Page 29 of The Forever Queen

A moment ago, Aisling was falling into the fountain, its warm, supple waters embracing her, wrapping their limbs around her and pulling her under. Then, everything became cold, dark, andin between. And when the light returned, Aisling was swimming up and toward the surface of water.

Aisling’s eyes widened, devouring the view before her.

A kingdom of slick stone bridges, gardens stretching into the clouds, flying buttresses, and thousands of spindly glass-like towers, was neatly squeezed between two floating cliffs—its bottom suspended in the air as a waterfall wept over the entire kingdom. A mirror to the cloudburst that descended from above.

A castle in the sky.

“The Isle of Rain,” Aisling said, breathless.

She stood alone, suspended on a moss-covered turret somewhere at the center of the kingdom, floating bridges both below and above her, carrying figures Aisling couldn’t focus on well enough to recognize.

Aisling turned on her heel, her heart regaining its rapid pace.

Wherewasthe fae king? He’d claimed to follow her into Ina’s gateway, but was it possible he’d deceived Aisling into going alone? Aisling soured. Of course it was possible. Aisling bore little memory of the fae king, but she remembered the tales she’d been taught as a child: he, a blood-soaked nightmare incarnate. His mischief was unmatched, and his mind was centuries old. There was no telling what he intended or didn’t. Regardless, Aisling was glad to be rid of him and certainly, he of her.

“The not-so mortal queen in the flesh.” A voice sounded from the threshold to the balcony. A steepled entryway, that’d been tightly closed until now, opened wide with three figures at its center.

Aisling jerked her body upright, disturbing the pond in which she stood.

The stranger was resplendent. A Sidhe creature forge-born with pointed ears, long limbs, large eyes and an eerie, fearfully beautiful face. Yet, there was more. More to the female who flashed her fangs, a gown made entirely of wispy clouds transforming, constantly moving as the rain and the waterfall touched it. Her crown, a delicate circlet of water beads, framing her braided, blue tresses. Her flesh, sparkling and shimmering wet.

Niamh. The Seelie queen of Rain and the keeper of the Goblet of Lore. Two mares made of what appeared to be flesh and bone stood beside her, but upon closer inspection, it was running river water purling through their manes, their hooves clacking against the flagstones, and their flattened ears. Both elegant and wild at once.

“Elliati merla tu sakka. Sarwen,” she said in Rún, but Aisling’s knowledge of the divine language was not yet so advanced to understand. A fact Niamh understood for she repeated herself.

“I heard her voice and so I came. Sarwen.” Niamh’s voice was both the timbre of thunder combined with the feminine melody of spring drizzles.

Aisling, without thinking, glanced over her shoulder. Sarwen, the blade Peitho had gifted her at her coronation and Aisling had dubbed Sarwen after Niamh’s legendary sword, was still strapped to her back. The mortal reaper.

“Like twin souls, both their halves speak to one another in a tongue only they share,” Niamh continued, taking a step nearer. “My blade recognized yours.”

“Your Majesty,” Aisling said, dipping her chin. “We’ve come upon invitation: the Seelie queen of the greenwood and?—”

“The Seelie king of the greenwood, the dark lord of the forest, the barbarian king of Annwyn. Yes,” Niamh said, “I know. It was I who invited you, was it not?”

Aisling hesitated, carefully measuring what she wished to speak.

“Although,” Niamh said, her dress parting at the top of her thigh as she walked toward Aisling. “I see no Lir.”

Anduril hummed softly. The belt, however, refused to glow as it had in Annwyn. As though it were hiding from Niamh and the magic of the Other altogether.

Niamh continued to study Aisling. Pale lips pursing before they spread into a thin, amused smile.

“I’ve come alone,” Aisling said.

“So, you are no bride of Annwyn whilst without your king…for now,” Niamh conjectured. “Then what is your title?”

Aisling hadn’t thought of this answer. Her mind was a forest veiled in fog; the trees of her mind moved in her periphery only to freeze when she turned to acknowledge them directly. The animals skulked along the forest’s bed of leaves, whispering strange incantations to one another the longer she tried to sort through her memories. Pieces were missing and others were replaced. And should she catch a glimmer of what she believed was the truth, Anduril gripped her tightly, sparing her from her madness and delivering her back to reality.

Sorceress, Anduril whispered inside her mind.

“Sorceress,” Aisling said. “My title is sorceress.”

“Court sorceress? Sorceress to the Sidhe? To the mortals? The gods?” Niamh pressed. “Titles establish allegiance. What is yours?”

Aisling straightened, unwilling to let even a Seelie queen of the Other toy with her as though she were a pet.

“I envy those of pure blood such as yourself,” Aisling said. “Your allegiance was chosen for you and interlaced with your destiny. I boast no such clarity, for while my love for the Sidhe grows parallel to the growth of my hatred for humankind, wisdom would compel me to only ever stake allegiance in myself.”

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