Page 66 of The Forever Queen

Aisling frowned. She was starved, her body jittery with exhaustion and hunger alike. But she wanted her meal at a table instead of stones, lit by gold wax light instead of violet flame, with cutlery rather than her fingers, with dishes rather than bones, and wine goblets in the place of her cupped hands. All in the hopes of regaining her strength more quickly.

“You’re free to stay,” Aisling said, “but I’ll be joining Dorkoth regardless.”

Lir did a slight double take.

“By oath: where you go, I follow,” Lir said, standing straighter. A great shadow was cast from his towering stature and fell across the room. A reminder he was the guardian she’d knighted by blade. The accolade complete as Anduril released a blistering cry.

Aisling swallowed her protests.

He doesn’t trust us, Anduril hissed, tickling the inside of Aisling’s mind.He wants an eye on us always.

Aisling’s brow pinched, Anduril’s intensity squeezing inside her mind.

Lir’s eyes darted across her face before falling to Anduril at her hips. His eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched. He said nothing of it; instead, cleared his throat and turned on his heel.

“You should change,” he said. “And bathe. You reek. I’ll meet you at the tavern center at the strike of the third bell.”

He’s up to no good, Anduril spurted.

Aisling’s brow arched. “Where are you going?” she asked, annoyance pinching her words.

“To guard the door,” he said, throwing the door open and shutting it firmly behind him.

Aisling stared at the splintered wood for several moments after the fae king left. Herdraiochtcalmed, lulled back to sleep whilst outside his presence. A relief the sorceress was grateful for.

Aisling turned and faced the rest of the room. The boards of the tavern groaned against the cool breath of Flasing, lashing the sides of Dorkoth’s tavern as the storm thickened. She wandered through the chamber, at last, pulling apart patchwork drapes that shielded the rusted tub in the corner of their rooms. Rust alchemized the once coppery hue of the large basin to lichen green, shimmering beneath the lantern light regardless. Already, the spirit of Dorkoth’s tavern had filled the tub with hot water and soap, suds spilling over the lip.

Aisling eyed the bubbling waters, her expression narrowing. She felt Niamh’s watchful gaze and she feared the Lady’s influence through water. So, tired and weary as her body was, she pulled the curtains back and forewent the bath Dorkoth’s tavern had prepared for her.

Instead, Aisling undressed—all but Anduril slipping off her limbs—and summoned herdraiocht. She burned every morsel of dirt, of filth, of sweat, of oil, of disease, of the stench of Geld’s pelt, and the fresh cologne of the fae king, careful not to singe all that was unsoiled or unsullied.

Fire cleansed her, breath by breath.

Once the work was complete, Aisling rummaged through the broken cupboards, dressers, and wardrobes. They were filled with tattered gowns, moth-eaten dresses, and chipped jewels. All and everything from an age that was forgotten and discarded. Aisling exhaled, surrendering to garments she already donned despite the heavy, biting edges of her armor that weighed heavily on her joints and muscles.

The spirit of Dorkoth’s tavern, however, was eager to help. The second wardrobe wobbled on its stout, wooden legs and a dress fell from a hidden shelf at the back.

Aisling knelt to collect the garment, lifting it to better appraise it in the lantern light.

It was plain, as pale as cream and sewn with thick, porcelain threads. The fabric, however, was soft as lamb’s wool, cinching at the wrists but flaring till the knuckles. The hem spilled around her bare feet, designed for a Seelie creature much taller than herself—this despite Aisling’s great height for a mortal-born.

Aisling considered her reflection for a long while. The mirror, like the rest of Dorkoth’s tavern, was old and weathered, clouding and foxing with chips and scratches across its surface. Still, Anduril gleamed brightly, admiring its own reflection with genuine interest.

* * *

LIR

Lir leaned his head against the corridor walls of Dorkoth’s tavern, just outside his and Aisling’s room. And even though the grin couldn’t spread nor grow from Lir’s life heart, the infection had taken its toll on the Sidhe king, sucking on his energy like a blood bat.

“You need rest, Your Grace,” a feminine voice whispered from the other end of the corridor.

“Perhaps some rest, some wine, and a wash,” another, similar voice, agreed.

Lir’s eyes opened slowly. Not a soul stood at the end of the corridor. Only two artfully sculpted statues, frozen just before kissing. Lir unhooked one of his axes from his back and tossed it. The blade spun, cutting across the hall before sticking to the wall with a thwack. Immediately, the two statues burst apart, squealing with alarm and shuddering to life.

Stone nymphs and daughters of Flasing.

“Forgive us, Your Grace.” The first statue fell to her knees, followed by the second. “We didn’t mean to alarm you.”

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