Page 6 of The Forever Queen

“To what end?”

“To no end,” Fionn said, slipping his hands into his pockets. “If the Seelie and Unseelie burn because of yours and Lir’s recklessness, then you burn what is rightfully mine. Including yourself.”

“Watch your tongue!” Gilrel hissed, leaping into the air.

Fionn ignored Gilrel. “You’re running out of time,mo Lúra. What will it be? My help or the mortals’ victory over Annwyn on the evening of your preciousImbolc?”

Aisling glanced over her shoulder at Lir, at Galad, at Peitho, and Filverel. They were losing. The mortals’ ambush alone was enough to jeopardize their lives, but coupled with Aisling and Lir’s blazing, uncontrollable flames…they were struggling.

Do not trust him. Racat chuckled as he continued his havoc.Speak no more with the son of Winter lest those words be your last.

Aisling swallowed, the trust between her and Fionn, thinner and more elusive than the wispy spirits haunting the corridors of Castle Annwyn.

“Very well.” She nodded, her voice unrecognizable and laced with Racat’s growl.

Fionn smiled, handsome and wide, and snapped his fingers.

Without hesitation, his wolf, Frigg, bounded into the mayhem, a trail of ice dragging through Huriel’s cradle from the tip of the hound’s tail. Like crystals and quartz and spiderwebs beaded with rain, winter spread through the glen, freezing over the piles of dead and those on the precipice of being rocked to eternal sleep in the warm hull of the Other’s death galleon.

Those mortals still standing gaped in terror at the unadulterated magic dueling Aisling’s own. Two opposing forces battling for supremacy between fire and ice. And so the humans fled, picking up their heavy iron boots and slipping into the surrounding trees as the ghouls, the fauns, the Cú Scáth chased them, still eager for a taste of their mortal flesh.

Everything became ice. The antithesis of spring andImbolc. Of Lir. It was beautiful in its nature, albeit painful.

No, stop this. Please. Please, Racat begged. Thedragún’s guttural voice gasping for breath as Fionn and Frigg, together, stamped out the flames. Fionn’s careful, ancient practice of thedraiochtwas enough to counter Aisling’s reckless, youthful efforts. Lir’s power dwindling as he defeated hordes of mortals, all the while bleeding out and surrounded by his vulnerability: flame.

So the son of Winter drapedImbolcin silence as the crackling and raging of flames, the beating of blades upon shields, the agony-filled hollering, the plucking of bowstrings, and the final slushy cuts of death chilled to a stop. Until those left standing huffed translucent clouds of frost, themselves silhouettes of sloppy, violent red in a landscape of twinkling ivory.

Castle Annwyn’s gates flew apart.

Lir tore through the courtyard like a comet on Flaithri. Aisling lay in his arms, both lit aflame like violet wicks atop a bleeding stag. Many of his knights followed shortly behind him, sinking themselves into the weepy panic of the courtyard. Every castle hare, toad, bird, and forge-born rushed about in a frenzy, shouting, crying, and escorting the injured and wounded to the infirmary. They cut knights from their twisted stirrups, their armor, and their boots. They carried buckets of water and baskets of gauze. But nothing could mask the distant screams, the smoke-stained sky, or the grief of the forest.

Peitho and Filverel rushed to Flaithri’s side. Immediately, they reached for Aisling, wet with both hers and Lir’s blood.

Lir cursed, pulling Aisling closer to his chest.

“Don’t touch her,” he growled, his eyes flooded by the black of his pupils. His expression was inhuman and touched by fury. Fangs glistering despite the blood, mud, and soot smeared across his face.

“She needs to be sent to the infirmary,” Peitho argued, standing despite a gruesome wound bubbling at her shoulder.

“As do you,” Filverel added, looking the Sidhe king up and down.

“Bar the gates, line the northern gorge with swordsmen and the western canopies with archers.” Lir ignored them both, barking orders at every and any knight well enough to heed his commands.

“Lir.” Galad approached, eager for his lord’s attention—an iron reed still lodged and sizzling in his bicep.

Lir turned Flaithri away who was dancing in place on blackened hooves.

“Sift through everything that lies beneath Huriel’s shadow,” Lir continued. “Collect the injured and bury the dead. Bring every resident outside of Castle Annwyn’s gates inside. Room, and feed them. Lock the gates and let none enter or leave until daybreak.”

“Lir.” Filverel tried again for the Sidhe king’s attention, but once more it was futile.

“Gather the owls.” Lir started toward Castle Annwyn’s main threshold as he spoke, his knights tripping behind him and Aisling. “They’ll be sent to the other sovereigns immediately.”

“Lir, Aisling needs proper care.” Peitho’s voice broke through the chaos.

“She needs a healer’s attention,” Galad agreed.

“I’ll heal her myself,” Lir bit, pressing Aisling to his chest.

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