Page 62 of The Forever Queen

Lir opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it, closing his lips.

The fae king clenched his teeth, a muscle flashing across his jaw. He then readied Geld for the journey ahead. Geld was weak, awkwardly bending his thin, blood-rusted legs till he stood as straight as he was capable. The grin had taken greatly from the beast, and it was possible Geld wouldn’t survive another moon or two.

“The grin,” Aisling said as Lir unlatched several satchels. He dropped them to the ground, abandoning the supplies on the fields of Kaster for another traveler to stumble upon. “It’s an ill omen of my father’s approach.”

Lir nodded his head grimly, tightening the saddle as he spoke.

“I felt it too,” he agreed. “It’s the rot of mankind. Their destruction, their vampirism, their poison seeping into the veil of the Other as they approach nearer to their victory. Grin is a rot that grows only in the mortal plane where death is inevitable. Here in the Other, such a species cannot survive.”

“But how?” Aisling asked. “How could my father affect this realm so greatly? What is it he nears?”

Lir scowled, his brow lowering and casting a shadow across his eyes in the dim light.

“Whatever he’s hunting, they’ve already injured it badly,” Lir said. “It runs, but for how long? Our time is borrowed. Whatever he pursues—whatever he bleeds—its wounds are shared with the veil. All that the Forge births from its molten cauldron is bound through magic. Spells, jinxes, and enchantments tugging at the threads of these connections, these strings, these breaths. Your father has found a thread—the gateway—most likely with the help of the Lady, and he will bleed this realm with rot to get to you and his victory.

Aisling bit her bottom lip, stroking Geld’s neck.

“We must find the Goblet,” Aisling said at last. “Before it’s too late.”

CHAPTER XXVII

AISLING

The night was dying.

Soon, morning would arrive on a blazing gelding of war, prepared to cast its light across the Other in conquest.

Seven horned owls flew circles above Aisling, Lir, and Geld as they walked. They moved at a snail’s pace; Geld was unable to carry a rider whilst he recovered from his crippling injuries. So, Lir wrapped the stag’s reigns around his wrist and led the beast, Aisling by his side.

It had been one full day since they’d scarcely survived the grin. Aisling’s muscles ached and her head throbbed—her breath a quiver between her teeth. Racat lay on his side within her, eyes half-closed and eager for rest. But Aisling couldn’t rest. Not yet. Her clann was coming and if the grin was a forewarning of the destruction the fire hand planned to wreak, Aisling needed the Goblet immediately.

“Let’s rest for the hour,” the fae king said. He removed one of his gloves and pressed his palm to the bark of a tree. This was how he spoke to the forest when the willows and yews weren’t whispering aloud. Aisling wondered about their dialogue, but a part of her—a still mortal part—was too afraid to ask. It was an eerie, unsettling sort of magic Lir shared with the woodland. Something ancient and wild and wholly inhuman. He, himself, a spirit of the bloom.

“No,” Anduril said through Aisling’s lips, gleaming hotly. “We continue on.”

Lir sucked his teeth, shaking his head and muttering something unintelligible beneath his breath.

Aisling wasn’t certain how long they pushed through the Other’s wilderness, carving a path with the guidance of the trees to protect them as they pressed through. The trail was longer this way, the fae king had explained. To avoid the most monstrous secrets of the gods’ realm, they sometimes went around instead of through, left instead of right, and up instead of down. Aisling’s strength was dwindling, and their supplies were depleting quickly.

Aisling’s vision blurred. Nausea swelled inside her like an infection till black fingertips crawled at the edge of her vision, threatening to toss her into darkness.

Just a little further, Anduril said.Don’t be so weak. Don’t show the fae king how mortal you still are. How incompetent you are without me.

Aisling forced one boot in front of the other.

Farther, farther, Anduril said.

Aisling lost feeling in her fingertips and toes. Her body was suddenly twice as heavy to carry.

“Ellwyn,” Lir said. Aisling tried to look at him, but the weight of her head was immeasurable. The realm tilted on its axis and Aisling’s knees gave in. She flew toward the ground, the sky spinning above her in wild, nebulous loops as she grasped for something. Anything.

It was futile. The realm, seemingly made of sugar, dissolved at the edges until nothing was left but the nothing in which it was born.

* * *

Aisling woke to the steady thump of the fae king’s chest against her cheek. Lir carried Aisling in both arms, holding her tightly against himself as they traveled. Thankfully, Niamh’s rains had spread into the misty breath of the mountains. Their mossy peaks rose jagged around them like the spikes atop a crown’s palisade.

Geld followed closely behind, head slumped and his hooves dragging against the rain-polished stones.

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