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CHAPTER LVIII

LIR

Lir blazed through the meadow. From the lip of the woods, the field stretched before him like a legion of tall grasses, reigned over by the mammoth ash tree at its center.

The skies darkened with the storm looming overhead. And even from here, Lir could see the black rot oozing along the base of the gateway.

Lir cursed. He skidded to a stop just before the gateway, staring it up and down. His wings folded behind him, and silently, he thanked them for doing what his feet could not: delivering him to the end so that he might stand by Aisling at the gateway. A final favor. And now, the gateway was opening.

“Aisling!” he shouted.

Both Aisling and Niamh turned on their heel to see him. Their mouths fell open not expecting to see the fae king here and now, and especially not with wings. Niamh, however, collected herself quickly, smiling proudly at the wings spread behind him. She winked at the Sidhe lord and Lir could’ve sworn he heard Arawn’s laughter in the thunder up above.

“Lir?” Aisling called back, staring at him as he defeated the distance between himself and the gateway, pried open by iron from the other side. Sparks flew from the warped surface of the gateway, bending and breaking at odd angles. One moment, the door was like water, and the next, it hardened to stone, then oak, then glass, desperately trying to rebuild itself as the iron cut deeper and deeper. It stretched then shrank, releasing spine-chilling groans from the tree itself being pulled apart limb by limb. A torturous affair that rattled even the rotted woods of the Other.

“Destroy the gate, Aisling!” Lir shouted. “I’ll do my best to keep it closed until you break it fully.”

Aisling nodded her head, resolve lighting her violet eyes. She hesitated on his wings but seemingly resolved to speak of it later. After, once they had a moment to breathe—once victory was theirs—they’d have an eternity together to speak about everything.

At once, Lir placed his naked palm against its trunk despite the grin. The tree jerked side to side, overwhelmed with the sudden burst of Lir’s magic. The tree shrieked till Aisling refused herself the urge to cover her ears. She needed her hands, her power, her full force. Her palms slick with the gateway’s blood, sap, and tears as she worked.

The Sidhe king closed his eyes, concentrating. This tree was unlike any he’d ever spoken to: it was older, stranger, more mischievous than any creature he’d harbored or grown in his forests. It carried the depth and sorrow of the beginning of time and the celebration of its end. Its voice echoed, afraid and in pain.

It was time. He couldn’t keep it closed anymore.

“The mortals,” Lir said. “They’re here.”