Page 12 of The Forever Queen

AISLING

Fionn took another step closer to Aisling, and Lir shifted, his hands balling into fists at his sides.

“Thief,” Peitho snarled, her face twisting into hatred. “How dare you don an artifact that rightly belongs to Niltaor and the southern Sidhe kingdom?”

The room inhaled, heads leaning against one another to better hear their muffled chatter.

“You misremember, princess,” Fionn said, unflinching. “This belt was given to Oighir on behalf of Niltaor and Lugh, one of the original Sidhe sovereigns.”

“It was stolen!” Peitho shouted, cheeks flushing with her temper.

“It’s irrelevant,” Fionn said. “The belt is what Aisling needs to spare the Sidhe and so, Niltaor.”

Peitho opened her mouth to speak but shut it swiftly thereafter, her words caught in her throat.

“A belt will find no Goblet,” Galad said, scoffing at the glittering artifact winking against the son of Winter’s robes.

“Aye, no ordinary belt could aid Aisling and compensate for her…” Fionn considered, “lesser talents. After all, the path you’ll carve to find the Goblet will be laced with monstrous guardians tasked by the gods themselves.” His eyes darted toward Sarwen in her porcelain, uncalloused hands.

Aisling resisted the urge to avert her eyes—to look away in shame or embarrassment. Physical strength, athleticism, and a knight’s prowess with a blade had always eluded her. She had scarcely lifted a blade before having wed Lir.

“But this is no ordinary belt,” Fionn said.

“Anduril is an enchanted object,” Peitho chimed through clenched teeth. “Whosoever wears the Blood Cord is transformed into a warrior of legendary prowess.”

Aisling’s eyes glittered a shade brighter.

“If I wore the belt, it would render me a proficient swordswoman?” she asked, studying Anduril anew.

Fionn smiled, watching Aisling’s expression intently.

“You’d be unstoppable,” Fionn said. “Worthy of the gods’ favor, of sovereignty, and of the Goblet.”

Aisling’s stomach knotted. Her heart took off racing. The belt rang more loudly, tearing through the fabric of the Other and swelling inside Aisling’s ears.

Aisling exchanged glances with Gilrel, Galad, Peitho, and finally, Lir.

“And the cost of the belt’s magic?” Lir asked.

Fionn hesitated, eyes darting back and forth.

“Impossible to know exactly…” Fionn’s voice trailed off.

“Then it’s no option,” Lir said, his voice booming through the hall.

Fionn took an instinctive step forward, almost a pace from Aisling and Lir, not far atop the dais. The son of Winter reached for Aisling, but Lir reacted quickly, summoning mighty roots before his brother’s boots. The marble floors cracked before they exploded, debris flying across the hall.

“Lir, wait!” Fionn called above the mayhem. “Anduril does have but one condition.”

Lir turned slightly, indicating Fionn to continue. In response, the Winter king sucked in a breath and swallowed hard.

“Lugh’s spirit remains trapped within Anduril, animating the object with desire, thought, and ambition. And so”––Fionn swallowed again––“whosoever wears Anduril will share their spirit with Lugh.”

The green of Lir’s eyes turned an inhuman black. His attention darted to Anduril, glowing hotly on the son of Winter as if eager to be removed.

“Bind him,” Lir said in Rún. “Bind him and offer him to the bocanach, limb by limb.”

Fionn turned to Aisling, searching her expression. A silent plea in the pinch of his brows.

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