Veins of Magic

by Emma Hamm

  “Sorcha!” Eamonn’s shout seared her to the bone.

  The stones underneath her feet began to crumble. Heart beating, lungs heaving, she flew across the falling bridge. Each step she took felt as if it would be her last. The crashing of stones striking the ground beneath her echoed through the canyon.

  The bridge in front of her quaked. Did that mean what was behind her had already fallen?

  “Don’t look,” she muttered as she leapt from stone to stone.

  Looking would only solidify how much danger she was in. She had to focus, had to get to the other side of the bridge or fall to her death.

  Sorcha planted her foot on a stone that was already falling. She shoved, leaping into the air and rolling onto the other side of the bridge. Air exploded from her lungs and she shoved herself over.

  Hair fell in front of her eyes, but she could still see him. Her massive faerie prince who raced across a bridge that crumbled to dust behind him. Eamonn’s face was twisted in anger and concentration, sunlight sparkling as it struck the crystals of his body.

  She held her breath as he let out a powerful roar and the bridge fell away beneath him.

  “No,” she breathed. It couldn’t be. He couldn’t fall and die now. Not because of her foolish mistake.

  Wisps of smoke and debris puffed from the ground. It swirled like ghosts, the movement strange and unntural. Would he haunt this place with all the others?

  A crystal hand latched onto the remaining edge of the bridge. His human hand followed, fingers gripping the stone so hard that it dented.

  “Thank the gods,” she muttered as she crawled over to him.

  Sorcha leaned over the edge to flash a relieved smile. Eamonn did not appear amused.

  “It’s not over yet, sunshine.”

  She grabbed onto his forearm and blew her hair out of her face. “Never doubted for a second you’d make it.”

  “Let go.”

  “You’re hanging off the edge of a cliff, let me help you.”

  He released the hand she grabbed and shook her off. “Back up, Sorcha.”

  For once, she realized it was probably a good idea to listen to him. She slid backwards on her bottom to give him enough room. With one great heave, he yanked himself up and over the bridge, rolling to her side.

  Eamonn dropped a hand on his chest that lifted rapidly with each breath. “Don’t do that again.”

  She leaned over him, her hair creating a curtain around them. “You didn’t have to follow me.”

  “Of course I did,” he said as he smoothed a thumb over her cheekbone. “Are you done risking your life for curiosity?”

  “Doubtful.”

  Eamonn groaned, rolling to his side and onto his feet. He waved at the dwarves that stood in a line at the edge of the cliff. Oona and Cian piled on top of a large rock, teetering dangerously at the edge as they waited to see whether they were all right.

  They were lucky. Sorcha’s stomach clenched as she saw the damage to the bridge. There was nothing left but the skeletal bones reaching out into the abyss of nothing.

  “Would you look at that,” she said. “Seems like we’re stuck here for a while.”

  “The dwarves will fix it in no time. Once they figure out that they want to follow, they’ll speak to the stones.”

  “Speak to the stones?”

  “Did you think they tunneled through mountains?” Eamonn turned to her, his crystal eye glittering. “They ask them to move, and they do.”

  “Ah,” she nodded. “As with everything here, I suppose I have to say that makes sense and move on. Are we going to the castle?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “But it’s right there!” She gestured at the looming dark stone and high parapets.

  “I can see that, Sorcha.”

  “It’s where we were planning to go anyways.”

  “And it is dangerous. Faerie-cursed land is never friendly to humans.”

  “I’ve already been to Unseelie,” she said, planting her fists on her hips. “You’re telling me that this castle is more dangerous than the Dark Castle? If it is, then perhaps we should find somewhere else to bring your army.”

  “You’ve been where?” His eyes blazed with anger. “I’d forgotten about that.”

  “Yes, well, the Queen was awful.” Another flock of birds burst into flight. The wind billowed around them, clearing out the dust from the collapse and revealing the decrepit walls. “Are you certain you don’t wish to go in?”

  “We’re waiting here until the dwarves complete the new bridge.”

  “How long will that take?”

  He waved again at the dwarves. She could see their mouths moving, but their shouts wouldn’t carry over the deep valley between them. “As soon as they start building, it shouldn’t take long.”

  Sorcha snorted. The dwarves were setting up camp for the night, and she didn’t blame them. They would likely start building as soon as the sun rose again. Eamonn set a grueling pace and they were all exhausted.

  They deserved a bit of rest.

  She shook her head and started up a path. There were buildings all around the roads that splintered out from the bridge. She imagined these had once been homes as it seemed unlikely that anyone other than royalty and their immediate staff would have lived in the castle.

  Ivy crawled up the walls of the buildings and the protecting battlements that surrounded the entire town. Gothic swirls and dramatic rooftop peaks suggesting this had once been a home for artists and craftsmen.

  “Sorcha? Sorcha! What did I say?”

  She rolled her eyes. “You said you would stay and wait for the dwarves. I don’t fancy sleeping on a cliff’s edge.”

  “Get back here!”

  “No.”

  She heard his growl of frustration and the skittering of small stones as he followed her towards the central courtyard.

  “I don’t like ghosts,” he grumbled when he caught up with her.

  “There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

  “We’re in the Otherworld. Anything is possible.”

  “Then I should like to meet them.”

  “Please don’t say that.”

  Sorcha grinned. “Is there someone following us, Eamonn?”

  “No.”

  “I’m quite certain I can hear a third set of footsteps.”

  “Stop it!”

  The Ghosts Of The Castle

  Paint flecked from the rotting wood of the railings once grand stairs overtaken by moss and vines. The doors were easily twice Sorcha's height, terrifying and imposing in their grandeur and age.

  “Is this what it felt like?” Eamonn asked.

  “What?”

  “Walking up to the main door of the castle on Hy-brasil and wondering what was behind it?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “This is exactly what it felt like.”

  “I don’t give you enough credit for your bravery.”

  “Or for my foolishness,” Sorcha added with a grin. “I was just as impulsive when I walked into your throne room.”

  She placed her hands against the wood and shoved. Surprisingly, her hands didn’t puncture the door. The echoing creak danced down her spine, but it swung open without falling off its hinges.

  It was a start.

  She peeked through the cobwebs and tangled vines. There were shadows dancing upon the walls, ones she didn’t think came from the plants. Could they be goblins? They looked faintly similar to the hunched creatures she had seen in the Unseelie castle.

  Eamonn’s hand landed on her shoulder and nudged her behind him. “Let me go first.”

  “I thought you were afraid of ghosts?”

  “Not so much that I would let you put your life before mine.” His lips tilted to the side. “Have a little faith, sunshine.”

  “I never doubted you.”

  His scoff echoed as they walked into the great hall.

  King Nuada Silverhand’s castle was as grand as she imagined it. Stained glass windows
framed the hallway, and colored lights danced on the white and black checkered floor, which was missing a few pieces of marble.

  Vines grew over the walls, and giant blue hydrangeas poked through cracks and crevices. Gold glinted on the wall nearest to her. Sorcha stepped closer, shifting ivy to the side and stumbled back with a gasp.

  Eyes stared back at her.

  Eamonn caught her against his chest. “It’s a painting.”

  “I thought it was… It looked so…”

  He spread his hand wide against her belly and leaned down to chuckle in her ear. “Who is afraid of ghosts?”

  “Apparently both of us. Whose bright idea was it to come in here when the sun was setting?”

  “I believe it was yours.”

  “Right, queen of bad ideas.”

  “Come on, Sorcha. We’ve only stepped a few feet into the castle.”

  “Now you want to explore,” she grumbled and detached herself from him. “What are those shadows?”

  “The glass.”

  She glanced up. The stained glass high above them revealed outlines, human and faerie in nature, created by smoke and black tar. “Strange.”

  “An intimidation tactic most Fae recognize.”

  “I didn't think the Seelie Fae would be all that interested in marring such beauty.”

  A shadow passed over his face, his blue eyes piercing her with their intensity. “That wasn’t created by the Fae.”

  “The Fomorians then?”

  “Likely.”

  He turned and marched through the hall as if he owned it. And in a way, he did. As a direct descendent of Nuada, he was the only person remaining who could claim this haunted place.

  He always seemed to end up in forgotten places, she mused. Their feet left slashing marks against the dust ridden floor. Some of the large blue blooms picked up their heads as she walked past, tiny vines stretching for her.

  “The plants don’t do that with anyone else.” Eamonn narrowed his eyes at the offending greenery.

  “Sure they do. They just want attention.”

  “From you.”

  She picked her way over a tree which had fallen through the wall and landed atop a stairway leading up. “They don’t do it to faeries?”

  “No.”

  He paused in front of a plant that had grown so large it covered the entire wall. “Come here.”

  “I don’t know if I want to. They seem more interested in me than the other plants.”

  “I want to try something.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Sorcha,” he growled.

  She gritted her teeth and let him grab her hand. “What do you think will happen? They’re just plants!”

  “They aren’t just plants. They’re guards.” He furrowed his brow in concentration, holding her hand just above the nearest hydrangea. “These flowers aren’t native to the Otherworld, and yet, here they are.”

  “You think I have something to do with that?”

  The plant reached out a thin vine and wrapped it around her finger. Smooth and warm, it slithered to her wrist, gently stroking the sensitive skin.

  “I think there’s something behind this wall of plants,” he murmured.

  “Why do you think that?”

  “The stairs stop here.”

  “They also keep going behind us. This could just be a wall.”

  “You said you have druid blood. Ask the plants.”

  Sorcha rolled her eyes. “Ask the plants, he says. As if that's possible.”

  The vine tugged hard on her wrist. Eamonn caught hold of her hips and pulled her back against him, but the plant did not let go. Another vine lashed out and wrapped around the other arm, this one significantly thicker and stronger.

  She stared in shock as the leaves parted and green eyes met her gaze. The rustling wind brushed past her ears, but she could not feel it.

  “Eamonn?” she gasped. “There’s another painting.”

  “I don’t see anything, Sorcha.”

  “Please be another painting.”

  The eyes crinkled at the edges in a smile. She had time to let out a small whimper before the vines pulled her arm even harder. Eamonn’s hands slipped, crystals digging into her soft skin before the plants enveloped her.

  “Sorcha!”

  She stumbled out to the other side of the plants, which placed tiny leaves against her bottom and pushed hard. Wildly, Sorcha spun in a circle, praying the opening would still be there. She wasn’t fast enough and couldn’t catch even a glimpse of Eamonn through the tightly wound plants.

  The wall rippled, leaves twisting and turning, flowers pushing through to stare back at her. Unnerved, she glanced over her shoulder.

  “The throne room,” she said in awe.

  What else would the flowers guard?

  Roses crawled over the walls, sinking thorns into stones, red sap oozing down the cracks like blood. Threads hung from the ceiling — remnants of once grand curtains — each strand humming as her gaze passed over them.

  “They’re your ancestors.” A voice drifted out of the darkness.

  “Torin?”

  “I never strayed far from your side, granddaughter.”

  He stepped out of the shadows, his staff thunking against the cracked stone floor. Robes hung from his broad shoulders and braids twisted through his long grey hair. He looked different here. Stronger and more confident.

  “What is this place?” Sorcha asked.

  “Our ancestral home.”

  “This is the castle of Nuada Silverhand. I have no claim here.” She hoped. A small part of her clenched, hoping he wasn’t about to tell her she was a descendant of the great Fae.

  “That is where you are wrong. You have more claim than Nuada did when he entered this place.”

  Torin circled her, his staff echoing in the chamber. The roses turned with him, twisting and twirling in the air, following his every movement.

  “This is a Seelie castle.”

  “It used to be, but it was Fomorian before that. And afterwards as well.”

  "How is that possible?" she asked. "The Fomorians and Fae have never lived side by side."

  "They did here for many centuries."

  Her eyes widened. “The Fomorians and Fae lived in harmony?”

  “They did.”

  “But that's not possible. All the legends say the Fae and Fomorians hated each other.”

  “The legends were wrong. It was here our people first started.”

  “Are you claiming druids came from the Fomorians? I thought we had Fae blood.”

  “We didn’t come from the Tuatha dé Danann.” He stopped in front of her and smiled. “It is why we’re connected to the land, to the sea, and to the sky. A faerie and a human can make a faerie or a human child. Fomorians and faeries made something else entirely.”

  “They made druids,” she said in wonderment.

  “Indeed.”

  “Why did you wait so long to tell me?”

  “Would you have believed me?”

  Sorcha tossed her arms out to the side in disbelief. “I’m having a hard time believing anything lately. Why am I here, Torin? I might suggest this was your plan all along.”

  “Yes, I wanted you to return to this castle.”

  “Why?”

  “You should be with your family.”

  “My family is back home. I left them to come here, so you must give me a better reason than that.”

  He stepped back, gesturing at the roses which bent to his will. They slithered away from each other, scraping across the floors and walls until they revealed a giant stained glass window in the shape of a sun. It was so big she thought it would rival a tree. Six men’s height, or taller, spindly pieces all fitting together to create a masterpiece of art.

  Light splintered through the room, revealing two thrones at the center. One blackened by fire and jagged, the other covered in roses and thorns.

  “What is this?”

  “These are the thrones
of our people. Many have sat upon them, Nuada, Balor, kings and priests. But it is not the first king who shaped our world.” Torin walked towards the blackened throne, placing his hand upon a knife sharp point. “Nuada Silverhand created an empire of Tuatha dé Danann. He fought, he battled, and he ruled as a good man.” He placed his hand on the vines of the other. “Ethniu, his wife, was a Fomorian who gave up her world to be with him.”

  “Ethniu?”

  “The daughter of Balor, king of the Fomorians. She left everything she knew because of her love for Nuada. And as his first wife, she gifted him children the like of which the world had never seen. Children who became the druids. She feared him, loved him, and sat upon this throne to spread goodness and light.”

  Sorcha swallowed. “This is too familiar to me, grandfather.”

  “As it should be. Time repeats itself over and over again. Stories, legends, myths, they’re all happening even now as we speak.”

  “You want me to be queen,” she blurted. "Queen of the druids."

  "Queen of the Seelie Fae."

  The words sounded ludicrous even to her own ears. Her? Queen? Of all people, Sorcha was the last person to ever desire a throne.

  “I am not royalty," she argued. "I am a midwife, and I am happy as such.”

  “You searched your entire life for something more than squalling babies, screaming mothers, and a brothel.”

  “That doesn’t mean I want to be a queen,” she growled. “It’s ridiculous to even consider the thought!”

  “You would make a good queen for the Fae.”

  “He’ll never ask.” Her heart shattered into a million pieces, but she meant every word. “He will be the greatest king they have ever seen. He will take a Seelie faerie as a bride and forget all about me. I will help his people, I will guide his thoughts, but he will never make me queen.”

  “He already has. He’s brought you before his people, made speeches with you by his side, planted his seed inside you. What more could you want?” Torin slapped both hands down on the thrones.

  “The words,” she said. “I want him to say it. I want him to ask me to be his queen. Otherwise, I'm forcing myself upon him.”

  “Sorcha. Do this for your people.”

  “Who are my people?” she cried out. “Please, tell me grandfather. To whom should I show my allegiance? The human family who raised me as a child? The faeries who took me in and showed me kindness? Or the druids who appear in my life unexpectedly and ask for impossible things?”