Veins of Magic

by Emma Hamm

“They don’t have to like it; they just have to do as I say.”

  “Right, because that has a history of working so well with dwarves.”

  “They like my brother even less than they like me.”

  “That’s not because he’s your brother or even that he’s the king. They don’t like Tuatha dé Danann. They might not even let you in.”

  “Then we can all be thankful that I’m this large. I’ll force my way in.”

  “Through solid gold doors?”

  Eamonn lifted a crystal fist. His hand had been injured in the fighting, the bones turned to a solid mass of violet. He could still move it slowly, but it took practice. He considered it a small miracle and tried not to fear the change.

  Cian audibly swallowed. “Point taken, master.”

  It took only a few moments to get the fire started in the center of the bank. Magic assisted to dry the wood, and soon a merry crackle sang over the howling wind.

  Eamonn set himself apart from the others. He was furthest from the fire, allowing the others to soak up the warmth. Their small bodies needed it more than he did. Oona roasted vegetables with a pan from Cian’s pack and a large packet of herbs, honey, and milk.

  “Master?” she asked. “Will you join us?”

  He shook his head and flashed a mouthful of dried venison.

  They huddled together in a lump of Lesser Fae. The boy tucked himself so close to the fire that Eamonn worried he’d set himself alight. They were all exhausted, cold, and hungry.

  He could do little more than shoulder the heavier burdens. He chewed his food, ignoring the worried glances Oona cast over her shoulder. The gnome must have told her about their conversation.

  Worry ate at his mind. He didn’t want to tell them the extent of his injuries. His hand was the least of his worries. Valleys and crevices stretched across his body in all directions.

  He barely felt the cold. The numbing ice sank into his crystals and only barely slowed his body; it didn’t affect him like the others.

  It was worrisome.

  Eamonn had never pushed the affliction as far as it could go. He didn’t want to know what would happen when he was more geode than man.

  He hadn’t told them that Fionn’s blade had caught him by surprise. Eamonn could still see his twin as he rode from behind and lifted his blade. Eamonn had felt him, like a cold wind that danced down his spine.

  He turned, and the blade followed the same path their father’s sword had. It dug along the dip of flesh and bone through his eye.

  Eamonn took care not to show the others. He didn’t want them to see the fractured half of his eyeball, the crystal splitting the orb. He touched it now and then, musing that he didn’t even feel the touch. All the other wounds were sensitive, but not this one.

  If he closed the other eye, he saw the world in fractured pieces. A few faeries turned in hundreds. Fire became a blaze that stretched all around him. He wondered if this was what madness felt like.

  “Master?” Oona called out one last time. “We’re going to rest. Join us?”

  “No.”

  “It’s warmer by the fire.”

  “Sleep well, Pixie. I’ll take the first watch.”

  She grimaced. “The only watch.”

  “Indeed.”

  “You have to sleep sometime, Eamonn.”

  “Not tonight. We’re too close to dwarven territory. I’ll not be caught off guard.”

  He ignored the tears that welled in her eyes. He couldn’t fall prey to her emotions, no matter how tired he was.

  Soldiering was what he did. Their travels brought back memories of a time long ago when he had pushed his men towards armies of Unseelie Fae. They had scattered before his great sword, running from the Untouched Prince.

  He had never seen the Otherworld with snow like this. The drifts were nearly as large as he was in some areas. He guided the faeries around the mountain-like structures and hoped it wouldn’t tire them out too much.

  Obviously, he had been wrong. They all fell asleep within moments of laying their heads down on the ground.

  The fire crackled. The wind howled. And Eamonn remained so still that snow gathered on his shoulders in small lumps. Hours passed but his mind never quieted.

  He didn't need the fire, for a fire lived in his memories. Sorcha, the one woman who had captivated his thoughts since the moment she burst into his throne room. She danced in his mind's eye, swaying to and fro with the fire. She wore the green dress, the one he was particularly fond of, and the flared skirt fanned around her like ocean waves.

  Gods, how he missed her, but this was no life for a woman like her. He hoped she had gone home, found her family, and maybe a good man to give her children and warm nights.

  The crystals on his throat throbbed. Any man who dared touch her would find himself at the end of Eamonn's blade. Perhaps it would be better if she were alone.

  A shadow moved in the corner of his eye. Short, stout, and far too narrow to be a gnome, the dwarf slipped past the sleeping faeries.

  Dwarves were shifty folk. They had sticky fingers, and no one could find them in the winding tunnel systems that made up the dwarven strongholds.

  The shadow shifted again, but Eamonn did not move. Still as stone, he willed his body into complete silence. He didn’t even breathe as the dwarf slid over a mound of snow and made his way towards their packs.

  At least, Eamonn thought it was a he. The beard suggested “male” but one never knew with certainty until they spoke.

  Eamonn stood and silently made his way towards the thief. His footsteps made no sound, and he did not reach for his sword, knowing Ocras would sing for blood.

  His face twisted into a snarl as he darted forward. The dwarf had no chance, Eamonn’s hands closed around its shirt.

  “Oy!” the dwarf wriggled violently, trying to slide out of the jacket.

  Eamonn twisted his fist, crunching crystals through the fabric, forcing the dwarf to remain still. “You’re going nowhere.”

  “Le’ go!”

  “I don’t let go of thieves.”

  “I ain’t a thief!”

  “You were stealing from our packs.”

  The dwarf stilled its struggles, narrowed its eyes, and shrugged. “I was just looking at ‘em.”

  “Why?”

  “Thought they might ‘ave something interesting inside.”

  “But you weren’t planning on stealing?”

  “No, sir.”

  Eamonn arched a crystal brow. “Let me get this straight. You were just going to look at the packs?”

  “Sure was.”

  “Just to see if something interesting was inside.”

  “That was the plan.”

  “And if you found something you fancied, you would leave it.”

  “You got it, mate.”

  “Even if it was a valuable sword?”

  The dwarf’s eyes dipped to the red gem on the pommel of Ocras. “Well, that might ‘ave been a different story.”

  “You would have taken that.”

  “A pack of hungry peasants don’t ‘ave any need for valuable objects.”

  “So you would steal something worth money?”

  “I wouldn’t call it stealing,” the dwarf quipped.

  “You’d leave something behind for it?”

  “Sure would.”

  “Like what?”

  Eamonn could see that the question stumped the dwarf. It wiggled its feet and shrugged again. “I’d ‘ave found something.”

  “Do you have any food on your person?”

  “No.”

  “Any water?”

  “Just snow.”

  “Then you have nothing worthy of trade. That’s called stealing,” he said as he leaned closer to glare into the dwarf’s gaze. “And do you know what I do with dwarves who steal from me?”

  The soft creaking of a bow being drawn carried on the wind. Eamonn stiffened and listened for the telltale rustle of feathers as an arrow was notched.


  “I think you would say that you gave thieves whatever they wanted and let them go in peace,” the heavily accented voice rumbled. “Now put the girl down.”

  Eamonn cocked his head to the side and looked the dwarf in his grasp up and down. “Girl?”

  “What?” she pinwheeled her arms at him. “You couldn’t tell? Come ‘ere I’ll show you what a girl looks like up close!”

  The dwarf behind him barked, “Put ‘er down.”

  “I don’t think so,” Eamonn twisted his hand until the girl yelped.

  “Now.”

  Eamonn glanced over his shoulder at the dwarf who planted his feet into the snow. His bow stretched higher than his head, and Eamonn was certain this one was male. His grey beard fluttered in the wind and silver-plated armor decorated his body.

  Their gazes locked and Eamonn gave him a feral grin.

  Oona stirred, waking from her slumber to blink at the standoff. “Master,” she murmured. “Perhaps you should do what he says.”

  But he was already angry. So angry that he wasn’t thinking straight and frustrated that the dwarves were already pulling weapons. What had he done to earn their hatred? They didn’t know who he was. They had no right.

  He twisted the girl’s jacket until she grasped the neck and wheezed.

  “Shoot the arrow," Eamonn said. "Show us the true nature of dwarven hospitality.”

  The dwarf didn’t hesitate. He loosed the arrow that cut snowflakes in half and struck Eamonn right over his heart. The metal tip bent as it struck flesh and then crystal. Wood shattered into splinters that decorated the snow in tiny shards.

  Eamonn felt nothing. He cared for nothing. All he knew was that the dwarf had attacked.

  Cocking his head to the side, he dropped the girl onto the ground and snapped the metal tip from his crystal. “You cut my jacket.”

  The dwarf dropped his bow into the snow. “What are you?”

  The smaller dwarf at his feet scuttled backwards. “Cursed.”

  “Monster,” the other echoed. “You are not welcome on dwarf lands. We will drive you and your cursed people out.”

  “You can try,” Eamonn growled.

  Oona scrambled to her feet, holding out her hands. “No, please. He’s no monster!”

  “Explain what he is then, because the dwarves do not abide by black magic.”

  “He is your king!”

  The wind whistled through his crystals and Eamonn stared the dwarves down. The little girl climbed towards the male, ducking behind him as if that would keep her safe. His hand hovered over Ocras, but he did not pull her free. Not yet.

  “King?” The dwarf shook his head. “There is only one king.”

  “You are correct,” Oona warned. “You stand before the High King of the Seelie Court. The firstborn son of Lorcan the Brave.”

  “Who, the Untouched? He’s dead.”

  “I’m not dead,” Eamonn said. “Far from it.”

  The dwarf shook his head. “Well, pull my beard. If it’s really you, the lord under the mountain will want to see you.”

  “Wait just a minute,” the female dwarf grumbled. “‘Ow do we know it’s really ‘im?”

  “You don’t,” Eamonn said.

  Oona shuffled forward, hesitating when the dwarves backed away. “I am Fae, just as you. I cannot lie.”

  “You could believe that he’s the high king, and he might lead you astray.”

  “I cared for him as a child. I sang songs to him when he slept, and I watched while they hung him. This is the eldest son, the one spoken of in song.”

  “And what do you want with the dwarves?” He directed his question to Eamonn with a nod.

  He shifted, placing his hand against Ocras. His furred cloak parted in the breeze and revealed his crystal fist and misshapen torso.

  “I wish to speak with the lord under the mountain regarding an army.”

  “For what?”

  “For war against Fionn the Wise.”

  “You want to take back the throne?”

  Eamonn shrugged. “I wish to see my brother’s head on a stake.”

  “You have no desire for the throne?”

  “We shall see how the story unfolds. The rest is for your lord’s ears alone.”

  The dwarves turned their back on Eamonn and the rest of his crew. They wrapped their arms around each other and mumbled. One of their heads would raise to meet his unwavering gaze before they ducked back down.

  Finally, they turned as one. “We’ll take you underground.”

  “You’ll feed and wash my people.”

  “We take only you.”

  “You take everyone.” Eamonn’s hand flexed on the pommel of his sword. “Or I’ll insist upon justice for the attempted theft and find myself another dwarf.”

  “You’d never find another.”

  “If you think I cannot tear this mountain apart, then you do not know my reputation.”

  The male dwarf snorted. “Come on then. The lot of you.”

  Eamonn turned his back on them and gestured at Oona. “Wake the others. We’re going underground.”

  The Medicine And The Blade

  Sorcha couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t feel. Black sparks obscured her vision as poison coursed through her veins. The snake sunk its fangs deeper into her ankle.

  Blood dripped from the twin punctures onto the snow where it sizzled and sank to the earth. Swallowing hard, unable to feel her own tongue, she glanced down and watched seedlings grow from the perfect red circles. The snow melted around their fragile stems.

  She blinked and the powdery white returned, its blood-stained imperfection swallowing the seedlings.

  The snake squeezed her leg, unlatched its mouth, and wound its way up her body. The smooth scales rasped against her skin as it looped around her neck and opened its mouth wide.

  Venom dripped from each fang. She felt the poison land on her cloak, burning through the thick fabric and sticking to her breast. It burned, but she couldn’t lift her hand to brush it away.

  Her gaze caught the slitted eyes of the snake. A low hiss vibrated through her skull and the air turned hot. She panted, but could not inhale enough air. Not while the creature swayed, tightening around her throat.

  It looked away from her, pointing its flat head towards the forest beyond.

  Delirious, she stared at the trees and watched the snow melt. Leaves unfurled and moss grew upon the trunks, so thick and lush that it rivaled any she had seen before.

  The trees moved. They did not pull up their roots or bend. They parted like a wave as if the world ripped in half and a new path formed.

  Sorcha furrowed her brows, struggling to stand and watch the phenomenon. The snake hissed in her ear and it sounded like words.

  “Walk forward,” it said. “Walk towards your destiny.”

  But she couldn’t walk. She couldn’t even lift a foot as the venom that tasted like nightshade froze in her veins. She was cold. So cold.

  Snapping jaws closed around her jugular, sinking deep into the corded muscle of her neck and pumping more venom into her body. She felt it. Cold like ice and hot like fire all at the same time. It unthreaded from her neck and stretched in splintered pieces throughout her body.

  “Go,” the snake hissed again. “The trees know the way.”

  A tear slid down her cheek and she stepped forward. Whispers echoed in the trees. Not faeries, for she knew their voices well. The deep grumbles came from within the earth, tangled in the roots of trees. They groaned out legends, myths, and stories about a rose garden that grew between great oaks.

  Sorcha listened as she walked through their path. Her vision warped, and she saw people in the shadows. Not faeries, not dryads, but figures wearing leather with their faces painted blue.

  The sun set, and the moon rose at the end of the path—a full moon though she was certain it had already passed. Her head tilted to the side, baring her neck to the snake which hissed in her ear. The moon was dripping silver
.

  Fat droplets fell towards an altar at the end of the path. Sluggishly, they dripped into the basin. The water turned silvery-white, like milk with rainbows dancing upon the oiled surface.

  “Drink,” the viper hissed. “Drink and join the others.”

  “What others?” Sorcha asked, her words slurred.

  The snake didn’t answer. She heard her ragged breath mingling with the steady thrum of her heart. It sounded like the beat of drums.

  It was drums, she realized, drums beaten by those standing among the trees. They weren’t there, she thought. They couldn’t be there because she could see through them. They held swords and spears in their hands. The sound came from striking blade against shield.

  “Drink the moon?” she slurred. She could already taste the heady flavor. The cold ice water that would wash away the nightshade as she swallowed.

  “Drink,” the viper hissed again.

  Sorcha stepped forward and dipped her hands into the altar. Underneath the milk white water, her flesh melted away. She flexed her skeletal hands, whimpering because there was no pain. Only a blank space where feeling should be.

  She wondered how she was meant to hold the water in these hands. But as she scooped it in her palms, the flesh returned. She lifted the moon to her lips and drank deeply of its essence.

  It slid down her throat like a balm. The physical effects of the poison washed away. Closing her eyes, she reveled in the return of sensation.

  The viper’s jaw snapped.

  Sorcha opened her eyes and stared at the moon. Blood dripped from the top and turned it red.

  “A bad omen,” she said.

  “Not for us,” the viper hissed. “Never for us.”

  “Us?”

  The phantoms stepped forward. Their hands trailed down her sides until Sorcha could no longer tell what was a hallucination and what was really happening. She could feel their fingers clutching her flesh.

  They lifted the snake from her neck and stripped the clothing from her body. They plucked at her hair, pulling strands from her head. Their fingers were cold.

  Shivering violently, she wrapped her arms around her nudity and stared at their painted faces. They warped, changing from man to beast.

  To nightmares.

  A woman stepped forward, twigs tangled in the long length of her wild hair. She was nude as well, twin circles painted around her breasts and runes carved into her skin.