Page 36 of The Forever Queen

The Seelie queen of Rain watched intently as the corners of Aisling’s lips curled, her own expression mirroring Aisling’s. The smile was still cold but in the uncanny, otherworldly manner the Sidhe moved. Not in cruelty. In fact, it gave Aisling the impression of two serpents slithering side by side, neither allies nor enemies but alike just the same.

“Follow me,” Niamh said, starting for the door.

They slipped into an adjacent room inside another spire. Petrified rain bejeweled every inch of this room as well, hanging in the air, on the thick moss that clung to every wall, the river stones, the mosaicked floors, and the oak leaf garlands that bulged from the rafters. A trove of crystals, a spiderweb dressed in morning dew, a room that smelled of freshly wet soil and cool, woodland breezes.

Dozens of winged sylphs flew through this room, carrying gowns and jewels and crowns, but Niamh paid them little attention as she grabbed Aisling’s hand and gently tugged her toward a mirror in the center of the room.

Aisling took in her bare form. Raven-black hair sticking to her back, her arms, her hips, and Anduril’s supple gold. Her cheeks and chest were red from coughing and her violet eyes were ringed with dark circles. And somehow, standing beside Niamh and her forget-me-not-blue hair, her perpetually wet skin, her dress of clouds, Aisling looked more otherworldly than she ever had in Annwyn. As though a part of her belonged here in the Other.

Racat hummed gleefully, stirring inside. Anduril glittered with approval.

“I’ve been dying to dress you for several centuries now,” Niamh said.

Centuries? Aisling thought to herself, but before she could speak it aloud, Niamh stepped behind Aisling and ran her fingers through her hair. Immediately, Aisling flinched. She wasn’t accustomed to being touched at all and certainly not by those she’d only just met. Nevertheless, Niamh wasn’t discouraged, moving closer to Aisling as she untangled her tresses. So, for the sake of the Goblet of Lore, Aisling let her.

“This belt, however, is ancient and unfit for your beauty,” Niamh said. “May I remove it?” she asked, hands already starting toward its clasp.

Without hesitation, Anduril hardened to stone, coiling around Aisling like a snake. The sorceress’s eyes lit like embers and before she could think better of it, her hands snatched at Niamh’s wrist.

“The belt remains,” Anduril spoke through Aisling’s lips—a primeval growl lacing her voice.

Niamh bristled, slowly taking back her wrist. Her lips pursed tightly, but she eventually nodded her head in understanding. The Seelie queen cleared her throat and continued her work. Anduril settled back into place on Aisling’s hips, quieting once more.

The sensation of Niamh’s long, slender fingers against Aisling’s scalp, combing through her knots, was too comforting. Too maternal to resist. A touch Aisling had barely, if ever, felt. Her life had been shaped by the rough hands of men and not the sensitive touch of a woman who cared deeply for her. Yet, against her better judgment, Aisling sank into Niamh, allowing herself the affection.

Niamh’s touch straightened Aisling’s hair till it fell like the waters in Annwyn’s gorge. Her fingers traveled toward her scalp, dancing through the strands but leaving behind beads of rain as she worked. They grew along her collarbone, along the edge of her ears, speckled around the crown of her head. And at last, Niamh traced the edge of Aisling’s arms and a dress took form. A gown made entirely of water hugged and draped around her every curve till it spilled atop the mosaicked floors. Pearl-tipped crests protecting her most precious parts.

Aisling’s eyes burned, glossing over with unshed tears. She’d almost forgotten what she looked like in gowns that didn’t burn mourning-white.

“Is everything alright?” Niamh asked, brows arching with genuine concern.

Aisling blinked away the tears, nodding her head.

“The dress is lovely, is all,” she lied.

A sylph darted from the rafters and pressed a scarlet cherry to Aisling’s lips, staining them red. Niamh smiled, admiring her work before she plucked a single bead of rain from her clavicle and blew.

The bead of rain grew, splashing upward before falling and forming a whirlpool around their feet. The churning of the waters akin to the gentle stirring of tea.

“Ina and I were close friends,” Niamh said, eyes reflecting the spinning of the waters beneath them. “She and I were like sisters. I cared—care––for her deeply. And although her soul is lost in the fogs of death beyond my realm, my heart finds a piece of her in you, Aisling.”

Aisling’s brows pinched. She felt the sincerity of Niamh’s words weaving between them. She felt the Seelie queen’s love for the fae king’s mother as potently as she might’ve felt the love for a sister of her own had she ever been blessed with one. And what’s more, Aisling wanted to believe Niamh. She wanted to believe in her kindness, in this newfound warmth, in this…affection Aisling hadn’t realized she’d craved all her life.

“I remember the day Ina found you amidst the folds of the tapestry of time. How she searched for decades for the perfect hiding place for her most cherished gift. She knew her end was coming swiftly.

“We wept together when she placed her gift inside an iron, Tilrish keep.” Niamh’s voice thickened, lost to the memory. “And so I vowed to watch over you. Vowed to keep you as safe as I knew how. Bringing rain to Tilren, beating it against your windowpanes, finding you in the neighboring loch, watching you from the brim of every goblet of wine.”

Aisling’s head whipped toward the pool below their feet. The waters reflected not themselves, rather Aisling as a child, Aisling as she grew older, Aisling as she grew lost in Annwyn’s feywilds, swimming with Lir in the hot springs the day he taught her how to summon herdraiocht. Aisling gasped, her mind stretching before Anduril dug into Aisling’s flesh with anger, distracting her from the visions and instead, biting Aisling with a venom of equal rage at the sight of the fae king. Aisling fought the feeling, bending the thoughts in her mind to make sense of them, but Anduril insisted, muddling Aisling’s mind further.

Just as Danu’s Isle of Mirrors used water to watch, to travel, to speak, so did Niamh’s. Water was transformative. Water was magic. And water was a part of thedraiocht.

But the memories the water chose to reveal were not all pleasant. Some were shameful, some were dark, and some were better left unremembered. The image of Nemed locking Aisling inside her chambers, forced to watch Starn, Iarbonel, Annind, and Fergus from the iron teeth of her window while they were raised to be kings.

“It wasn’t Ina who invited you to the Other at Lofgren’s Rise or in Castle Annwyn,” Niamh said, meeting Aisling’s eyes. “It was me.”

CHAPTER XIII

The sun bled, its wounds swathed in the black gauze of smoke-stained skies. Nemed lifted the visor of his helmet, too satisfied to acknowledge the burning of his eyes or the weakness of his body as he trudged up the hill of the main thoroughfare.

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