Veins of Magic

by Emma Hamm

He almost groaned. Her hands stroked his biceps, circling him until she stared up at his face. This was a truly talented trickster. She looked exactly the same.

  “Eamonn,” she tilted her head to the side. “Kiss me.”

  “No.”

  “Do you no longer want me?”

  “You know that would be impossible.”

  “Then why won’t you kiss me?”

  “Stop this.” His voice was little more than a croak. “Why must you torment me?”

  Her hands smoothed over his chest, dipping into the crevices and circling the numerous wounds. “Sometimes tormenting is fun. Come with me, my love, let me show you.”

  Her love. He bared his teeth in a grimace. “You aren’t playing fair.”

  “I never said I would.” She looped an arm over his neck and pulled him down. “Come, my love, my life, come with me from this awful place.”

  “You are not my Sorcha.”

  She couldn’t be. Every person so far had not been the person he expected them to be. Why his mother and Sorcha were solid, he did not understand. But he knew this stunning phantom was not the woman his heart beat for.

  “Let go of me,” he growled.

  “Why? Don’t you want me?”

  “Where is she?”

  “Who?” Sorcha tilted her head to the side. “Don’t you mean me?”

  “You are not Sorcha.”

  “I could be, if you wanted. I would grovel at your feet, press kisses against your lips and worship the ground you walk upon.”

  “That is not what I want.”

  “Isn’t it? Why else would you choose a human woman? If you wanted an equal, you would have chosen a faerie.” She tsked and stepped back, smoothing her hands down her chest and stomach. “You wanted a druid, a forbidden creature to taste and sample until Sorcha grew old and frail. Leave the weak girl behind, Eamonn. Take me instead.”

  “Never.”

  “Why not?”

  “She is not a weak woman, nor is she less because she is druid,” he snarled. “Her name on your lips is blasphemy.”

  “You claim to care for her?”

  “Her bravery, courage, and unwavering loyalty to my people captured my heart from the moment she first washed up on Hy-brasil.”

  “Prove it. Prove that you care for her, more than anything else.”

  “How?” He would do it. He wouldn’t hesitate to prove that she was the reason he drew breath.

  “Choose.” She lifted a hand and pointed towards the throne. “Which future do you want, Eamonn?”

  Another throne appeared next to his. Tangled vines and thorns stuck out in all directions from the roses blooming, but it was the shape that held his attention. Red hair peeked through the gaps of greenery, streaked with blood and sap.

  A choked sound slipped off his tongue. He stumbled forward, but hesitated when he remembered that everything had been an illusion thus far. “Is it really her?”

  “Of all the things you’ve seen, that is the only truth.” The other Sorcha leaned against his side. “You have two futures before you. One as king, seated upon your throne knowing she is safe and sound. Beside you, yes, but also kept safe from all you fear. The other future is that she is free to wander on her own.”

  “Why wouldn’t I choose the second?”

  “You can’t control her if she wanders free. Sorcha will continue to grow into her own power, finding her history, her family, her culture. Everything you love may change and grow into something else.” She traced a circle on his chest. “Just how much do you want to ensure your future, High King?”

  To be certain she was safe would be a pleasure he had never considered. Consorts of kings had suffered worse, at least she would be alive.

  “Can she see?” he asked, voice cracking.

  “No. She is awake, but not. Dreaming without sight, sound, or touch.”

  “So she isn’t really alive under all that.”

  “An offer for you, Eamonn of the Seelie Court. If you leave her here, she will join with the rest of her ancestors. She will live among the roses for all eternity at your side.”

  For all eternity, the words echoed over and over again. She wouldn’t die. He wouldn’t have to watch her grow old, crumbling to dust in his hands. Centuries of loneliness spread out ahead of him without her. He could keep her safe and preserved.

  But it wasn’t his choice. She was a fiercely independent woman and Eamonn had no right to make these decisions for her. He could only keep her safe for so long.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “She is not mine. She is her own being and I will not take that from her.”

  The Sorcha beside him flashed a feral grin. “Then go to her, High King. Free your bride and remember that we told you not to take this throne.”

  “Why?”

  The thing burst into shadows and rushed away, giggling so loud that the halls echoed with its screeches.

  Halls.

  Mist and fog disappeared. Eamonn stood in the same place he had when Sorcha disappeared through the wall.

  He spun to the wall of roses, seeing only an open space where the plants had once stood. Charging through, he rushed into the throne room with the giant glass sun while shouting, “Sorcha!”

  Two thrones stood at the end of the hall. One black, the other covered in red roses. She sat upon the queen’s throne, bound into place by the very beauty that set her apart.

  He blew out a horrified breath and ran to her. His eyes did not stray to Nuada’s throne, to his birthright, to anything other than her.

  She needed him.

  Falling to his knees, he ripped at the thorns that tore his flesh. Crystals flashed into view, peeking through tiny holes in his hands. The fine bones of his wrists creaked with stone that sent shivers of magic pulsing through his veins.

  “Hold on,” he growled as he pulled at the plants. “I’m here, Sorcha. I’m here.”

  The sound of her exhalation was music to his ears. He yanked her hands free and pressed them against his face.

  “Can you hear me?” he asked.

  She did not respond.

  Frantic, he stood and ripped vines away from her head. The flowers shrieked as they pulled away. There were leaves in her mouth, he realized.

  He scooped his fingers between her lips, pulling handfuls of plants out. Over and over again, he yanked leaves and vines away until she let out a moan and then gasped.

  “Eamonn!” she cried out.

  “I’m here,” he pulled her out of the throne and wrapped his arms around her. His soul settled, peace finally easing the tension in his neck. “I’m here, mo chroí. I am so sorry.”

  “This was not your fault,” she coughed as she spoke. “This was mine.”

  “Do not blame yourself.”

  “I should never have brought us here. You were right, this is a dangerous place.”

  “We will find another castle.” He pressed his lips against her forehead and tightened his hold. He had almost lost her. Again. “We will leave this cursed place and never return.

  “I cannot.”

  “We can, Sorcha. This is not the only option for us.”

  “I cannot, Eamonn!” She pulled away, her green eyes dark and haunted. “This castle echoes with the souls of my people. Druids, like me. I told them I would stay, I took the throne.”

  “You did what?”

  He stumbled backwards, looking at her as if he had never seen her before. He had fought against the demons of his past, denied his birthright, and she had taken the throne?

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked. “Eamonn?”

  “They told me not to take the throne.”

  “Who?”

  “Your people.”

  She licked her lips. “These are the thrones of Nuada and Ethniu. They wish us to walk in their footsteps, following the path they carved together.”

  “Does that future not belong to me as well?”

  “It was a test,” she said. Her eyes were as l
arge as the moon. “They were testing you, Eamonn.”

  “And what was the test?”

  She believed the words she said. He could see the truth in her eyes and taste it on the air. But what could such a test prove? That he had a weakness?

  Another voice joined them, deep and unfamiliar. “A test you passed, my boy.”

  The man was old. He wore a wrap of fur and balanced upon a cane, but Eamonn was certain the ancient exterior hid powerful magic.

  “Did I?” Eamonn asked. “And what was the test?”

  “That you would take care of my granddaughter.”

  “Granddaughter?” Eamonn looked from Sorcha to the new man. “I see no family resemblance.”

  “Then you are far less capable than I thought you to be. She is mine, and if you wish to take her, then I needed reassurance you would treat her well.”

  “Have I not thus far?”

  “You have ignored her. You have fostered a fear of her own magic and controlled your people while not listening to her words. You are a Tuatha dé Danann. You must excuse me, High King, but I do not trust you.”

  Other words echoed underneath the deep tones. Suggestions of punishment should Eamonn make a mistake. But something else as well. Something older, and so powerful that it resonated in his tones.

  Eamonn narrowed his eyes. “Just how old are you, grandfather?”

  “Old enough to know when a boy is trying to back me into a corner.”

  Sorcha reached out and touched Eamonn’s arm. “His name is Torin.”

  “This is the druid who found you in the glade?”

  “I am,” Torin replied.

  “You are not what you appear.”

  Eamonn pulled Sorcha into his arms, tucking her behind his broad back as he pieced the stories together. “How many generations have passed since you were her grandfather?”

  “Seven.”

  Although surprised Torin would respond so easily, Eamonn recognized the game. “You said you were a druid?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you something else before?”

  “Yes.”

  Sorcha pulled against his arm. “What are you doing, Eamonn? He’s my family!”

  “That is Ethniu’s throne behind you, is it not?”

  Torin lifted a brow and placed a hand upon the back. The roses twined around his wrist as he nodded. “It is.”

  “And you sat upon that throne yourself, didn’t you?”

  “Clever boy,” the ancient man chuckled. “Take care of her.”

  A blast of air pushed them back as Torin disappeared from the room. The thrones remained, symbolic but still pulsing with power.

  “You know who he is,” Sorcha exclaimed.

  “I do.”

  “Who?”

  “Ethniu’s father, King Balor.”

  “I thought he was dead?”

  “We all think the ancient ones are dead, but they exist in some manner.” Eamonn glanced down at her, brows furrowed in worry. “You are King Balor’s granddaughter?”

  “And you are Nuada’s grandson.”

  He had grown up with the legends of Balor, the Fomorian god. His third eye would open and cast destruction wherever it looked. He had been the only one capable of defeating the original Tuatha dé Danann on the battlefield. A great king, a horrible enemy, and the father of the druid race.

  And now, he looked upon the fearsome creature’s granddaughter with new eyes.

  “Do you fear me now?” she asked. “I did not know who I was.”

  “No, mo chroí. I am in awe of you.”

  “Good. I would not want you to see me differently because of this.”

  “Come here.” He yanked her forward and pressed his lips against hers. “We will weather this storm, as we have all others.”

  “Is this a storm? Who my family is?”

  “It is a sign. We bring together families, people, races that have never existed side by side before. We are the beginning of a new age, Sorcha. Together.”

  He swept her into his arms and carried her from the haunted place. Spirits fled from his shadow as he brought them into the light. And in that moment Eamonn made a vow to himself that he would protect her from everything.

  Even herself.

  The Sword Of Light

  Faeries filled the banquet hall, their laughter and joyous shouts echoing from the rafters. They had made it to the castle. A new home, a new future, and the promises of new hope.

  Rows lined the hall, each sturdy table filled to the brim with whatever food they could scavenge. Oona was in her element, bustling to each person who lifted their empty goblets, asking for more drink.

  The wine cellar was still full. The dwarves had returned with their arms full of elixir, chortling at their find.

  After all they had been through, Sorcha thought they deserved a few nights of merriment.

  She sat with the others of her new family. Pooka leaned over the table and reached for bread, his hands already sticky with honey.

  A dwarf passed by and handed off a cup to Cian. “It’s not the usual.”

  Cian grinned and downed whatever the new drink was. “My thanks!”

  The merriment was contagious. She could hardly hear a word over the din, and loved every second. How could she not? These were her people, and they were so happy after their struggles.

  She ducked as a chicken flew by, its feathers bursting into the air. Oona waved her hands and raced after it. The clucking squawks only added to the laughter.

  There were many colors, people, and vibrant sounds. She hadn’t seen such a gathering since the Samhain festival. Sorcha leaned her elbow against the table and watched their antics with a grin.

  The door to the banquet hall slammed open and silence rang louder than the laughter. A cup dropped to the floor, shattering with a crash.

  Shadows crawled in from the hall. The candles beyond had long since burned down to their bases, blinking out any light which might have shown.

  She recognized the silhouetted figure. Eamonn, their fearless leader who had brought them all this way. Sorcha wondered where he had stolen off to.

  It was difficult for him to be here when there was so much merriment. His thoughts grew clouded, responsibilities, family, and centuries of solitude distracting his mind.

  The faeries were silent. They did not cheer for him, nor did they stand. They seemed to be holding their breath.

  Sorcha waited until she could no longer stand it. He stood in the doorway with his hands loose at his sides, conflicted and incapable of movement. She would not stand by while his own people rejected him.

  She stood and passed each of the faeries who acted as if they were stuck to their benches. Her footsteps were soft, but they seemed loud to her ears. Each step was a choice. A confirmation that he was hers, and she was his.

  She held out her hand for him to take. “Welcome, king.”

  The shadows obscured his relieved expression from the others, but she could see it bright as day. “Good evening, Sunshine.”

  “Have you come to join us?”

  “If I am welcome.”

  “You are always welcome among your people.”

  He took her hand and pulled her closer. The shadows enveloped her, along with his strong arms. “Are you so certain of that?”

  “Come and eat with them and we shall find out.”

  The crystals at his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “I have no wish to ruin their dinner.”

  “You never did while we traveled.”

  “A general is something entirely different than a king. They should be afraid of me on the battlefield, and they will take orders from anyone who will bark at them. But now? This is different.”

  “How so?”

  Eamonn squeezed his eyes shut. “They want a man, now. A king who can sit at the table and be regal. The king who inspires courage and honor, settles the worried mother and calms the wounded soldier. I am not that man.”

  “That is not who they expect
you to be.” She reached up and stroked his cheek. “They know who you are, Eamonn, that is why they follow you. If they wanted a king to sit at a table and look nice, then they would pledge their allegiance to Fionn.”

  “They are here.”

  “Exactly. They don’t want you to change! So come eat with us, drink with your men, and tease your women. They are your people, now. Not his.”

  The tension eased from his shoulders and his expression softened. “Lead the way, my queen.”

  Shivers danced down her spine. His queen. Did she want to be? His yes, but all the others?

  She wasn’t so sure.

  Sorcha tangled her fingers with his and drew him into the banquet hall. The dwarves watched with wide eyes as the dangerous warlord who had led them through battle calmed at the touch of a druid woman.

  Sharp eyes caught the moment when Eamonn reached out and hooked a finger through one of her curls. The long length swayed at her waist, and coiled around his finger as if it knew he needed its strength.

  They made their way to one of the remaining tables where only a few sat.

  Eamonn tugged on her hand, “Why here?”

  “Let them come to you,” she said as she sat down. He let her draw him to her side.

  “Will they?”

  “I watched a master horseman break a stallion once. It had spent its entire life wild and free, but this man never gave up. He sat in the pen with the horse for hours upon hours so it would grow used to his presence. No whips, no shouting words, no ropes to ensnare it. The horse grew to love him merely because he was there.”

  “You think the dwarves are like horses?”

  “I hope they are,” she said with a soft smile. “It’s how I’m hoping they will come to like me.”

  “Then let us both eat our meals and perhaps they will join us.”

  He leaned forward, piled food on his plate, and tucked in. Eamonn did not look at the others, nor did he waste any time waiting for them.

  As if he felt the weight of her stare, he looked up at her. Mouth full, he paused. “Everything all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “You sure?”

  “I am.”

  He gestured at her plate. “Are you eating?”

  “I’ve already eaten a little, but I’ll pick at this.”

  “And it’s to your liking?”