Page 56 of The Forever Queen

“Over the threshold of a castle made of trees, they come, they come,” the forest sang.

A muscle flashed across Lir’s jaw.

“Do they speak to you like this often?” Aisling asked him, so softly only he could hear.

“Always,” he said, staring straight ahead as they wove through the gnarled, ghoulish aisle of bone apple trees. “When I wake, when I sleep, when I can’t think of anything else but…”

The Sidhe king’s voice trailed off. Aisling considered asking him to complete the thought but decided against it.

The forest groaned as their trunks bent and bowed when their sovereign passed. The vision unsettled Aisling. In the mortal plane, the trees, the forest, and thedraiochtwere phantoms—always most visible when caught slipping at the edges of one’s vision. But if looked directly upon, the magic vanished. Popped like a soap bubble. Here in the Other, on the other hand, the magic was fully alive, proud, and eager to be seen. The trees were behemoth beasts themselves, moving with the strength of storm-blown giants.

“That’s enough to render anyone mad,” Aisling said. “Which explains the lunacy of a centuries-old forge-born lord.”

“I’ve grown accustomed to it,” Lir said, not biting the bait Aisling had laid with her teasing.

“I vow to you the first cut of my heart, the first taste of my blood, and the last words from my lips,” the forest cooed.

Anduril objected immediately, but Aisling couldn’t deny how familiar the words sounded. As if she’d once treasured them.

“Were you born with such an ability?” Aisling asked. He’d told her the answer before, but she’d forgotten.

“No,” Lir said. “Upon coronation, the Sidhe sovereign of the greenwood inherits the ability to speak to and, in turn, listen to the whole of his kingdom—including the trees themselves and the animals they shelter.”

“So, why can I hear them too?” Aisling asked.

Lir tilted his head back, avoiding her eyes.

“Because as my bride, you, too, are sovereign to the greenwood, Aisling,” he said. “No matter bargains, enchantments, or legends, you are queen to my kingdom by the law of our oaths. And the forest recognizes you as such.”

Aisling looked around the woodland.

She remembered handfasting the fae king. She remembered her crimson gown, the ring of fire, the three blades, the nightmarish barbarians that burned Fiacha’s evening with their hedonism. She didn’t remember Lir’s face, his voice, or the way she’d felt afterward. The memories were distorted and complex, drifting in and out of clarity.

Yet, from the moment she’d handfasted the Sidhe king, she’d felt the rush of her mare beneath her, the mood of the trees, the whims of the owls that hooted from their perches. Even then, she and Lir had been bound in a way she didn’t entirely understand and didn’t think she ever would. How could she have forgotten their marriage was a union tied only by a duty to their people and nothing more?

Eventually, the trees thinned and the dense carpet of hollow grass spilled into wetland where wetweed grew rampant. The aspens dipped their spidery roots into the waters, overgrown with moss and colorful fungi. And beyond, rested a cottage that puffed clouds from its toppling chimney like an old man and his pipe. The shingles of its roof reminiscent of a tattered, pointed hat, protecting the weathered face of the home from the rain.

Aisling smelled the herbs and spices that cooked inside. The cottage’s warmth, steaming against the windowpanes decorated in salt gems, small brownie skulls, and wind chimes.

“We’re here,” Lir said. He guided Geld to the cottage’s entrance before jumping off the mount first. Without hesitation, the fae king turned and carried Aisling off the stag, setting her gingerly on the ground. And had Aisling still believed the fae king held any affections for her, she might’ve thought the lingering of his hands at her waist was a token of his attraction. But she knew better.

Yes, yes, yes, Anduril encouraged her.

Aisling found her footing, peeling strands of wet hair from her face.

Lir knocked on the door, but he didn’t wait for an answer. He grabbed the knob and pushed the door open.

“Wait,” Aisling said, touching his elbow. Lir’s eyes shot to her hand on his arm, lingering for a moment longer than Aisling anticipated. “Shouldn’t we be invited inside first?”

Lir shook his head. “It’s alright.”

And so, Lir entered, Aisling a step behind.

Immediately, the heat of the cottage rushed toward Aisling like a banshee intent to possess. Her bones and flesh thawed where she’d been too afraid to use herdraiochtto warm herself from Niamh’s rains. It was as if Lir and Aisling had stepped into the belly of a beast—bubbling, hot, and ripe with all manner of unidentifiable objects. A plethora of stacked jars, hanging pots, bundles of sage, sugared bones, and shelves stuffed with books whose spines changed titles when you looked too closely.

“Mo Damh Bán,” a voice said from behind a curtain of garlands, obscuring a room that tunneled deeper into the cottage. An old fox emerged from between the leaves, first his nose and whiskers and then his orange face, speckled with gray above his beady black eyes. He held a stack of ornately embroidered quilts, decorated in silver constellations that reminded Aisling of a cloak she’d once been gifted.

The fox bowed to Lir before noticing Aisling as well. Taken off guard, the fox sputtered something unintelligible before bowing swiftly to Aisling.

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