Page 65 of The Forever Queen

“Dinner will be held once the storm moon reaches its highest peak,” Dorkoth said, the stones of his body rippling and scraping against one another as he melted back into the side of the mountain. “I pray you’ll join us.”

Wedged between two of the tallest peaks, was the central house of the tavern. The rest of its rooms were scattered along the walls of Flasing like hanging bats.

Aisling and Lir approached the central house and entered. Lir ducked his head beneath the threshold, the weight of him setting the floorboards of the tavern into a chorus of creaks and whines.

The room was warm; a stark contrast to the cool, highland breezes that graced the outside world. A distant plucking of strings calmed the energy of the tavern, accompanied by the smell of freshly baked bread and sweet meads. But where Aisling expected a patron, a keeper, or even Dorkoth to greet them behind the counter of the tavern, none were present.

Aisling and Lir were seemingly alone.

“What now?” Aisling asked, eyes studying the room. There were ledgers, papers, and scrolls, all scrawled and scribbled over with blue ink. Real flame—not fae flower bulbs––danced in their lantern cages made of red, emerald, and sapphire glass. But it was the treasury of keys floating against the ceiling that caught Lir’s and Aisling’s attention.

There were hundreds, if not thousands, of keys hovering above their heads like petrified butterflies, caught mid-flight. Indeed, most of the keys bore insect-like wings of all color, shape, and form. Even their stems, bows, and bits were forged uniquely, sparkling in the lantern light.

“This is a mountain spirit dwelling,” Lir said, eyes wandering across the keys. He raised one arm, tugging on the string of the nearest key. A square piece of parchment was tied to the key’s string, labeled with a runic letter. “Meaning, it’s alive.”

“The tavern?” Aisling asked.

Lir nodded his head. “Aye. Most dwellings owned by spirits develop one of their own after centuries of breathing their spirit’sdraiocht.”

“Is it one and the same with Dorkoth’s spirit?” Aisling asked.

“No,” Lir said. “It’s an entity of its own and, the older the dwelling, the more powerful its spirit.”

The fae king cleared his throat, facing the center counter of the tavern.

“We request quarters for the evening,” Lir said matter-of-factly. Silence followed for several breaths till Aisling shifted uncomfortably behind the fae king, waiting. At last, the treasury of keys above their heads clinked like chimes and a single key descended from the ceiling and dropped onto the counter. A runic parchment tied to its shank. One key for one room.

Lir waited a moment longer, attention drifting to the horde of keys above them.

“Quarters,” Lir repeated. “Two rooms,” he clarified, swallowing quickly after he’d said it. Aisling’s stomach turned when she realized. The sorceress hadn’t thought of their room arrangements until now.

We cannot share rooms with a stranger, Anduril chided inside her mind.He will cut our throats in the night. He will trick us. He will ruin us. He will take what is ours.

He’s sworn to protect and to serve, Aisling argued.

Trust will make a fool of us, Anduril insisted, vibrating against her bones. Aisling closed her eyes, concentrating on her thoughts––ripping at the threads Racat and Anduril braided together inside her.

And yet, the tavern offered no more keys. Only the first, still gleaming on the counter, twitching as if requesting their attention.

“Are there no other rooms available?” Lir pushed. And in response, the key leaped forward and onto the floorboards.

Lir grumbled something beneath his breath—a runic sentiment that bore the stinging lilt of a dark spell.

“Let’s find our room then,” Lir said, turning on his heel and starting for the door. A vine sprouted from between the floorboards, collecting the key and slithering up Lir’s boots. It dropped the key in Lir’s waiting palm as he ducked back beneath the threshold. The door shut behind him, nothing but the grumble of the oncoming storm to mirror Lir’s mood.

The temperature rose the moment Aisling stepped into Dorkoth’s tavern room. Several lanterns, lit with soft flame, draped shadows across the humble bed—fabrics harvested from common cotton clovers that grew along the path Aisling and Lir had recently tread. Hand sewn, the needlework was clumsy and unseemly. The work of mountain spirits and their rigid, stony fingers, Aisling realized as she brushed the surface with her fingertips.

Lir stood at the threshold for several beats. Long enough to draw Aisling’s attention. The sorceress, however, refused to meet his eyes. Each time their gazes connected, it was an intimate affair. As if the fae king’s undivided attention conjured strange magic, possessing Aisling’s body. For whilst her mind battled between her own thoughts and Anduril’s, her body heated uniquely when in his presence. Her stomach knotted or took flight, her body shuddered or froze still, her tongue dried or her lips grew wet. But it was herdraiocht, Racat, who shivered. Who slithered against the fae king’s magic, rubbing its scales against his hide. Twin devils, Aisling felt, sinking their fangs into one another and gulping from their vein of power.

Lir took a step into the room. The old floorboards groaned beneath him, bending even as his lithe body moved—a shadow in Aisling’s periphery, approaching like death’s maven.

“Rest while you can,” he said, voice cleaned of emotion like a blade once bloodied. “I’ll fetch our dinner.”

“We aren’t joining Dorkoth?” Aisling said, spinning on her heel to face him at last.

For the briefest of moments, Lir hesitated, eyes catching on Aisling’s and trapping his words.

“If I can convince you otherwise,” Lir replied matter-of-factly, his expression, once more, void of emotion, “then no.”

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