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CHAPTER VII

LIR

The Sidhe king cut through the corridors of Castle Annwyn.

Aisling was gone. One moment she’d been his and the next…the fire of recognition in her eyes was extinguished. Like the petering out of a night’s old fire or a plume of smoke. Not the blazing, destructive magic he understood flamed around the hollows of her heart. Lir searched for their connection—that intangible cord between them—and felt nothing. Instead, there was only a profound emptiness that clawed at his throat for a scream, a curse, a malediction to darken even the life heart of his forests.

Lir raced up the spiral stairwells, wishing for his mother’s wings. He was a blur of darkness as he moved, and still, he wasn’t quick enough. “Aisling,” he repeated beneath his breath. A prayer, a spell, a means to keep her close to him when he felt out of control.

Lir burst through the doors of Ina’s chamber. Fionn, Filverel, Galad, Gilrel, and Peitho stood inside the room, heads whipping toward their Sidhe king as his silhouette came into focus at the threshold.

“What have you done?” Lir asked, almost a whisper. His reflective eyes addressed Fionn from across the room, eliciting a conspicuous gulp from his elder brother.

“I’m sorry?” Fionn replied dubiously.

“You have one opportunity to speak the full truth, here and now,” Lir said, eerily calm. “Or,” he continued, “I’ll bleed you dry and cut your tongue from your mouth.”

The room darkened and even the stone statues shuddered.

Fionn glanced around Ina’s chamber, exchanging expressions with Peitho. The princess of Niltaor turned away quickly, abandoning the son of Winter to explain himself.

“I don’t know to what you refer,” Fionn said, planting his boots onto the stone floors. And in response Lir flashed a wicked grin.

“I was counting on your dishonesty,” Lir said, spinning his twin blades.

“Wait—” Fionn began, but it was too late.

Lir tore past the rest of the room and pummeled into Fionn.

Both brothers crashed into the chamber’s windows, shattering the glass with their force.

Winter against green, they fell. Plummeting through the night like twin stars, just before slamming against the mosaic-jeweled towers. Castle Annwyn shook, stones and debris crumbling into the river and flying buttresses below.

“Anduril—Lugh––has entirely consumed her,” Lir shouted, fangs lengthening and dripping with rain. Lir pinned Fionn to the tower’s steepled roof, pushing his head into the chipped gemstones. Fionn shoved his brother back, but Lir had always been the stronger of the two. The dark lord’s hands tightly coiled around Fionn’s throat while he seethed.

“The belt is meant to aid Aisling so she might stand a chance in the Other!” Fionn yelled back, summoning his draiocht . The magic huffed awake, climbing up and out of him. Fionn’s iris was swallowed by the white of his eyes. “You must surrender to the magic that aids her, even if it is against your will.”

Ice climbed up Lir’s hands where he held Fionn. Sharp and sparkling, the ice grew, devouring Lir’s limbs up to the shoulder. The Sidhe king of the greenwood roared, breaking his arms free yet also releasing Fionn.

Wet ice spread across the turret, allowing Fionn to slide down its side and away from Lir. Fionn rolled onto his side and down the side of the turret, plunging further down Castle Annwyn with Lir shortly behind.

Fionn crashed into a nearby pine in one of Annwyn’s courtyard gardens, his arms flailing as he reached for branches to break his fall. His hands blistered and broke, at last, catching a limb that snapped almost immediately. He fell through the pine, sliding down until he slammed into a tiered lily-pad pond, shattering the stone fountains that moved when they believed none were watching.

Lir, on the other hand, caught himself with his magic, the pine’s branches cradling him as he descended. Lir hit the cobbled path of the garden in which they stood, rolling with momentum till he lithely found his footing.

Lir wasted not a moment, starting toward Fionn as he unsheathed and threw one of his twin blades. The axe was wicked, cutting through the rain like a silver star.

Fionn reacted, quickly turning his head to the side. The axe brushed his cheek, carving a cut across the son of Winter’s face.

“You’re wasting our time fighting me, brother!” Fionn shouted, raising his hand in a gesture of magic. Winter rose from the cobbles like spears, almost knocking Lir off his feet. Lir steadied himself, catching the axe he’d thrown like a boomerang.

Lir threw both axes this time. Mid-flight, they curved inward, careening toward Fionn like sparrows.

Fionn slammed against the ground, avoiding his brother’s axes by less than a sylph’s width. Hastily, he leaped to his feet, walking backward to increase the distance between himself and his brother.

“I will make the time to gut you,” Lir growled, but the voice was not his own. It was dark; the sound of blades dragged across bite-sharp stones. “To cut Aisling’s name from your mouth like a sacrifice.”

Lir caught his spinning blades again, throwing one and then the other, his entire body lunging forward.

Fionn’s spears of ice blocked both blades the moment they converged. Yet, Fionn’s heels were now bending over the edge of Castle Annwyn.

“Let Anduril make a warrior of her,” Fionn shouted, teetering at the edge. “Your selfishness—your bond—will only bring the Sidhe to their knees.”

“Perhaps, but the decision was not yours to make.”

The dark lord continued, throwing his blades again. Fionn dove backward, flying off the edge and down.

Lir leaped shortly after, plummeting with reckless abandon. Vines and roots tangled themselves around his limbs, carrying him as he fell.

Both lords crashed into a floating bridge. The center cracked and burst with stones upon impact, immediately tilting onto its side. Fionn and Lir reached for the balustrade, gripping its edge and climbing till they balanced on its side.

Lir wrapped the bridge in vines, hungrily climbing and reaching for the son of Winter.

Fionn clawed through them, spraying the stairwell with the blood of his palms.

Lir’s lips curled. His magic swallowed the son of Winter with its thorny limbs. They squeezed, sucking the air from Fionn’s lungs.

“Lir,” Fionn struggled, grasping for his draiocht without breath. “I did not make such a decision. You did.”

Lir’s smile widened: the image of a wolf raising its bloody muzzle from the belly of its kill.

“Beg for it,” Lir said. “Beg for your life.”

Fionn shuddered, filled by the same goblet of thousands before him: fear. Lir’s expression was monstrous. The nightmare shadow that slipped between the rooms of your mind.

Even so, Fionn couldn’t speak if he wished to. His complexion was purpling, his body tightening, his life fading while Lir continued.

“Li—”

One, two, three more breaths…

“Enough!” Peitho’s voice shouted from above. A beam as bright as sunlight crashed into the bridge in a flash of gold. The bridge split, severing Lir’s draiocht and freeing Fionn.

They fell further this time, slashing through the moonlight. At some point, their paths met; a tangle of magic spinning as they plunged, fighting fist to fist, and magic to magic.

They crashed into the angled side of a turret, but still, they did not stop. Both slid down the jeweled shingles, reaching for something to break their fall. Everything they touched fell loose, sending both the son of Winter and Lir down the edge of Castle Annwyn’s mountain where nothing rested below save for the river’s rapids.

Fionn caught onto the rim of the turret, stopping his descent.

Lir’s hold on the rim, however, broke loose, sending Lir further down the tower’s side. Lir unsheathed his blades, slamming them into the side of the tower. They took hold, ripping through the side of the mosaicked edge.

Finally, Lir stopped, a few lengths short of the bottom of Castle Annwyn altogether.

“So long brother,” Fionn said, finding dark amusement in his brother’s misfortune. He looked as if he’d happily leave Lir stuck at the edge of Castle Annwyn, shivering till daybreak.

Lir’s mouth bent with agitation, pulling one of his axes free and slamming it into the tower further up its side. He repeated the movement, climbing up and toward Fionn.

Peitho struck once more from above, tearing Fionn’s hold. And so, the son of Winter flew off the edge and toward his death. An end written in the hand of his brother.

Fionn seemed to brace himself for the fall. He closed his eyes, jerked open almost instantly by the violent tug from his shoulder. Fionn inhaled sharply, glaring down at his boots dangling above the clouds.

The son of Winter looked up and at his brother.

Arm to arm, they hung from the side of Castle Annwyn by the blade of Lir’s axe.

“I’ll tear the belt from her body myself after Aisling finds the Goblet and the Sidhe have been spared,” Fionn said through gritted teeth.

“No,” Lir said. “Such honor will be mine. If we survive this war, you’ll be banished to Oighir for eternity.” It was a promise. Oaths, secrets, and bargains were no thoughtless vows. They were soaked in the Forge’s wax, sealed, and locked until the end of time. No more impossible to break than the truth on the tip of a fae’s tongue.

* * *

“Anduril has possessed her,” Lir said, leaning against the stone wall with his arms crossed. Lir, Peitho, Filverel, Galad, and Gilrel stood in Ina’s wing, beside the crowned owl fountain with ruby eyes. Eyes that studied and watched as if Ina herself saw through those very jewels from whatever depths of the Other she was laid to rest.

Aisling had been allowed inside this chamber once before, by Ina’s spirit or will, none were certain. Only that Aisling had been guided there by a garden snake, the door unlocked, and Ina’s fountain waiting. Every stone head watching with keen interest. The waters themselves still and eager in an otherwise empty room, buried in the depths of Castle Annwyn.

Lir believed in Aisling—in her power, ambition, and potential to become the Sidhe’s salvation. Aisling was the key to spare the Sidhe from extinction and, Lir speculated, Ina somehow had known that all along.

“I feared this,” Peitho said, brows pinching. “Anduril has been locked and frozen away at the edge of the world in Oighir for good reason.”

Lir’s temper flared, but he swallowed it down, biting his tongue with his fangs.

“And still, my brother lent it to Aisling. Where were your fears when Fionn offered the belt to your queen?” Lir asked, his voice descending into the gravelly depth of a primordial creature waking at a curse’s summons.

Peitho’s gaze fell to the floor.

“Aisling knew it would possess her and chose to wear the belt regardless,” Peitho swallowed. “Which is why your brawling is of little use to either Aisling or the Sidhe at large.”

“You lecture me while Aisling suffers at the cost of your double-edged gifts?” Lir’s nose scrunched in annoyance.

“ Easca , mo Damh Bán ,” Galad chided gently.

“The belt is a token of legends as slippery as your brother’s tongue, mo Damh Bán . There are endless versions of the same tale, and all told differently. This outcome was one of countless potentialities,” Peitho said, brow knotted with both fear and guilt alike.

Lir clenched his fists at his sides, turning from the princess of Niltaor to calm his rage. And yet, Lir knew it wise not to further divide the Sidhe by condemning Peitho altogether.

“And what is this outcome?” Lir asked, running the tip of his tongue across his fangs in frustration. “What legends speak of what’s possessed Aisling?”

Peitho hesitated before exhaling. Her shoulders rose and fell as if physically relieving a burden. “Anduril was a lover’s gift, taken from the armor of Lugh. During the Wild Hunt, the lover returned the belt to Lugh as a token of good fortune. However, when Lugh was driven mad by the sound of Muirdris’s wings just out of reach, he channeled the sun for every morsel of its blazing power in honor of the South.”

Lir cursed beneath his breath.

“And the skies bled black while Lugh absorbed the strength of the sun. But it was Anduril who took the sun’s magic,” Lir said, remembering this version of the legend he’d heard in passing over the millennia.

Peitho swallowed.

“Aye, and now—without a morsel of doubt—I believe Anduril trapped more than the sun’s strength inside its metal,” the princess said. “As Fionn suspected, I believe it also trapped Lugh’s spirit.”

“But for what reason would Lugh intend for Aisling to forget our bond?” Lir asked.

Peitho bit her bottom lip before speaking. “Enchanted objects are most formidable when they find a wearer or master with a like-minded spirit. Lugh’s obsession and pursuit of strength is not so different from Aisling’s own. In which case, Anduril views yours and Aisling’s connection as not only a barrier to her potential and focus as a warrior, but to the Sidhe and Aisling’s success at large.”

A muscle flashed across Lir’s jaw. The gums of his draiocht bled inside, snapping and biting as if tethered and scraped raw by invisible shackles. The thought—the mere possibility of Aisling forgetting their bond––was unthinkable. And although the Sidhe king knew such agony was selfish, it mattered not. In every lifetime, he’d condemn his soul for her.

“We remove it,” Galad piped from his dark corner for the first time. “I’ll break my blade if I must,” the first knight offered, unsheathing his sword.

Peitho’s eyes grew wet with remorse.

“It cannot be done,” the princess said, no more than a whisper. The entirety of the room turned to face her.

“My blade has cut through iron chains, bled Unseelie hearts, and tasted the armor of kings,” Gilrel said. “A belt is no match.”

“An ordinary belt, perhaps,” Filverel said, eyes drifting toward the Sidhe king. “But this is no ordinary garment.”

Lir glared at his mother’s fountain, imagining different ways to destroy Anduril either by the strength of his bare hands, his draiocht , or the godsforsaken Forge.

“Only the master of Anduril can remove the belt,” Peitho said, this time louder. “It must be a choice from Aisling’s will and not another’s.”

Lir’s heart sank, rage and despair alike filling his throat with unswallowable stones.

“What is there to be done then?” Galad asked, his mouth bent with frustration.

The room exchanged glances. The answers eluded them, and the silence mocked them. Lir thought he would descend into madness if there weren’t a seedling of hope. A single root could bloom into an oak.

Despite bitter winter and its formidable blade, even death’s knee will bend to the bloom .

Lir sucked in a breath and straightened, reaching for his axes. Ina’s fountain rippled and the ruby eyes of the owl blossomed to life.

It was time.

“Aisling will find the Goblet, earn the gods’ favor, and spare the Sidhe from mortal destruction,” Lir said. “And then, I’ll remove the belt myself.”

“It’s impossible—” Peitho began but was swiftly cut short.

A silhouette appeared in the doorway. As elegant as long-cast shadows, Aisling stood at the threshold to Ina’s chamber considering each of them closely. Her violet eyes gently swept from one face to the next until, at last, they met Lir’s eyes and stayed. The Sidhe king’s heart stuttered, but he held her gaze.

“I’ll make it possible,” Lir said beneath his breath, his knuckles bone-white against the wood of his axes.