Page 105 of The Forever Queen

“Very well,” Lir said. But when Aisling searched his face for answers, it’d already slammed shut. No longer was there anger, frustration, or mischief. It was void, washed clean, and without a trace of the temper she’d provoked.

Lir glanced at Aisling one last time. He lingered for a breath and grabbed her hand. Slowly, he brought her fingers to his mouth and kissed the backs of her knuckles. And to Aisling’s surprise, she let him.

“Ellwyn,” he said in parting, cold and cruel.

Aisling watched the door long after he’d left. And at last, she decided to follow him.

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. “Ifmy 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.

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