Page 11 of The Forever Queen

“And should Aisling wield it, alongside the power fomented by hers and Lir’s union—ultimate sovereignty is within our grasp,” Fionn said, his voice strained and almost pleading.

Aisling’s ambition grew hungry inside her gut, her tongue wetting at the words against her own volition.

“But such an opportunity won’t be granted if Niamh believes Aisling and Lir to be the harbingers of ill omens, the inevitable death of the Sidhe, and ill-equipped to unearth the Goblet,” Fionn said.

Aisling considered Fionn where he stood. His silver hair and embroidered robes were more disheveled than she’d seen them before, having spent the evening in Annwyn’s dungeons. Nevertheless, his eyes held Aisling’s stare with the same cool confidence he’d possessed when they’d first met. Held her gaze even as Aisling approached. Yet, a single glimmer of hesitation in the twitch of his jaw was enough to betray his nerves.

“Perhaps it’s whatever human ghost remains inside me, that finds your every gesture so?—”

“Aos Sí?” Fionn finished for her, a reference to how her clann referred to the Sidhe.

Aisling nodded. “Like a tea steeped far too long.”

Fionn smirked, but Aisling saw the way he hung onto her every word. How he listened for its tone, for its mood, wondering if this conversation would be his last.

“Ash,” Lir said, taking another step toward her till his boots reached the edge of the dais.

“You’ve said it countless times before and yet,” Aisling spoke to Fionn, “your silver, Sidhe tongue finds another way to express it; Lir and I, despite being pulled to one another by fate’s fickle threads, are destined to bring ruin. Like we did atImbolc.”

The corners of Fionn’s lips twitched upward. Hope blooming around the frost in his iris.

“Like you did atImbolc,” the son of Winter repeated.

Aisling held out her hand, palm up. In response, Frigg’s expression bore the suggestion of an unsung growl, but he dared not voice it in Lir’s audience.

Aisling’sdraiochtfizzled and popped, rising up her spine till it blossomed in lush bouquets of flame, dangling from the oaks Lir had grown centuries prior.

Lir’s knights, Peitho and Gilrel, and everyone in attendance held their breath, glossy eyes reflecting the violet of Aisling’s fire. Spells that Castle Annwyn had never sheltered within its walls. Spells that, by their nature, contradicted all that was forge-brewed or born. Fire and magic together was blasphemy. And they all knew it.

Aisling’s breath hitched.

“Every moment the two of you spend together, is another pace closer to the destruction of our world,” Fionn said, stepping closer to Aisling. “Your union is lawless. There are those elements in either this plane or the next that long to be together?—”

“The sun and the moon, the fox and its star, the moth to the flame…” Aisling trailed off.

“Aye, yet, by the bounds of the natural world, never can their love be. Despite how much either might desire it.”

Aisling, against her own volition, met Lir’s gaze over her shoulder. Immediately, her heart took off, beating against her rib cage as though its rightful home was with the beast, fury and all, behind her, standing before his throne. Still, she sank into the sage of his eyes and wandered deep into their grisly forests.

The magic between them electrified every breath she and Lir shared, every glance, every touch, every thought one had for the other. Lightning webbing between them like the threads of theircaerabond, twisting painfully, hauntingly, till Aisling found her obsession with the Seelie king all-consuming.

“And what’s your solution?” Aisling returned her attention to Fionn.

The son of Winter glanced at Lir. Frigg flattened his ears against his head.

“That depends,” Fionn said. “On which path you choose to take: I believe you can fulfill the omens that presage the desolation of the Sidhe or you can spare us. The road is cleaved by your potential and fate is shackled to your decision. So, what will it be?”

“My allegiance is with Lir and the Sidhe,” Aisling said, her voice laced with the echoing ring of prophecies spoken aloud. Aisling resisted the urge to meet Lir’s eyes. She felt him watching her, but she needed to stand on her own, without his strength to guide her. A sentiment he understood despite the muscle that leaped across his jaw as he withheld his violence.

“Then let history remember Oighir and Winter’s support in the sparing of the Seelie race.” Fionn snapped his fingers and a belt sparkled into existence around his hips.

Immediately, Peitho sucked in a sharp breath, her shoulders going rigid beside Aisling with recognition.

The belt was seemingly made of solid gold. Plate by plate, the belt hung on the son of Winter like a chain of shields, braided together by silver threads. It clinked when Fionn moved and flashed brilliantly when graced by the light. But it was the eerie, near-intangible ring of its magic that unsettled Aisling most of all. As if a gong had been struck and the noise was trapped inside the belt, echoing into oblivion. And if Aisling listened to it closely, the ring became a scream—desolate, hopeless, and angry.

“This is Anduril,” Peitho whispered beneath her breath, just loud enough for Aisling to hear. “The Blood Cord of the Dark Sun.”

CHAPTER III

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