Page 52 of The Forever Queen

Something you once lost.

Promise me.

A weight lifted from your back and your feet lighter.

Something you once lost.

The spell echoed.

Lir fell to his knees. His soul was bloody where it had been ripped and left behind a gaping hole. A decision made for him by the events of the past; every moment imprisoning him against his knowledge.

The Lady’s laughter echoed in the thunder.

“And should you break such a promise,” Niamh said, “your love may throb and beat, but never shall you exist together again—Aisling’s heart, my own.”

Lir had suspected Niamh wanted to deepen the divide between himself and Aisling but now he was certain of it. Perhaps she feared their power when they were joined. Perhaps she wanted Aisling all to herself. Perhaps she enjoyed toying with the Sidhe king she feared and envied all at once. Regardless, she bore power over Lir because she recognized his greatest vulnerability: Aisling.

Just like that, fate stabbed its needle into the fabric of the universe and began to sew.

CHAPTER XXII

LIR

Lir scaled the side of Castle Yillen, invisible to all but the trees that thrashed in Niamh’s rains. Even her tempest couldn’t sense him as he worked his way toward Aisling’s chambers, gripping the slippery stones. Lir could have walked the corridors of Niamh’s castle, but he preferred the Seelie queen knowing as little as possible of his whereabouts and movements.

At last, Lir jumped atop the balcony attached to Aisling’s chambers. The doors were left ajar, the wych lace curtains a veil that separated Lir from the warm glow of Aisling’s rooms.

Aisling sat atop a mound of velvet quilts, moving Sarwen in shapely formations. Anduril buzzed gleefully from Aisling’s hips—its magic rippling from its metal and through Aisling’s veins.

Aisling’s hair was entirely undone; thick rivulets of ink spilling over her shoulders, framing the whisper-thin chiffon of her ivory night slip and robes. Her slender fingers slid over the grooves of Sarwen’s hilt, both the blade and its sorceress familiarizing themselves with one another.

The Sidhe king held his breath. Lir was still invisible, having cloaked himself with hisdraiocht, yet still he approached with caution. Aisling hadn’t yet sensed his presence, so he stood outside the wych lace for a heartbeat longer than he’d intended, watching his sorceress through the veil.

At the center of his chest, a familiar pang of jealousy struck him. Jealousy that anyone else had ever laid eyes on her. Jealousy that everything she was, could never be his.

A crack sounded at the other end of the room.

Lir jolted, instinctively stepping back.

Several blue rabbits entered the chambers from the corridor entrance, carrying porcelain pots. They hopped over to Aisling’s bed and began mixing syrup into Aisling’s tea. Even from where Lir stood, he smelled the fir needles, the ground spruce, the shards of starlight, and the crisp tongue of evening breezes: a night balm intended to deepen sleep and prevent night terrors.

Lir’s shoulders stiffened.

“I plead with you, Your Grace,” one of the blue rabbits said. “Take your tea lest Niamh grow angry you deny her hospitality.”

Aisling winced at the steaming cup offered by one of the rabbits.

“To prevent the Lady from entering your dreams once more,” another rabbit said.

Lir perked up, listening more closely. Nightmares and terrors were no stranger to Aisling, and Lir had known the Lady invaded her dreams on darker nights. Yet, he’d assumed the Lady’s connection with Aisling was severed upon entering the Other. A hope quickly disproven.

Aisling turned her head from the teacup like a child, refusing the brew. The sorceress sheathed Sarwen instead, draping the blade on one of her bedposts as she sank into the quilts.

“I prefer to know if the Lady infiltrates my mind—the balm does not protect me. It only blinds me to her intrusions,” Aisling said.

The rabbits sighed, setting the tea on a table beside her bed. Each rabbit hopped off, busying themselves with tidying her chambers, washing her gowns, folding, or organizing her jewels until, at last, they retired for the evening.

“Rest, Your Grace,” the last rabbit whispered as they shut the door behind them and vanished into the hall.

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