Page 18 of The Forever Queen

“That’s what concerns me,” Peitho said.

“Is this because Oighir stole Anduril from Niltaor?” Aisling asked, cutting straight to the point.

Peitho stuttered, taken aback but swiftly collecting herself.

“Aye, the history of Anduril is complex and far from agreed upon in legend,” Peitho confessed.

Anduril grew hotter, almost scalding Aisling’s hips whenever its name was spoken aloud.

“Tell it to me,” Aisling said, lifting her chin so the sprites could scrub down the length of her neck, her clavicle, and her shoulders while the butterflies pinned her dripping curls.

Peitho exhaled, muttering something in the divine language Aisling couldn’t quite understand.

“As with most magicked objects, Anduril was once ordinary,” Peitho began. “Anduril was a lover’s gift given to a trooping Sidhe of the wintertide court from the armor of Lugh. During the Wild Hunt, the lover returned the belt to Lugh hoping the token would breed good fortune for Lugh and Niltaor as a whole. At the time, Niltaor was a kingdom of gold—unconquerable. Until…” Peitho’s voice trailed off, her fingers toying with the suds falling down the angles of her tattooed arms.

“Until,” Aisling encouraged her.

“Until adragún, Muirdris, was within reach and Lugh was driven mad by its proximity—its spear-tipped tail always just outside his grasp. Lugh grew obsessed with victory, with war, with the hunt, stopping at nothing to at last capture thedragúnfor himself and for Niltaor. And so, when he believed he could trap Muirdris within the confines of Niltaor’s walls as it feasted on his baited soldiers, he called upon the sun for every morsel of its blazing power in honor of the South.”

“Did it work?” Aisling asked.

Peitho nodded her head. “Aye. The skies turned black while Lugh drained the sun of its light. But its power went not to Lugh but rather Anduril, slung across his armor and reflecting the very light he sought for himself from the polished faces of the belt’s metal.”

“And so, Anduril became enchanted,” Aisling concluded.

“This is what the Sidhe refer to asscull draiocht. Magic that takes not from the breath but from the soul.”

Aisling repeated the name silently to herself.

“Some say Anduril wields the power of the southern sun,” Peitho continued. “Others claim it trapped Lugh’s spirit for eternity. The latter being why his lover claimed Anduril after his subsequent death, stealing and hoarding it in the North so they might be with Lugh in some capacity.”

Aisling turned to face Peitho.

“Lugh perished?” she asked.

Peitho exhaled. “No creature, man or Sidhe, is forged to carry such power. It is the pursuit of such might that has led to the fall of various men and Sidhe alike. And it’s the reason Niltaor is nothing more than rubble now—a ghost of its previous glory.”

Anduril pulsed with heat and for the first time since Aisling had clipped the belt to her waist, the Blood Cord hummed again.

“Have caution with Anduril,” Peitho warned again. “Creatures that cannot speak are masters of secrecy—others’ and their own.”

At this, Anduril winked, gleaming more brightly the longer Aisling considered it. Anduril would do what none other could: make a warrior of the sorceress. And so, secrets or not, Aisling couldn’t bring herself to remove it—even for a short while.

* * *

The Lady kissed Aisling’s cheek when she slipped into her bed chamber. Aisling slept before dinner, draped across pelts and quilts and lost to the world of dreams. So the Lady dug her nails into Aisling’s mind and scratched.

An iron blade speared a great tree. A river of blood spilled from the open wound as the tree swayed back and forth, screaming in agony and eager to lift its roots from the earth so it might run.

The tree managed to turn itself upright, daring a glance over its shoulder before it dove into the hollows of the greenwood once more. Its ancient eyes glimmered with fear.

Incorporeal, Aisling watched like a lesser god from above, stuck somewhere in between reality and the land of dreams, recognizing the beast immediately.

Leshy.

It made one, two steps before the blade flew once more. Soil was upturned, stones, leaves and debris showering the mortal as the tree walked on thick roots like writhing snakes. Needle-thin, the sword shot through the smoke-dense air, seemingly wielded by an invisible knight. But Aisling recognized both the sword and its master before either were near enough for the sorceress to see closely.

Starn followed his enchanted sword—one gifted by the Lady. A group of mortal knights followed shortly behind, heeding her eldest brother’s orders with impressive obedience. Eyes red with flame that spread wildly through the forest like hunting dogs. They climbed atop the writhing tree, poking the beast with their iron weapons, chains, and torches. A shadow of dark magic pressing down on the forest.

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