Aisling: A Spell Unbinding, page 29
“Now that you mention it, how did you enter last, princeling?” Gilrel asked, crossing her paws.
“Faeraks often carry fae blood in vials for masking our mortal scent. Last time I was here, I made use of those supplies.”
Gilrel softened her posture, but by the glimmer in her beady, black eyes, Aisling knew she still harbored suspicion.
The rest of their group stepped closer to the gate while Aisling lingered behind. Swiftly, she reached inside her pocket and found the parchment she’d stolen from the spell book in Bludhaven’s druid shop.
Touch for Memory:
Speak the following enchantment and touch
the desired object to relive its every memory.
Cuillhnigh ar rach hud
a kheap tú go ndearla tú dearkad.
Aisling memorized the words, quickly slipping the parchment back into her pocket the moment Filverel glanced back at her. And once he looked away, Aisling closed her eyes and hoped, gripping the cauldron and repeating the incantation beneath her breath while the others appraised the threshold into Iod. She felt the draiocht rise and breath but this time it was different. It was soft, guided, and molded by the words of the incantation instead of her own will. A spell. The draiocht straining against this new practice in discipline, one she’d attempted in the apple tree with Lir, the second in an effort to heal Lir, and the third now.
The draiocht snarled, nipping at Aisling as she spoke the incantation more loudly in her mind. Racat grimaced resisting until Aisling hissed in return, scolding the creature and demanding its obedience.
And it worked.
But the triumph was short-lived, eclipsed by the flashing of the cauldron’s memory: days of wintertide forced a shiver from Aisling’s body, the sensation of a bird’s talons gripping the lip of the cauldron, digging into Aisling’s temples, the memory of silence, of the stirring of the surrounding wood until at last, a memory that mattered appeared.
Starn, Iarbonel, Fergus, Annind, and Killian, stood around the cauldron. One by one they painted their palms in the blood of the fae, whose throat was slit at their feet, and dripped a single droplet into the cauldron. And once the last drop was spilt, they continued into Iod, lugging the body of the fae soldier by their ankles.
Aisling snapped back into the present time. She exhaled a laugh, quickly recovering before joining the others. A handful of seconds she’d been gone maybe more, but it’d felt like much longer whilst inside the spell. And if Aisling could wield spells such as this, what else could she wield other than fire?
Aisling would indulge in such possibilities later. For now, her attention was focused on her brother.
Starn. One couldn’t enter Iod lest they bore fae blood, so her brother had found a way to circumvent Ina’s law by slaying a member of the Sidhe. A knight from Oighir, Aisling conjectured by the forgery of his armor. Starn, her brothers, and Killian desperate for a disguise.
Aisling cleared her throat.
“My brother has already been here,” Aisling said and the rest of the fae and Dagfin grit their teeth or shifted. Perhaps having assumed but not been certain. Lir looked at Aisling over his shoulder where he stood nearest to Iod’s arch, eyes drifting to her hand still leaning against the cauldron.
“He’ll die before he reaches Lofgren’s peak,” Filverel said.
“He’s desperate enough not to,” Dagfin said. “That’s how they’ve made it this far.”
Indeed, Aisling’s brothers and Killian claimed they were returning home as soon as they’d escaped Oighir. But now that Aisling thought of it, her brothers’ plans had been designed with Annind’s health in mind and so, once Fionn had remedied him back to health to gain Aisling’s favor, there was no longer reason to return to Tilren.
Aisling cursed beneath her breath. She should’ve anticipated this but with everything unravelling so swiftly around her, she’d forgotten about her clann entirely. Glad to be rid of them.
Aisling shook her head.
“May I borrow a blade?” she asked. Galad did a double take, searching her eyes.
He handed Aisling a dagger from his bandolier and watched as she sliced her palm. The smell of her blood affording her the rest of their party’s attention.
“For the Faerak?” Galad asked as Aisling let her blood drip into the cauldron. Dagfin flicked his eyes away, understanding that it was the half of Aisling’s blood that ran fae that allowed him entry.
“Aye,” Aisling replied.
“We’ll see if it works,” Galad said, collecting his dagger.
“And if it doesn’t?”
Galad hesitated, avoiding looking at the Faerak.
“Just as with his union with Peitho, the draiocht doesn’t take kindly to being deceived.”
Aisling’s heart stuttered. Glaring at the trail of blood scraped across the dusty, snow-ridden floors and into Iod’s winding.
Iod was breathtaking.
An endless city carved from the mountains and dusted in snow, divided by a slender valley parting the rise before it connected overtop once more. An arch in and of itself riddled with staircases, terraces, turrets, and battlements, and warmed by floating lanterns of fae light. Snowy owls perched and flapping their wings on every ledge. Carvings and statues of winged Sidhe dancing, battling, soaring. And where the staircases didn’t lead, still homes, arcades, shops, and village levels cut into the highest layers of stone, spindly towers suspended in the air by magic alone—reached only by those who could fly and no others.
All of it, abandoned and preserved despite the millennia that passed since Ina had forsaken her kingdom.
A land of ghosts and curses, casting whispers into the wind as their group walked inside.
Aisling was struck with the sensation she wasn’t meant to be there. That whatever remained of her mortal blood fought with every morsel of its will to flee the opposite direction. Aisling glanced at Dagfin. The Faerak rolled his shoulders, seemingly as affected as Aisling was.
Lir drifted to where Aisling walked, unsheathing his axes.
It was deathly quiet. Not a sound except for the howling of the gale as it purled through Iod’s corridors.
“Which direction do we travel first?” Peitho asked in Rún, her radiance a contrast to the pale landscape around her. As though she too, didn’t belong.
Iod was a labyrinth of rocky corridors, staircases that broke off, tunnels, caves, and artfully carved reliefs. Winter flowers and garlands of pine needles draped and clinging to every landing, every arch, every ornamental buttress as the city loomed around and above them.
“Lofgren’s rise is the tallest peak in Iod,” Lir said, gesturing to the tip of the kingdom’s arch.
Aisling squinted, glaring up and into the nebulous sky where Lofgren’s rise slept.
“Do you remember how to get there?” Filverel asked, staring up and into the distance.
“I spent little time here as a child,” Lir said, brow furrowing. Aisling wasn’t certain what feelings his mother’s kingdom aroused in him. Sadness, grief, anger. Only that it disturbed the Fae King. His temper short and his mouth bent cruelly.
“Nor I,” Galad added. He, another subject of the Greenwood, born with Iod ancestry.
“We’ll follow the trail of blood,” Filverel said. “And hope the Faerak is right.”
“Let’s get this over with.” Lir led their group down the valley.
They each held their breath, and none spoke. Their thoughts ricocheting off the emptiness of Iod as they wandered through.
Aisling could almost hear the laughter that once spun through these pebbled corridors, filling these shops. The smell of gingerbreads, hazelnut pastries, sugarplum jellies, and cranberry ciders. The sound of their sleigh bells, lutes, and trumpets, and the taste of their draiocht. Like frostbite and perilous highland trails. How the air would’ve been crowded with fluttering winged fae. Their mirth, their life, vanished. All gone, corrupted, and forsaken by Ina for her caera. A foolish mistake that cost her everything. Standing in Iod now, the weight of such a mistake was made obvious.
And if the ghost of Iod’s past wasn’t enough, Aisling felt as though she were being watched. Studied as she entered. Every owl, glaring at her with their bulbous eyes till her skin crawled.
The trail of blood ended beside a staircase that barreled into the side of the mountain.
Above the staircase, letters were etched in Rún. So Gilrel translated for both Aisling and Dagfin.
Enter here only the invited.
The chosen, the mighty, and the knighted.
Otherwise, pay by breath,
the lasting coin of death.
Their attention wandered to a hand of stone, protruding from the wall beside the threshold.
“Ina enjoyed her riddles, it appears.” Filverel read the passage a few more times, disassembling each sentence word by word, syllable by syllable.
“This is ridiculous.” Peitho rushed to the entrance, prepared to dive into the darkness. Her hand slipped past the entryway first, snatching a bloodcurdling scream from her lips. And when she drew back her hand, it was skeletal; phantom white, the flesh stripped from her fingers and shriveled to dust, slowly returning to normal the longer she stayed away from the threshold. Horror marking her features until her hand, at last, bore no signs of the death-given bones it had just donned.
“I suppose we haven’t an invitation after all,” Gilrel said, grabbing Peitho’s hand and studying it up close.
“From whom?” Dagfin asked.
“Ina.” Aisling moved forward, tracing the stone hand with her fingertips.
“Careful,” Galad said, moving beside her as if to take her hand away. Before he could, Aisling’s fingertips lit like matches, sparked by the magic of the mountain.
“Remember the doorknob in Annwyn?” Aisling asked the knight. “The whittled hand each and every visitor must clasp to make its acquaintance? This is no different. Only now, we meet the mountain itself. Lofgren’s rise will determine if Ina has invited us or not.”
At Aisling’s words, they each peered through the threshold.
Darkness veiled its full passage, but Aisling could nevertheless see its path spin upwards into the heart of God-Forged rock.
Aisling folded her hand into the stone’s grasp.
The mountain heaved in and out, as though gasping for breath. Its every expire low, thick, and timbersome, vibrating with magic lingering from the beginning of time. With rain pelting its jagged back, trees growing over its boulders, and stars bending lower to lick its peaks. This giant annealed by the Forge and the Gods themselves, weary after centuries of hoarding Iod’s abandoned kingdom.
Fire ignited around Aisling’s knuckles, wove across the stone hand’s wrist, and spilled into the interlace tracing the door. Every stroke and groove filled with flame, lighting the entryway in violet fire.
“Wait,” Dagfin and Lir said in unison, but Aisling was already stepping through the threshold. She crossed, unharmed and purpled by the glow of her flames.
Chapter XXXVI
AISLING
One by one they traveled up and into the dark.
Aisling cupped her hands together and bloomed the draiocht. A bud of fire that fluttered into individual flames like rose petals, catching the mountain’s sighs and lighting their path as it floated through their party.
“Impossible. Ina’s been dead for centuries, how could she have invited her?” Filverel asked, glancing at Aisling over his shoulder.
“Her draiocht takes the form of Racat. Is it really so outlandish to believe she’s been foreseen by Ina herself?” Gilrel argued, eyes narrowed as she led their party up the mountain.
“You needn’t speak of me as though I’m not here,” Aisling said. “Perhaps the entrance responded to magic and spells alone.”
“Then it would’ve allowed Peitho in,” Galad replied. “This considering her lungs alike breathe with magic, as do all the Sidhe.”
Aisling’s brow furrowed. When she’d first arrived in Annwyn, a snake had guided her to a hidden chamber. One adorned with a large fountain and the image of an owl, watching her as she appraised it. Her first invitation, Aisling was now realizing. A chill creeping up her spine at the thought.
Lir avoided Aisling’s eyes, preferring to stare into the dark instead. He knew something but Aisling wasn’t certain what. Only that no matter the situation, she could depend on Lir to harbor his secrets.
Aisling swatted the questions away lest her anxiety worsen. Everything she’d ever wanted rested at the tip of Lofgren’s rise. Just within reach yet Aisling couldn’t help feeling like it were somehow farther away than it’d ever been.
At last, they arrived at a landing that spilled into a wide corridor. One that belonged inside a magnificent fae castle, dressed in banners of ivory and embroidered with three-eyed owls. Fae light hung from the beams overhead in quilts of white clover, illuminating the velvet carpets, the vases spilling over with prickly poinsettias and holly. Ceilings distantly high, knotted with ribbons, wind chimes, and dripping with dark jewels mined from within the mountains, Aisling assumed.
And just before them, at the center of the corridor was a mighty threshold made of wood. Carvings of thorny wreaths, interlace, and one slender dragon adorned the door, vibrating with the sound of music on the other side.
“It’s a trap,” Filverel said, drawing his sword from his back. “No one goes near the door.”
The advisor approached slowly, weighing the possibilities of what lay beyond. It sounded like a celebration. One of wild music, of swishing gowns, and uninhibited laughter.
“The corridors aren’t predictable,” Dagfin said. “They shift and change direction, leading further into the mountain until it’s near impossible to find one’s way back.”
“What’s your alternative then, princeling?” Gilrel leapt atop Filverel’s shoulder.
“The mountain is divided in two,” Dagfin said. “The left side is trickery. The right side is riddled with beasts. At least, that’s what I pieced together last I was here.”
“And why were you here, princeling?” Peitho asked, arching a brow.
“Faerak business.”
“Care to share,” Galad pried.
Dagfin grew taut, glaring at the fae through shadowed eyes. Each day he grew weaker, Aisling could tell. His Ocras lessened by the hour as he consumed more than he ought to. And despite standing in Iod now, where Ocras was harvested from the stone, Aisling didn’t know how or if it were possible for one Faerak to reap the Ocras alone. So, Aisling was left to hope Dagfin knew what he was doing. And selfishly, Aisling needed him to indulge in the Ocras lest he perish. Lest he be another mortal caught in the crossfire.
“Is there another way?” Aisling interjected. “Or do you know what lies on the other side of this door?”
Dagfin shook his head. “Last I was here, I chose the corridors instead of this threshold. The music persisted even then, meaning—”
“It’s an enchantment,” Filverel conjectured.
“Not all enchantments are bad.” Peitho shrugged.
“And what of the corridors?” Galad asked.
“As I said, most are deceptive, but it isn’t impossible to navigate them. Based on the landscape of the rest of the mountain, however, the ballroom should be the quickest route to the top. Almost a direct path.”
Aisling eyed the trail of blood. It traveled down the right-hand side corridor and into darkness. Starn was being sloppy. A sign of desperation.
“We’ll divide ourselves,” Aisling said. “Half can follow Starn’s trail of blood through the corridors, a guide despite the labyrinth. The rest will venture through this threshold in case the corridors are a deception. If either or both of us are successful, this doubles our chances of reaching the top of Lofgren’s rise before anyone else.”
“Is it wise to divide ourselves against unknown enemies?” Peitho asked, appraising the reaction of the rest of their party. “We have no idea what else lies here, much less who. Our chances of survival are slim when apart.”
“Peitho’s right,” Galad said. “There’s no guarantee we’ll find one another again considering we lack communication whilst inside this keep. If anyone were to grow lost or . . .” the rest of his sentiment died in the air between them. The perils of their quest made tangible and bitter on their tongues.
“Not one of us was ignorant to the risks involved when entering Iod,” Aisling said. “Whatever our motivation, we came to reach Lofgren’s rise before any others, not to dawdle in fear.”
Aisling could taste what she’d coveted for so long. It was close. All the answers she needed were right here, beating like fae drums. She couldn’t—wouldn’t slow her pace now. Wouldn’t let the frivolities of fear keep her from losing what was just within reach to the ambitions of another.
“Your impatience blinds—”
“Enough,” Lir interrupted. “Your queen has spoken.”
His tone commanded silence. Filverel swallowed his rebuttal, bowing his head at Aisling. And at the gesture, Aisling's stomach fluttered. As though his acquiescence was born from more than just his respect for Lir but his respect for Aisling as well. Yet, it wasn't possible. Filverel despised and distrusted Aisling more than most, yet the glister of recognition in his opalescent orbs spoke a different sentiment entirely. One Aisling hadn't been prepared to receive.
“How should we divide ourselves then?” Gilrel asked, brushing dust off her pauldrons.
“The princeling knows these corridors best,” Galad said. “Gilrel and Peitho will follow him through.”
“I go where Aisling goes,” Dagfin said. Immediately, Lir’s posture tightened.
“You’ll go where she commands you to go,” Lir said.
Yet Aisling didn’t protest. In truth, Aisling didn’t want Dagfin to leave her sight whilst inside Iod’s keep. The entirety of their relationship lived thus far, Dagfin had protected Aisling. From the other children, from her father and tutors, and from herself. Now it was Aisling’s turn. She wasn’t certain how much Ocras Dagfin had left, and she wasn’t willing to risk it. So long as he was near, Aisling would know he was all right.
