Veins of Magic

by Emma Hamm

  Briana was the first, the bravest and most tired of being ill. A single drop on her tongue, and they waited. For days and days they waited until Sorcha finally cut into her sister’s back.

  She pulled out each beetle and stared in shock at the dead insects. They didn’t move, they didn’t struggle, they didn’t even twitch.

  The cure worked.

  Sorcha treated the rest of the household one by one, then pulled out the beetles remaining underneath their flesh. The miraculous substance in the vial baffled her and never seemed to diminish.

  Her father swished his mouth and swallowed. All his healthy daughters clustered around him, staring with rapt attention. They prayed that Sorcha was right and hadn't gotten lucky with all thirteen of them.

  He looked into their expectant faces and shrugged. “They don’t seem to be moving anymore.”

  Rosaleen shrieked and jumped into his arms. “You’re cured! You will live, Papa!”

  The other sisters leapt forward. They all clustered together in a great circle around their father, tears streaking their cheeks and laughter bubbling from their chests.

  Sorcha smiled, tucked the vial back into its small case, and stepped back from the revelry. They would all live. It was a miracle that should fill her soul with happiness.

  But she was still so empty.

  She stirred the soup above the fire and let them have a moment. They deserved to be happy. Their lives unfolded in blank pages they could write upon, though they would hold scars for all eternity.

  When had she become so cold? Was this a normal reaction for someone after coming home from the Otherworld?

  She imagined it was. This place, these people, they all seemed so dull compared to the life she had seen. They didn’t understand magic or the wondrous things it could do. Their minds were so focused upon themselves, rather than each other. The plain wood walls, dirty stone floors, and drafty rooms made her heart heavy.

  Sorcha missed the faeries more now that she knew they lived. Now it wasn’t that she had lost them. They had chosen to leave her behind.

  She blew out a breath and pushed her hair back. Hy-brasil had taken everything she knew about herself and obliterated it. Now, Torin was trying to give her back some semblance of self.

  Who was she now? Who was this woman who saw faeries, healed the blood beetle plague, and felt her heart grow colder by the day?

  “Sorcha?”

  Briana’s voice snapped her out of her thoughts. Smoothing her sweaty palms against her skirts, she turned with a false smile. “Yes?”

  Her family stood together and stared. Worried expressions crossed all their faces, except her father's. His crestfallen expression warned Sorcha that he could read her thoughts.

  “What?” Sorcha asked. “What is it?”

  “You won’t be staying with us, will you?” Briana asked.

  “No.”

  “You’ll do the right thing and heal all those people who need help?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re leaving us?” Rosaleen’s lower lip quivered. “We just got you back!”

  Briana stepped forward and cupped Sorcha’s face in her hands. She searched Sorcha’s gaze. “Did we ever really?”

  She should have cried. She should have at least sniffed because her sister was right. Sorcha was physically here, but she had left her heart in the Otherworld.

  “No,” she said so quietly that only Briana could hear. “I fear you did not, sister.”

  Briana leaned forward and pressed their heads together. She smelled like herbs and sickness. Not the way Sorcha remembered her, but the scent that would forever stick in her mind.

  “You were never happy with us, no matter how hard we tried.”

  “I wasn’t meant for this life.”

  “You were meant to run with the faeries.” Briana leaned back and pressed her lips against Sorcha’s forehead. “My little changeling sister.”

  Their father stood. Sorcha caught his eyes over Briana’s shoulder and flinched when she saw the tears gathering. “We’ve already packed your things and took the liberty of adding another pack with what little we’ve had saved up.”

  “I’m not taking your money.”

  “You’re saving people by leaving us, child. We want to help in any way we can.”

  “I should help remove the beetles—”

  “We’ve watched you, and Papa has already agreed to allow us to remove them without your help.”

  She frowned. They were all misty eyed, wanting to give her their hard earned money and leaving themselves at a disadvantage. Shouldn’t she feel something?

  “Thank you,” she said. “I will return as soon as I can.”

  “Don’t.” Briana squeezed her arm. “We always knew we only had you for a short amount of time, and it was selfish of us to keep you this long. Go be…whatever it is you are.”

  She should hesitate.

  She didn’t.

  Sorcha hugged Briana and the rest of her sisters. She pressed her palms against her father’s cheeks and kissed him soundly on the cheek. “Thank you.”

  “Visit us.”

  “I will do my best.” She whirled around and rushed towards the door, wanting to leave as soon as possible.

  Her father’s voice made her freeze with her hand on the door.

  “And go back to him.”

  Her hands clenched. “I will try.”

  She fled her childhood home with two packs slung under her arms. She looked back only once as she walked down the street towards the sick-house. Her sisters waved from all the windows and her father propped himself up at the door.

  They were good people. They would be all right without her.

  She spent weeks in the sick houses of her small town. The healers called it a miracle. That God himself sent her to purge their people of the plague.

  Sorcha let them give her whatever name they wanted. She fanned the flames of rumors hoping that one of the Fae would come investigate.

  None did.

  Geralt stopped her a few times, his cheeks red and concern running like river through his veins.

  “Sorcha! Stop for a moment would you? You will run yourself into the ground!”

  “I have people to help, Geralt,” she shook his hand from her arm. “Let go.”

  “When was the last time you slept?”

  “Days ago.”

  “Sorcha, I know you want to help these people but you’re no good to them if you’re dead.” He pushed back the lock of hair that always fell in front of his eyes. “Let me help you. Go eat, sleep, and come back with clear eyes and clear mind.”

  “I’m not handing this vial over to anyone.”

  “Where did you get it, anyway?”

  “The faeries,” she lied as she checked the temperature of a patient, pleased that this one was still alive. The man had been so emaciated she thought he would die long before the beetles were extracted.

  “There are no such thing as faeries!”

  “You can believe what you want, Geralt. But right now, you're in my way.”

  She put her shoulder against his and shoved. He stumbled backwards, landing on a bed where she piled the beetle corpses.

  His shout of disgust was music to her ears. She did not offer him help, nor did she turn to look at him no matter how much she wanted to see the shocked expression on his face.

  Geralt gave up after that. His incessant declarations of love ceased, and he disappeared back to his family manor. He shouldn’t have been around the plague victims anyways. He was more distraction than help.

  Sorcha cleared her town of those infected and moved onto the next. She waded through healers crying out their remedies, through priests blessing the infected, and walked directly into the sick houses.

  Everyone she touched healed.

  Her patients spread stories of the red-headed woman who walked among them. They saw her pointed ears and said she was one of the Tuatha dé Danann casting pity upon their people. Others said she was
a bean sidhe guiding their souls from the land of the living.

  When asked, Sorcha merely smiled and inquired about their health. As cold as it seemed, she wasn’t interested in getting to know her patients. This was a means to an end. Healing was a stepping stone to the next point of her life.

  She got her patients down from hundreds to ten. Those who had been sick the longest no longer suffered from the blood beetle plague, but from the after effects. Their lungs were weak, their bodies frail, and she would see this through until the end.

  “Sorcha?” the little girl she tended asked. “What’s that sound?”

  Laughter and shouting echoed down the halls of the sick house. Frowning, Sorcha stood and smoothed her apron down. “I don’t know.”

  A bang on the front door, followed by laughter, was the last straw. No one had any right to disturb the ill.

  Temper in full blast, she raced towards the door with her hands curled into fists. Another shout, female this time, fueled the flames of her anger further.

  Throwing the wooden doors wide, she glowered at the group of men hovering over a bundle of rags.

  “How dare you?” she shouted. People milling through the streets hesitated. “Have you no respect for the wounded?”

  “Ah, hush healer,” one man replied. “We’re just having a little fun!”

  “You are disturbing my patients. Get away from here.”

  “Or what?”

  Sorcha reached into the shadows behind the door and pulled out a knotted staff. She had found it during her travels, and it felt right in her hands, settling between her fingers with the perfect weight. She used it to knock the riffraff off her steps.

  The men chuckled. “Come on now, Red. You won't do anything with that.”

  “Won't I?” She charged down the step and swung. She held the end in her hand, letting the weight of the staff do the work her arm could not. The bulbous end struck the vocal man on the temple. He dropped like a stone.

  The others gaped at her.

  “Well?” She jabbed the staff at them. “I don’t have all day, boys. Get off my steps!”

  They picked up their friend and raced away laughing.

  “Damned fools,” she grumbled. “Too many of them in the city.”

  “You can say that again.”

  Sorcha started and looked down at the pile of rags. Or rather, the woman wearing the most disgusting clothing Sorcha had ever seen. Bits and pieces of fabric fluttered in constant movement as the woman stood.

  Her black hair was so tangled, Sorcha would have shaved it all off. Dirt smudged across her face and underneath her nails. She speared Sorcha with her gaze. Mismatched eyes, one blue and one brown stared straight into her soul.

  “Pity for the poor?” the woman asked. “Or rather, penance for the unworthy?”

  “What are you going on about?”

  “Have you a spare farthing?”

  “I have no money to give.”

  “Pity.” The strange creature spat upon the ground.

  “Why were those men accosting you?”

  “They claim I am a witch.”

  Sympathy flooded through Sorcha. The emotion startled her as she had not felt it in such a long time. She reached out and smoothed a hand down the woman’s arm. “They have called me the same.”

  “Sure they have, healer. But they’re right about me.”

  Sorcha drew her hand back with a gasp. Her hands shook with the desire to cross her chest. “What?”

  “I’m a witch, and I willingly admit to consorting with the Fair Folk. I call upon them, and they listen to my desires.”

  Sorcha lifted a brow. “Really? You call upon the Fae and they do whatever you tell them?”

  “Of course.”

  “Faeries don’t do that.”

  “Perhaps not your faeries.”

  “Are you making deals with them? Over and over again? You’re selling your soul doing that.” Sorcha shook her head and turned back towards the sick house.

  “You think you know the Fae?” the woman called out.

  “I know I do.” Sorcha paused at the top of the steps. “I spent more time in the among the Fae than you could imagine. Making deals with faeries is dangerous.”

  “Hey!”

  The woman’s shout echoed as Sorcha closed the door. Let her follow if she wished, but Sorcha would not argue. There was little she could do for a woman up to her neck in debt that would eventually be paid.

  The door slammed open and footsteps echoed down the hall towards her. “I said, hey!”

  “I heard you.”

  “Then why didn’t you stop?”

  Sorcha grabbed a towel from one of the racks. “I’m a busy woman.”

  “You’ve spoken with the Fae?”

  “Yes.”

  “You lived with them?”

  The woman was leaving dirt smudges on the floor that Sorcha would have to mop up. The other cleaners had fled when she said she had no more use for them. They likely ran from memories of the sick and dying, the tragic souls who lingered in torment.

  Pursing her lips, she pointed towards the small kitchen. “That way.”

  “Why?”

  “You want food and water?”

  She didn’t have to say anything else. The ragged woman spun on her heel and charged into the kitchen.

  Sorcha leaned against the doorframe and watched the crazed witch rifle through her cupboards. She pulled out bread and cheese, tossed sugar onto the window sill, and clunked down a tankard of water.

  Little manners, but she might have been pretty if she cleaned up. Sorcha could tell a beautiful woman hid beneath the grime. She couldn’t tell her age, although it would have been hard even if she was clean. People who led hard lives always had haunted eyes that aged them.

  “What’s your name?” Sorcha asked.

  “Aisling.”

  “Pretty name.”

  “I’d say you could tell my mother that, but she’s dead.”

  “Any other family?”

  Aisling paused with a mouth full of food. “No.”

  “Well, you can stay here then if you help out.”

  “I’m not asking for handouts.”

  “You just asked if I had money,” Sorcha said.

  “Didn’t say I was going to work for it.”

  “You are incredibly rude, aren’t you?”

  Aisling flashed a toothy grin. “Dealing with the Unseelie will do that to you.”

  Sorcha sat down and watched the witch eat. What had driven her to make deals with the Fae? Was she so foolish that she didn’t care for her own safety?

  Perhaps Sorcha would never know. Aisling finished her food in record time, leaned back, and patted her stomach.

  “You never remember how good food is until you go a few days without.”

  “You haven’t eaten in days?”

  Aisling shrugged. “Some weeks the good folks want more than others.”

  “You peddle witch’s wares?”

  “I speak to the faeries for them. Like you, apparently.”

  “The faeries don’t speak to me anymore,” Sorcha said as she shook her head.

  “They cut you off?”

  “Seems so.”

  “Is that why you’re making a name for yourself?” Aisling leaned back and propped her feet up on the table. “You’re trying to go back.”

  “In a way.”

  “You’re trying to piss off the faeries so bad they take you back to punish you. You’re really that crazy.”

  Sorcha blinked. “Crazy?”

  “Faeries aren’t kind to the ones they want to punish. If you mess up enough here, they won't take you back to the Otherworld and let you go your merry way.”

  “I have to get back.”

  “There’s hundreds of ways to get to the Otherworld, and this is your choice?” Aisling leaned back and shook her head. “Not a good plan, healer. Find another way.”

  “What would you suggest?”

  Aisling turned
and stuck her hands into the folds of her clothing. She had pockets, Sorcha realized. Although she wasn’t certain which flaps were pockets and which were just random bits of cloth.

  The witch pulled out a worn leather book and held it out. “There’s probably something in here.”

  “What’s this?”

  “Something I stole from the Otherworld. Maybe you’ll be able to make some sense of it.”

  Sorcha took the worn journal and thumbed a page open. The blank parchment quickly filled with inked words. A signature she recognized, Scribohai, appeared at the bottom of each page.

  “Wow,” Aisling exclaimed from over Sorcha’s shoulder. “It never did that for me.”

  Sorcha’s eyes danced over the words, skimming through the dark magic spells that required sacrificial animals and the like. One word stood out above all others.

  Portal.

  She snapped the book shut and held it to her chest.

  “Hey!” Aisling yelped. “I was reading that!”

  “It’s not for you.”

  “How do you know?"

  “Because it didn’t reveal the words to you. I know druid magic when I see it, and those were not for you.”

  “They looked like interesting spells.”

  “Every spell does, I'm sure.”

  Aisling yanked her rags and gave Sorcha a critical glance. “I don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into, healer, but it doesn’t look like something you’re prepared for. When you want to open that portal, call me.”

  The witch whirled around and sulked away. She held a stolen apple in her hand as if she dared anyone to tell her to put it down.

  “Sorcha,” Sorcha called after her. “My name is Sorcha.”

  Aisling’s shoulders shook as she began to laugh. “Sorcha? Of course you’re her. The entire Otherworld is abuzz with your name. I’d be careful if I were you, Sorcha of Ui Neill. The Fae are mad at you.”

  She watched the other woman slip out of the sick house, laughing the entire way.

  What did the witch know that Sorcha didn’t?

  Worried, she tucked the book under her arm and went to complete her rounds. The patients didn’t care she struggled with new information nor that her future suddenly became brighter. They wanted her to feed them, roll them off their sores, and empty their bedpans.