Page 28 of The Forever Queen

-Niamh-

In response, the stone owl’s ruby eyes glowed more brightly, casting a cloak of red across the chamber. The fountain rippled and every woodland statue with a spigot in its mouth spat Annwyn’s gorge water, babbling with excitement. Itsdraiochtgroaning awake after decades, perhaps longer, asleep. The sensation of a bear turning over after months of deep-winter dreams. The smell of mildew and moss thickening the air, ancient, primeval and born of a bygone era.

Aisling shuddered.

The doorway to the Other was open.

The fae king moved toward the waters as if to enter. Aisling jolted forward, reaching the lip of the fountain.

“I’ll enter first,” she said. It wasn’t a question, yet the fae king considered her words for longer than Aisling anticipated. His eyes—darkest of greens—growled like a nightmare forest, hoarding monstrosities spoken of only in fairytales. But there was something more. A strange glint, like the nick of a blade, sparkling before vanishing once more. Something harrowed, something desperate, something afraid.

Aisling pulled back, aware she’d stared at the strange king too long and shuddered.

“Very well,” he said mercifully, stepping aside for Aisling to pass. He brought his arms closer to himself as if disgusted by the prospect of touching her. Perhaps repelled by the stench of what mortal blood ran through her veins still.

Aisling turned away, unable to stomach his expression or the tugging of her thoughts.

She sucked in a breath, already leaning forward to plunge into the Other when Gilrel jumped atop the edge of the fountain. The pine marten’s blade, tucked at her hip, was made bloody by the light of the owl’s eyes.

“Wait for my return,” Aisling said to her chambermaid, clasping her paw between her hands. “Don’t wander nor attempt anything half as wicked as dueling a den of neccakaid without me.”

The pine marten’s eyes shone with unwept tears, her whiskers quivering as she recalled the memory. The den of neccakaid had been the final trial before reaching Lofgren’s Rise—one they’d scarcely survived.

Gilrel nodded, swallowing hard as Aisling released her paw.

Aisling turned her attention back to the fountain, herdraiochtpopping like a gleeful flame at the edge of a wick. A cauldron, the waters churned and the owl’s ruby eyes sparkled.

Anduril tugged her closer, gleaming and eager. It burned, humming an unsettling song that echoed into the caverns of oblivion.

And so, Aisling plunged into the gateway.

CHAPTER IX

AISLING

Starn was familiar with the fleshy sensation of his blade sinking into the tree. It felt more alive than most trees, and that was before he’d looked the beast in the eyes. Or so, that was what the Lady allowed Aisling to hear from Starn’s thoughts as he crouched in a blackened clearing of a coastal forest. Blood, sap, and mud sat in his cupped palms, turned over by earthworms as he thought.

That single moment of hesitation had cost him. The tree slithered from his grasp for the second time, bloodied and wounded but escaping, nevertheless.

Starn cursed beneath his breath. His men were shouting at him from behind, at last, catching up with the pursuit.

Next time.

Next time, Starn would kill it.

* * *

Gasping for air, Aisling emerged from a pond.

Lily pads stuck to her arms and algae caught between her fingertips while she clawed for dry ground. Rain showered upon her as she toppled over the edge and onto flagstone, heaving, and lungs on fire.

Immediately, she staggered to her feet. Aisling’s heart thundered inside her, her fingers still trembling with adrenaline—withdraiochtcrackling inside her veins. Her vision blurred, focusing in and out without her consent, the world tilting side to side on its axis.

Aisling gripped the edge ofsomething, quickly realizing it was a balustrade. She held her head in both hands, doing her best to focus.

“Lir,” her lips spouted before she could think clearly. Not a soul replied but Anduril, buzzing like a gong and tightening painfully around her hips.

Lir. Her mind pawed at the name, unfamiliar with its presence. Herdraiocht, however, warmed to it, sung awake by the magic of a memory. She knew it belonged to the fae king and so she banished such warmth, grimacing at its rich taste on her tongue.

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