Page 67 of The Forever Queen

“Has Dorkoth sent his eyes to spy?” Lir asked the first nymph, approaching as his axe dislodged itself from the wood and shot back into the Sidhe king’s waiting palm. “And his ears?” Lir’s attention flicked to the second nymph.

“Of course not, Your Grace,” they said in unison.

“We’ve come to ensure your accommodations are satisfactory. And that you’ve been serviced, Your Grace.”

Lir studied the nymphs, searching for Dorkoth’s mischief. Written across the planes of their gray expressions, however, was an earnest desire to serve the tavern and the spirit that possessed it.

The Sidhe king considered Aisling’s door, weighing the choice in his mind. She was safe in her rooms and, not to mention, desperate to be rid of him thanks to Anduril.

“Very well,” the Sidhe king said, eyeing them both from head to toe. “I’ll need a change of clothes and somewhere to bathe.”

“Absolutely, Your Grace,” they said in unison. Immediately, both nymphs unfurled from their bows. They nervously skittered down a hall to the right, clutching the skirts of their wolf-gray gowns, and gesturing for the Sidhe king to follow.

* * *

AISLING

Aisling watched the shadow disappear from the crease below her chamber door before she turned the knob. Lir was no longer outside, guarding her door. In fact, he was nowhere to be seen. Only floating, flickering candles drifted near the creaking beams and gilded the corridor. Colorful wax dribbling from their stems and onto the floorboards beneath.

Keep your eyes open, Anduril said, glowing softly.Who knows which guests Dorkoth keeps.

Aisling considered the doors as she traveled through the narrow passages, the candles following her wake like curious ghosts. Some rooms were silent. Others rattled with commotion and muffled speech. A labyrinth of strange, age-worn doors that varied in size and color—each and all chipped and splintered. But it was the smell of roasted meats, stewed apples, sweet dough, and dark wines that guided Aisling through the tavern, down the broken stairwell, and toward the front entrance of their tavern lodgings.

Aisling turned the knob, but the threshold was firmly stuck. She shoved the door with her shoulder and the entrance gave way, plunging Aisling into a celebration. The tavern center was not roofed but rather stood at the center of a feverish courtyard.

Seven alp pines grew at the edges of the spectacle, bending at odd angles and perfuming the tavern center with their emerald needles and sticky sap. They carried thousands of lanterns on their arms, their fingers, their heads, dressing the center with warm light. Garlands of highland figs stretched from one end of the courtyard to the other and Flasing’s surrounding mountains cupped the music played by bears and wolves alike. And in the middle of it all was a lengthy dining table—a colossal pine, seemingly chopped in half by the axe of a giant—spilling over with a dazzling Sidhe feast. Characters of all shapes and sizes filled the seats and chatted idly by the pines. Unseelie, Seelie, forge-born, all basking in the heat of Flasing’s fever storm. Some danced while others sang, cheeks rosy with too much wine. And at the head of the table, surrounded by two nymphs, was Lir. Already, he stared at her—eyes dark as he watched her, half-lidded, from behind the lip of a goblet.

Aisling approached, Anduril buzzing at her hips. The nymphs poured more wine for the fae king, smiling and twirling their white curls. They served his plate, piling it high with all manner of foods, whispering secrets in his ears till he shifted, and they scattered like doves.

Close your mouth, sorceress, Anduril said.Are you really all that surprised?

Aisling shut her lips, clearing her throat. Both she and Lir averted their eyes in the same moment, turning to the side instead.

A King’s bed is never cold,Anduril continued.His might is best inspired by the attention of his attractions—bonded or otherwise.

Aisling blinked, her eyes suddenly wet. She felt nothing for Lir. He was a stranger and an enemy. He was arrogant, too quiet, too cruel, and a rogue. She disliked him beyond understanding—a distaste that neared loathing. A hatred unprecedented, unusual, and muffled by the thudding of her heart. By the pain in her chest and the sickness in her stomach where she stood now.

I smell the ghost of mortality in your veins, sorceress. Your mind still churns with mortal thoughts. You hate him. You hate him. Did you really believe the nightmare king of the forest would require only one?Anduril cackled, its laugh as caustic as chimes hammered together.

Aisling gritted her teeth, doing her best to swallow this strange ache. It was futile, the pressure flaring in her chest and crawling up her throat. She stood awkwardly before the tavern center, afraid to glance at the fae king and find him leaning into the nymph’s touch.

“Enchantress,” a voice sounded. Aisling jolted in surprise, turning to find someone watching her. “Or violet-eyed wolf girl? Which do you prefer to be remembered by?”

He stood below the fountain carved into one of Flasing’s many sharp ridges, bleeding ice melt. A Sidhe of great height and broad shoulders, his luminous eyes flashed gold when a lantern floated lazily by. His face, gilded in the soft glow, was breathtaking—described best in legends of heroes, of kings, of knights, and princes. He padded forward, eating a fig as he approached. The light of the celebration fell upon him fully and Aisling marveled at the cut and style of his leathers, his armor, and of his teeth—fangs sharper than any Sidhe she’d met yet.

“Where are my manners?” he asked, standing a pace from her. He bowed slowly and rose elegantly. “I am Helm of the Howling Winds,” he introduced himself.

Son of Siofra, Helm was born of one of the original twelve Sidhe sovereigns. Meaning, Helm was a Sidhe king himself, reigning from the mortal plane over his court.

Aisling eyed him closely. Anduril said nothing, quietly watching from its perch.

“Aisling,” the sorceress introduced herself, offering not another word.

Helm smiled, his dark complexion sparkling as two more lanterns floated by.

“They call you faerie in the stories,” Helm said.

“A faerie?” Aisling asked.

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