” Aisling said, mirroring his smile.