Page 39 of The Forever Queen

Lir gathered the map and stood from his chair, remembering last minute to duck his head before he hit the ceiling beams with the back of his head.

The ramshackle cottage still huffed from its chimney as he braced against the outside storm. The old fox’s newfound kelpie was deep within his wetlands no doubt devouring the wetweed that grew plentifully there, thanks to Lir. Bound to protect the cottage until the end of time.

“Farewell, nightmare,” the old fox said, waving at Lir before he disappeared into the wilderness.

“Not ‘mo Damh Bán’?” Lir asked.

“I’ve neither witnessed myself nor overheard the presence ofmo Damh Bán,” the old fox replied mischievously, winking at Lir. “You’d best find him in Annwyn.”

Lir smiled, recognizing the trust weaving between them, thread by thread.

“Until we meet again, Cara,” Lir said, addressing the old fox by his name.

The forge-born beast, taken aback, widened his eyes. He hadn’t told Lir his name, but the trees had, and Lir would remember it.

“And, nightmare, take the left wing of the forest by the cliff edge of the river. You’ll reach Castle Yillen more quickly avoiding the storm floods and the rot that spreads,” Cara called after him.

Lir nodded his head in thanks, recognizing—not for the first time—Cara had proven himself a worthy ally.

CHAPTER XV

AISLING

Niamh and Aisling slipped through Castle Yillen like spirits, the blue rabbits following closely behind. They wandered past the kitchens spilling over with sweet plumes of freshly baked cakes and breads. They passed the chapels, glittering with candlelight reflecting off the stained glass and blessed by the dense ghosts of incense waging holy battles by the rafters.

“A haven for prayer,” Niamh explained as Aisling’s gaze lingered.

“Do sleeping gods hear prayers?” Aisling asked, wondering if Niamh would take offense to her inquiry. As far as Aisling understood, the twin gods had forsaken both the mortal plane and the Otherworld, choosing to sleep in place of reigning from their primordial thrones. This was why the twelve Sidhe sovereigns ruled—their power, now, divided and insufficient to prevent the prophecies all-seers witnessed.

Niamh, however, smiled. “Time will tell.”

They continued their passage through Castle Yillen until Niamh approached the steepled doors. Aisling smelled the alder tree the doors were carved from. Still, its heart thumped, pumping sap through the veins of its gnarled surface. But it was the face around it, born from the same tree, that unsettled Aisling most of all.

The alder bent and twisted, taking the form of a colossal king. The doors were his gaping mouth. The king’s hair was long and braided, beaded with leaves and blackberries that bled along the ridges of its roots. His beard was thick and cloaked with moss, spilling around the doorway like snakes.

Aisling’s ears popped with a change in pressure. A sensation similar to being in the presence of magic for the first time: an invisible enchantment made old, timeworn, and immortal by the pressure of eternity.

“Breka,” Niamh said, staring up at the colossus herself. “The eldest of the god brothers.”

Breka. Anduril vibrated as if trembling. As if disquieted in the presence of a god’s likeness. Aisling had never heard the gods’ names spoken before. The Lore—the library of collective history—was referred to as the Forbidden Lore in the mortal world. And so, Aisling had scarcely sipped from its well of knowledge.

Niamh raised her arm and as if summoned awake, the doors opened of their own accord.

“L? Brearis on the other side of this room,” Niamh said as she stepped forward. “We must pass through.”

Aisling peered into a darkness like oblivion. But the moment they crossed the threshold, every rain droplet froze in mid-air like suspended crystals, sparkling with luminous light.

Aisling inhaled.

Tomes, novels, bibles, and the entire Forbidden Lore were stacked on shelves, forgotten on desks, or pressed against the sky-high rafters. The ceiling was made of stained glass, flashing colorfully each time the lightning outside craved attention.

Poetry scrolls, ballads, and fireside tales floated of their own accord, aimlessly flipping through their own pages as they whispered the stories they yearned to tell. The room was a hushed chorus of murmuring, of humming, of words unread and beautiful.

Detailed and ornate statues of winged Sidhe knights lined the walls alongside gargoyles, dragons, and owls. Each furious, blades in hand, fangs bared, and talons eager to strike.

Niamh chose the center thoroughfare, entering the labyrinth. Aisling followed a pace behind, careful not to knock into the flying, self-reading books.

It was a dark corner where the end of the Forbidden Lore section rested; the collective history of their making written into a series of great opuses charmingly tokened as “forbidden” thanks to the mortals’ censorship of the past they shared with the fae.

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