Veins of Magic

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Veins of Magic Page 21

by Emma Hamm


  “It is not my place to ask for grandeur in death.”

  “You made a good choice.”

  “I like to think so.”

  Perhaps she was more similar to her grandfather than she gave herself credit for. Sorcha leaned her weight into the cover and pushed hard. It groaned, scraped, screamed in her ears until it fell from its base and crashed upon the floor. The heavy stone cracked in two.

  King Balor lay with hands crossed over his chest. A golden crown circled his skull while all the flesh had withered away long ago. Skeletal hands clutched the hilt of the Sword of Light.

  “Why would he put it with you?” she asked. “This is not your sword and giving it to you would anger Nuada.”

  “Nuada does not know. And if someone was searching for the Sword of Light, they would not look in my grave.”

  He had a point. She wouldn’t have looked in Balor’s tomb for it was far more likely he would raise from the grave than hold the legendary Sword of Light. His brittle fingers wrapped around the hilt, gemstones glittering on each skeletal finger.

  “Do I—” she hesitated and gestured towards his corpse, “pull it out?”

  “It won’t hurt.” Amusement warmed her grandfather’s voice.

  “I don’t want to break anything.”

  “What harm could you possibly do to my body? I’m dead.”

  “Good point.”

  It still felt wrong to touch his corpse. Swallowing hard, she reached out to touch the dust covered hands. Mummified skin slid off the smooth bones at her touch, sloughing off like parchment paper piled too high. She gagged.

  “I didn’t expect you to have such a weak stomach, granddaughter.”

  “Have you touched a corpse before?”

  “Many times.”

  “I don’t want to know why.”

  His bones creaked as she pulled back the fingers, snapping and cracking until one hand released its hold. She gently set it aside while her stomach muscles clenched.

  “Don’t think about the corpse moving,” she said. “The body is dead, the soul is what makes it move.”

  “Are you reassuring yourself?”

  “Hush.”

  She peeled back the second hand, wincing when one of the fingers broke off between hers. This was not how she wanted to find the sword. Why had Eamonn hidden it so thoroughly?

  The wolf’s mouth gleamed in the dim light, rubies dripping like blood from its jaws. Magic swirled around the blade. Tendrils of mist too thick to be water coiled around it like snakes.

  She didn’t want to touch the cursed blade. Nuada may have been a strong enough faerie to handle such magic, but she had no desire for it to touch her life. Steeling herself, she grasped the hilt and pulled it from the tomb.

  It was heavier than she expected. The sheer power of the sword weighed her down until her arms shook and the tip touched the ground.

  Her biceps quaked. Did she want to throw the sword over the edge of the cliff? She could take it with her instead, force them all to bend a knee to Eamonn and stop the war now. There didn’t need to be any more fighting. It could end with her.

  “The future hangs in the balance,” Balor mumbled. “It is your choice now. Destroy the sword, use it, or throw it away for later generations.”

  She saw the threads of magic wrapping around her. Unlike her own woolen threads, these were coarse and improperly spun. They weren’t right, and they couldn’t control her.

  She snapped the threads hanging onto her mind and straightened. “Where is the cliff where Ethniu waits?”

  “There is an opening to the waters below.” Balor pointed down a hall near her. “Do not fall.”

  “I don’t plan on it.”

  The sword suddenly felt much heavier. It dragged on the ground, sharp tip sparking red hot embers as it screeched across the stone. She did not stop even though the sound made her ears bleed.

  “I don’t care if you want to stay,” she growled at the blade. “You’ve caused enough trouble for me and mine. Wait for the next desperate generation.”

  Sorcha swore the sword grew even heavier. Gripping the hilt with two hands, she threw her back into carrying it and pulled it down the hall where light filtered into the cave.

  Salt spray coated her skin long before she reached the edge. The salt stung the scrapes on her arms from the thorns she battled in the garden and filled her mouth with the bitter taste. Waves crashed and foam flooded the front of the cave.

  Sorcha did not hesitate this time, flexed her arms, and heaved the sword over the edge. It spun wildly in the air, rubies shining sunlight in her eyes.

  Just before it hit the surf, an arm shot out of the waves. Graceful fingers caught the hilt of the sword, holding it aloft for a few moments before sinking back into the depths.

  “And good riddance,” she muttered, kicking a stone into the surf for good measure.

  She froze when Eamonn’s voice rang out behind her.

  “What have you done?”

  The Invitation

  Eamonn watched her heave the sword over the edge and felt his resolve shatter into a thousand pieces. His grandfather’s sword, his legacy, now gone.

  He’d seen the hand raise from the waves to grasp the blade. If she had simply thrown it into the sea, he might have recovered it. But he knew the claw-tipped fingers. A Fomorian had swayed her and taken the relic for itself.

  “What have you done?” he asked.

  “What you should have done a long time ago.”

  “That sword was the only assurance we had at winning this war!”

  “Do you really believe that?” She spun on him, the cloud of her red hair billowing in her anger. Her cheeks stained red as she glared him down.

  His woman was a fearsome creature when she grew angry. Almost enough that he didn’t want to scold her, to shake her hard enough that her teeth rattled. Why had she done this? Now of all times?

  “Sorcha, that was a relic of the Tuatha dé Danann! It can force Fionn to his knees. We will win with that blade on our side!”

  “And you were using it against your own people. I will not stand for it!”

  Her words flew at him, tearing at his heart and shoving him a step backwards. “You think I used that against our people?”

  “Perhaps you were not aware that you use it, I told Cait that—”

  “Cait?” He shook his head, running his fingers through the loose crop of his hair. “Sorcha, Cait doesn’t want to be here!”

  “None of them do!”

  “Is this what you think of me?”

  It all made sense now. He had been busy, there were too many things for him to oversee. He understood that she wanted to be with him. Eamonn missed her with every fiber of his being, but he could not allow his focus to wander.

  Every time he was near her, his soul drifted. He wanted to touch the beloved locks of her hair, trace the outline of her stubborn pout, ease the nightmares he knew plagued her.

  But he couldn’t. He saw his mistake in pulling away.

  Eamonn went to her, clutching her cold hands and pressing them against his heart.

  “A chuisle mo chroí,” he breathed. “Pulse of my heart, the folly is mine. I have done nothing to control the dwarves. They wish to be deep within their mountain halls with no one to tell them what to do. There are plenty of soldiers who wish to fight Fionn, and those who do not. I would never force a soldier onto a battlefield. That is a certain way to kill them.”

  “Then why did you fight Fionn when I asked you not to?”

  He smoothed the tangled curls away from her face. “I am a general, and I make mistakes. I thought a small war party would convince him that I was not retreating. I was wrong.”

  “What did you plan to do with the sword?”

  “I would have forced Fionn to abdicate the throne. He would have no choice when the sword of Nuada commanded him.”

  Her green eyes searched his, questions forming within their emerald depths. He knew her well enough to expect the
question before she voiced it. “Is that really how you want to win?”

  No. He wanted to battle until his brother fell onto his knees. He wanted to shred Fionn’s face, strip everything from him and send him out to the wilds.

  “I can’t hurt him,” he admitted. “He is my brother. My blood.”

  She tucked herself into his embrace, her tiny cold hands pressed against his chest. “I couldn’t harm my siblings either.”

  “And now I have no choice.”

  “You still do. Eamonn, we can do this together. He doesn’t have to fight us!”

  He shook his head. “You don’t want to get involved with faerie politics, Sorcha. Trust me.”

  “Why not? You were raised among them! You must be able to prepare us for what might come.”

  “That is what you want?”

  He didn’t want it. A part of his wounded soul never wished to return to the castle where they had stripped him of all rights. They despised him, feared him, hated him because he was no longer the handsome man he had once been.

  Eamonn knew the dangers of the court. They would latch onto Sorcha with sharp teeth and claws, desperately trying to drag her down into their bitter anger at the world. His pure sunshine would slowly be corrupted.

  He squeezed her tighter, holding her against his heart where she belonged. He wouldn’t lose her. They wouldn’t get their greedy hands on her as long as he drew breath.

  She looked up at him, green eyes shimmering with tears. “Eamonn?”

  “If this is the path you wish to walk, then I will walk beside you mo chroí.”

  “Then what do we do?”

  “The correct way to address the king is to request an audience.”

  “That doesn’t sound like something Fionn would respond to.” Tiny wrinkles gathered between her eyes. “He seems more likely to ignore it, or deny that it ever reached him.”

  “Especially if it comes from me.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  He arched a crystal brow. “Are you asking me for advice on how to approach this difficult situation?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “You threw away the only relic which could have taken the throne from Fionn with no blood.”

  “Eamonn,” she bit her lip. “I can control the Fae.”

  “You are the most beguiling creature I have ever met, but you cannot control everyone.”

  “I am a Weaver. I never told you what that meant. There is a particular kind of druid which can reach into a faerie’s mind and order them to do whatever it is they please.”

  His mind raced through the old tales, the reasoning behind why they cast the druids from the Otherworld. “That is true?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you can do it?”

  “I can.”

  “You won’t do it to me?” He only halfheartedly meant the words, although it was a slight concern. Sorcha had never shown any tendency to cajole faeries into doing what they didn’t want to do.

  “Eamonn,” she scolded.

  “I had to ask, mo chroí. Are you saying you can control Fionn?”

  “If I’m close enough, I believe I might be able to. I tried in the dream when he visited me, but I wasn’t fantastic at it. I did overpower him though.”

  “I imagine younger faeries are easier.” Eamonn shook his head. “We are trained from a young age to shield our minds. Faeries do it naturally by the time we are adults. Too many of our kind can peek into others thoughts, it’s easier to ensure that no one can pick up on what you’re thinking.”

  “So that’s why he was more capable than I.”

  “Have you practiced?”

  “No.”

  “Not at all?” He could taste her lie upon the air. “Sorcha.”

  “Only a little! With Cait, who insisted I prove to her that I was actually a druid. That’s all I’ve done.”

  “You need to practice far more than that if you plan to walk the halls of the Castle of Light.”

  He already knew the tactics he wished to take. Though he was still angry over the loss of the sword, this was no longer the end of all he knew. Sorcha was a hidden power in her own right, and one his brother might not suspect.

  He would make her stronger than she ever imagined. They would train noon and night until she could control even him. Then, he would know for certain she was ready.

  Sorcha must have recognized the calculating expression on his face. She shook her head and said, “No. Eamonn, whatever you are thinking, no. I will not be used as a tool to end this war.”

  “How else are we going to defeat him?”

  “We will exhaust all other options before we force him to his knees.”

  He couldn’t think of any other way which would seat him on the throne.

  Eamonn knew she believed that faeries were good. He saw it every day as she healed their scrapes, ignored their quips and predisposed fear of her people. Even the dwarves, for all they had grown to tolerate her, whispered stories about her behind her back.

  Sorcha didn’t let any of it bother her. She went about her day giving and giving until she fell exhausted into bed. It was one thing he loved dearly about her and hated at the same time.

  He wanted her safe and happy. The only way that would happen, was if he were king.

  “What do you suggest?” he asked with a sigh.

  “Let us speak to him first. What harm could there be?”

  “Then I will send a missive.” He released her from his arms and shook his head. “I cannot believe I’m allowing you to convince me to do such a thing.”

  “Why wouldn’t we at least try?”

  “He will ignore it. And then we will be back to sneaking you into the castle.”

  “If he ignores it, then I will train.” The troubled wrinkles returned to her brow. “Though I would not choose such a course.”

  “Swear it.”

  “What?” She stared at him in shock.

  “Give me your vow that if this fails, you will agree to do what I say to overthrow Fionn.”

  He held his breath, knowing without a doubt that she would argue. She always did.

  But sometimes, Sorcha surprised him.

  “I vow it.”

  Cool night air drifted over Sorcha’s shoulders as she made her way down the stairs. She awoke to an empty bed with the sheets thrown back and the sheets cold. He had left, and she wasn’t certain why.

  Although, that wasn’t entirely true. They had mended their ways after she threw the Sword of Light into the ocean. So she thought.

  But he was still distant. She often caught him wrapped up in his own thoughts, staring off into the air even as the dwarves shouted and lifted their glasses to toasts.

  As more faeries joined them, Eamonn retreated further and further into his own mind. It worried her. Was this partly Sorcha’s fault? Had she unknowingly made all of this worse?

  Her nightgown swished around her ankles, the white fabric fluttering in the wind as she stepped out of the stairwell and into the wide expanse of the great hall.

  Moonlight streamed through the stained glass. The giant sun reflected on the stone, silver and cold thought it should have been warm.

  Eamonn sat in the dark throne, his head resting on his fist.

  She paused. How many times had she seen him sitting exactly the same way? He liked to be where people expected the most of him, even when no one was around.

  Her stomach rolled with nerves, and she blew out a breath.

  “It is late,” she said, breaking the still quiet. “What plagues your thoughts?”

  “Many things.” His deep voice rumbled through her, sending shivers down her spine.

  Eamonn never ceased to be both a sensual and terrifying creature at every turn. He wasn’t like the other Fae. He moved in an otherworldly way, but he did not show the natural, lithe grace the others had.

  It was why she loved him so much.

  Love. It seemed strange that her heart had called out to him almost immedi
ately upon meeting him. She didn’t know if it was normal, perhaps not, but there had never been a question in her mind.

  Once her stubborn heart decided it wanted him, she had no other road to travel. Where he went, so did she.

  His fingers twitched, beckoning her to his side. Sorcha’s footsteps made soft shushing sounds as she glided across the stone floors.

  “It is late,” she said with a soft smile. “We should be resting.”

  “I find it difficult to rest these days.”

  “Your mind is busy.”

  “Among other things.” He patted his knee for her to perch upon.

  She was so tiny, she could sit on his thigh and not worry about her weight or his discomfort. Sorcha found it easier to forget his size now that she was in his presence so much. But he was incredibly large compared to her.

  His massive hand smoothed down her spine. “Nightmares have plagued my sleep.”

  “About?”

  “I worry you did not make the correct choice. Fionn will come, ravage this land and these people, and I will lose again.”

  “We must have faith, my love.” She rested her head against his shoulder. “I still believe there is a better way. That we can still change the path towards something more kind. We shape the future with our actions. I would have it be a good future.”

  He sighed. “You are right, but that does not mean I do not worry.”

  “No, I imagine it doesn’t.”

  She worried about them as well. War put people on edge, forcing them to realize that their time walking the earth was limited.

  No one was ready to die. Many years stretched out into their future. Years which could be filled with happiness and life. Family, animals, a small house where one might farm or grow crops. To have those years be questioned was no easy thing.

  Sorcha lifted a hand, tucked it underneath the loose lapels of his shirt and rubbed his smooth chest. “You have gathered a capable group of people. It is admirable that you worry for them, but I believe they can take care of themselves.”

  “It is not just my people I worry about.”

  She heard the warble in his voice. “You’re worried about me.”

  “I do not know what I would do if I lost you again.”

 

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