Page 87 of The Forever Queen

“Vow your allegiance to the Forge and to the draiocht,” the Other spoke from her mouth. She knew it was the realm itself—its spirit watching and waiting for her.

“I vow it,” Aisling said.

Thunder clapped and lightning webbed across the sky. The clouds gathered more thickly, blending with the canopies from the forest that thrashed side to side. The storm moon smiled, watching Aisling with glittering eyes from up above.

“The Goblet of Lore is now yours to drink, in the name of the Forge.”

Aisling brought the Goblet to her lips and tilted the legend back.

Aisling, Anduril sang to itself.Aisling, it repeated. Aisling hesitated, the brew a hair’s width from reaching her lips yet still not close enough to taste. She lowered the Goblet further.

Aisling, Anduril said again, this time louder.

Aisling forgot the Goblet, focusing on Anduril’s voice.

Aisling.

Aisling allowed the belt this brief respite. Allowed it to sing at her waist considering it’d kept her alive outside of Eogi’s cave.

But then another voice spoke her name aloud.

Aisling, a feminine voice sang.

Aisling cocked her head to side, immediately startled.

“Who are you?” Aisling asked aloud, feeling silly once she had. But the incorporeal voice continued, repeating her name again and again.

Aisling, it called.

Aisling.

And then Aisling’s ankles were yanked and she was dragged beneath the surface of the lake, the world dissolving to black.

CHAPTER XXXII

LIR

On this eve, fury was given a new name. Fury cut through the forest like the child he’d been centuries ago. A winged wisp, axes in hand, weeping and carrying anger between his fangs like a hot coal. Then, he’d been burdened by the passing of his mother. Tonight, he held a butchered heart between bleeding fingers, comforted by the darkest reaches of the greenwood.

Lir rubbed his eyes, wishing he could burn the image of Aisling and the past several days from his mind. He’d cut it out with iron if he must. He’d torch his memory for the opportunity to forget. And yet, no spells, no potions, no salves were potent enough to undo the agony his love for Aisling had wrought inside him. And still, he knew Aisling needed him.

The end of the war was approaching swiftly—too swiftly. The last moon of the storm season was coming. Everything Lir held tightly to seemed to slip through his fingers until he feared he’d have nothing left. Every choice made thus far, Lir made to step closer to Sidhe victory over the mortals. So, how now did he find his every ambition lost before he bore the chance to claim it? How now did he feel himself…losing? Losing Annwyn, the Sidhe, Aisling…

Lir turned to face the blood ash behind him and sank his fangs into its bark. He sucked hard, eyes rolling back in his head when the first droplets of sap reached his teeth and filled him. Sweet, sticky, and thick, the sap took immediate effect, calming his nerves, his muscles, his fury. His shoulders fell, his hands softened, and his pupils tripled in size till no green was left.

The sap of a blood ash was intoxicating. More powerful and more pleasurable than even Sidhe wine.

“Drink, drink, sire,” the tree whispered. “Rest, sire. Rest.”

Lir sank against the trunk of the tree, ignoring its branches as it bent to cradle him.Ellwynbloomed and held his head gently against the tapestries of lichen, weaving new vines between his ringed fingers.

Take flight, little wolf.

Let no hunter catch you,

no fox outwit you,

no devil master you.

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