Veins of Magic

by Emma Hamm

  “You sent a request with two names, and I accepted both.”

  “Whose?”

  “Mine,” Sorcha said. Her voice carried line the peal of a bell. “I signed my name on the letter.”

  He twisted towards her. “Why would you do that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Hundreds of faerie gazes burned. They waited for the druid woman to say something that might change their minds. Something that would rock the very foundation of their world.

  And she couldn’t find a single word.

  Fionn gestured for her to step forward. “Come here, Sorcha.”

  Her feet carried her without her knowledge. She watched the faces as she passed by and wondered what she could say that would change their minds. They already knew what decision they would make. They had condemned him years ago and didn’t want to alter their thoughts.

  She stopped next to Eamonn and brushed her pinky against his. She wouldn’t disgrace him by taking his hand.

  “Not there,” Fionn said. “Approach the throne.”

  What games did he play now? She looked up at Eamonn who stared down at her with worry in his eyes. But she had no choice. The king had summoned her to his side.

  Each step felt strange. The stairs weren’t right to walk upon. A king should be level with his people, should eat at their table, fight by their side. He shouldn’t sit above them and cast his judgment throughout a crowd.

  The dowager queen made the slightest of sounds as she passed. A hum, a hymn, a whispered prayer that skittered down Sorcha’s spine.

  “There you are.” Fionn licked his lips. “You’re such a pretty little thing for a human.”

  “Thank you.” Her words slid between her clenched teeth.

  “So polite! Since when do you curb your tongue?”

  “I have been learning self-control.”

  “I bet you have.” He leaned forward and stroked a finger down her arm. She felt the heat of him burn through the fabric, her body’s confused response to a man who was Eamonn but not. “Why don’t you tell us why Eamonn is more worthy of this throne than I?”

  “It is not my place to suggest such a thing. Faerie politics are beyond me.”

  “Even you shall not stand beside my brother? If his own lover will not claim him worthy then why should we?”

  She swallowed. “I care little whether he sits upon this throne or the one he has already claimed. The name of the castle or seat means little, it is the people who decide where their allegiance lies. I have watched all those who seek shelter from your mistreatment arrive at our doorstep.

  “And we have taken care of them. Each faerie who was neglected, whose family hungers for food. We cared for their wounds, filled their bellies, provided a warm place to sleep. Whether you continue on as Seelie king or not, matters little to me. We will continue to save those you have wronged. And you will continue to wrong them.”

  Fionn’s brows lifted. “Banished prince, your lover speaks quite well for a gutter rat.”

  “She is a queen. You would do well to show her respect.”

  “A queen?” Fionn burst into laughter along with a few of the faerie court. “She is a druid. We ran them out of the Otherworld long ago, and for good reason. I should send her back to the human realm now.”

  “She would only find another way to return. She already has once.”

  “Then you choose him?” Fionn asked her directly. “There are many gifts I can give you. Many wonders you might behold in this court without the presence of a faerie prince that will amount to nothing.”

  “He is your brother,” she said with a hitched breath. “How can you be so cruel? He is a part of you.”

  A shadow passed across his face. The same sadness she had seen on his face when he looked at Elva. “I cut out that part when I stuck a dagger in his back, little midwife. There is no mending that wound.”

  She didn’t think anyone but her had heard his admission of guilt. Regret rang in his voice, saturated his words with heavy oil. He hated himself for what he had done. But he was not willing to back down.

  They were so much alike. Eamonn would never let his brother rule at his side, and Fionn would never apologize. They were two pillars of hatred and jealousy which had grown so solid they could never break.

  “You have this moment to change the future,” she whispered. “You can take this step towards mending your life and his. It will not belittle you, nor will it make you appear weak. Two great men are stronger than one.”

  “Your words are so pretty.” He reached forward and touched her cheek. “And your soul is so bright. He does not deserve your devotion.”

  “He has earned it wholeheartedly. Again and again.”

  “If only the world was filled with more women like you.”

  “Where is Elva?” she asked quietly.

  He shut down, his expression smoothing into porcelain and hands gripping the arms of his throne so tightly that they groaned. “You have made your plea, midwife. Return to your lover’s side for my judgment.”

  “Judgment?” her voice rang out. “We are not here for punishment. We came to you for an audience, king to king.”

  “I do not recognize another king in the Seelie Court. Nor will my people.”

  “They already have!” She backed down the steps, her soul screaming for justice. “They flock to us by the hundreds, and thousands more will come.”

  “You have fled from Hy-brasil in clear defiance of banishment.”

  “You have no right!” Sorcha screamed even as she reached Eamonn’s side. “Your judgment means nothing!”

  “I find you guilty of breaking the laws of our people and treason.”

  Sorcha clenched her fists. “You are not their king! The true High King of the Seelie Court stands before you, and you are blind to see it!”

  “Sorcha,” Eamonn caught hold of her shoulders. “Silence.”

  “I will not be silent while these fools call him king!”

  “Mo chroí,” he leaned down and pressed his forehead against hers. “We have failed.”

  “I will not accept that.”

  Fionn’s voice boomed. “Guards, remove the midwife.”

  Hands grabbed her arms and yanked her from Eamonn’s hold. He growled, palming the blades at his side and jerking forward. Two other guards held him in place.

  She watched the blood drain from his face as he was forced to stare at his brother.

  Fionn shook his head. “Release him.”

  The gold clad hands fell from Eamonn’s shoulders. Sorcha twisted and turned, trying to break the solid hold upon her. One of the guards wrapped his arm firmly around her waist.

  “You knew what the punishment for such blatant disregard for our rules was, and still you came here,” Fionn said.

  “Hang me again, brother. I will swing from the cord for as long as you wish, but I will come back here when that rope breaks.”

  Again, the darkened expression Sorcha recognized crossed Fionn’s features.

  “No,” she breathed. Her gut clenched, her hands shook, her eyes watered. She didn’t know what Fionn was going to do, but she could see his heart breaking.

  “You forced my hand, brother.” It was the first time Fionn admitted his familial ties to Eamonn. “And now you will remain here, for all to remember what happens when they defy their king.”

  “I am to be a prisoner then?” Eamonn scoffed. “You truly are a fool. Eventually, they will hear what I have to say as truth. Abdicate the throne. End this.”

  “You are not the only one to find the old relics.”

  Time slowed as Sorcha watched the scene unfold before her. Eamonn’s eyes widened and for the first she saw fear. Raw and ragged, it shredded his quiet visage, and he gripped the sword at his side.

  But Fionn was faster. He reached through the folds of his robe and pulled out a bejeweled handle. At the press of a finger, it extended into a wicked spear with an edge so sharp it was blinding.

  Fionn turned so
quietly her eyes could not track his movements and sank the blade through Eamonn's armor, between his ribs.

  He couldn’t die, the crystals would stop it. She waited for the telltale clink and shattering sound of metal breaking against earth. It did not come.

  A choked sound echoed through the hall which was suddenly silent as the grave. Eamonn coughed again and Fionn twisted the spear. He pushed until the tip split through Eamonn’s back and gleamed in the light. No blood tainted its tip.

  Rattling breath mirrored her own. Fionn stepped back, wiped a hand across his mouth, and ascended the stairs to his throne.

  Eamonn fell onto his knees and would have sprawled onto the floor if the spear had not caught on the stairs. It held him up, balanced on the very thing which plunged through his heart.

  A wail split through her head, screaming and crying in pain. It was the scream of a bean sidhe, the thundering of a heart breaking, the shattering of a soul.

  She made that sound. Screaming out her rage and fear until her throat vibrated, and she tasted blood. Sorcha wasn’t certain if she said words, or if the sound was merely the raw, violent edge of agony.

  The guard loosened his hold just enough for her to break free. She ran towards Eamonn and cupped his face, tilting his head until she could look into his eyes.

  Crystals spread from the wound on his chest. They climbed down his arms, solidifying his stomach until he couldn’t move.

  Tears slid down her cheeks and her hands trembled.

  “No,” she moaned. “No, my love. You will not leave me!”

  “I—” The crystals traveled up his throat and locked his words within his body. His eyes tried to say what his lungs could not. But all she saw was the fear and sadness. Their life had been taken from them. It was always taken from them.

  “Mo chroí, fight for me.”

  His lips moved but crystal sprouted from his tongue. They rose out of his mouth and spilled into her hands. His eyes roved, sightless, until they too stilled.

  She no longer held a man in her hands. No heart beat, no lungs drew breath, no eyes spoke of his love. He was nothing more than a man made of crystal, a symbol of all those who fought against Fionn.

  Sorcha drew air into her lungs, threw her head back, and screamed. Her agony was so great it cracked the surrounding stone. Great fissures that spread like spider legs across the floor towards the hated faeries who had condemned him to this fate.

  She would kill them all. They would die a thousand deaths for taking him from her.

  One brave soul linked an arm through her waist but she would not let Eamonn go. She refused to leave him here where so many hated people would look upon him and laugh. They had no right to keep him.

  “Sorcha!” Cian shouted in her ear. “Sorcha, we must leave!”

  “I will make them regret ever drawing breath!”

  “We will, love. But we must go!”

  She opened her eyes and saw that the throne room was in shambles. Faeries tore at each other and the guards. Screams and shouts echoed her own though she did not recognize those who fought.

  Fionn fled from the room with a small army of guards trailing behind him. They ushered the dowager queen away who stared at Sorcha with pain in her eyes.

  Sorcha pointed directly at her. “You have no right to mourn him.”

  The queen flinched and fled.

  “Now, Sorcha! We cannot risk being caught in the dungeon! All our work will be for nothing!”

  “I cannot leave him.”

  “He doesn’t know anymore.” She heard the anguish in Cian’s voice. “He doesn’t know, Sorcha. We have to go.”

  Trembling, she pressed a kiss against Eamonn's cold, stone lips. “I will find you again. In this life or the next.”

  Heart numb, she stood and left with what remained of Eamonn’s people. Her soul screamed out a vow.

  She would destroy his house and pity the fool who tried to stop her.

  The Druid Queen

  “The king is dead.”

  The words rang throughout Nuada’s stolen castle. The dwarves and Seelie Fae who found shelter in the ancient walls watched with wide eyes.

  They had arrived two weeks ago. Broken, bleeding, and dragging Sorcha as she screamed and fought their hold. Once calm, she told the others to still their tongues. She would tell their people once the words no longer stuck in her throat.

  She hadn’t known it would take this long. Madness danced at the edges of her vision for longer than she cared to admit. Sorcha had not thought herself so weak.

  Bran’s words danced in her mind. Find something else to fill her time, to give her purpose, to force her life in another direction. She had survived without him before. She could do again.

  But she hadn’t thought losing him a second time would destroy her.

  Now, she stood before the crowds of people with a clear mind. She had a purpose, and it was to provide a home for every faerie that sought shelter from the bitter storms of Fionn’s wrath.

  Sorcha said it again, forcing herself and them to realize the truth. “The king is dead. Fionn plunged the Spear of Lugh through his chest, the only weapon that could kill our crystal king.”

  “Where is his body?” A dwarf called out.

  “Fionn kept him as a symbol of what would happen to all those who defy him.”

  Murmurs lifted into the air. The faeries’ minds grew troubled, wondering what would happen next. They had defied the king. Living in this castle, following Sorcha and Eamonn’s people, all decisions that went against the king’s orders.

  “We will prevail,” Sorcha called out. “This place is our home. The people next to you are your family, by blood and by choice. Our lives remain as he would have wished them to. Free.”

  She buried her hands in the folds of her dress. Tears pricked the edges of her vision, but she couldn’t let them fall. How many tears could a single person have?

  “We will stay in this castle. We will continue to build our people.”

  “Will we go to war?” A peat faerie shouted.

  “No,” Sorcha shook her head. All her energy drained and her posture sagged. “I have no intention of leading our people to war. I make these decisions based on what he would have wanted. You were more important to him than his own life. We could not have known what Fionn planned, but we do know Eamonn’s intention. We will not fight until we are forced to.”

  She left the great hall as the murmur of the faeries lifted into the air. They could think what they wished, but she was done fighting.

  Her hands shook as she pushed the door open. Her stomach tensed as she walked down the hall. Her knees quaked until she pushed into one of the rooms and slammed the door shut behind her.

  He is gone.

  A sob shook her shoulders, rocking her body back and forth. He is gone.

  What was she supposed to do when her ribs were cracking open, exposing her heart to the frigid expanse of her soul? She had lost everything, over and over again. And now she was alone.

  She slid to her knees and pressed her forehead against the door. Their people needed her to lead them, to guide them forward and all she could do was fall into thousands of pieces.

  Eamonn had never failed them. Even the loss of their love had driven him forward. His own family hung him, and still he found the strength to lead the people on Hy-brasil, the courage to return home and look them in the eye.

  She couldn’t even stand.

  Hands pulled at her shoulders, ghostly hands that chilled her skin.

  “Sorcha,” they whispered. “Let us comfort you.”

  “I do not want comfort. I want to feel the pain.”

  “You should not have to bear this weight alone.”

  “He shouldered my burdens. He comforted my worries and lifted my soul. Who am I without him?”

  “You are Sorcha of Ui Neill.”

  “No longer. I left that life behind when I abandoned my family.”

  “You are the Druid Queen of the Seelie Fae.”<
br />
  “What is a queen without a king?” She licked her lips and turned into the green mist of her ancestors.

  “A dark, powerful creature with no man to temper her steel. You shall wield a sword as your crown, a whip as your jewels, and armor as your gown.”

  “I have no more wish to fight.”

  The mist stirred and parted. Dark hair and billowing clothing covered Ethniu’s graceful body, but her feet were bare. She had cloven hooves, tiny goat-like feet that tapped against the stone floor.

  “Granddaughter,” she said and opened her arms wide. “My girl, I am so sorry.”

  Sorcha scrambled to her feet, launching herself into the waiting embrace. Ethniu smelled like a rose garden. She breathed in her grandmother’s sweet scent and sobbed into her shoulder. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Let us help you, child. You are not alone.”

  “I am. I have no family, no lover, no one but people who expect me to lead them when all I wish to do is curl up in bed.”

  “You have us,” Ethniu said with a smile.

  A deep voice echoed the words. “You have always had us.”

  Sorcha turned her face against Ethniu’s shoulder and stared at her grandfather. Balor, Torin, the unnamed druid who had helped her through so much. “What can you do? Can you bring a man back from the dead?”

  “I warned you,” he said with a sad shake of his head. “Without the sword, the story changed. Sacrifices have to be made, and that is not always easy.”

  “I didn’t know I would lose him. I didn't know that was what I traded.”

  “Your heart is so big. If I had known it would hurt you thusly, I would have prevented you from throwing it away.”

  Ethniu squeezed her. “All is not yet lost. You have found your people, and they deserve a leader like you. One who is kind, good, honest; who cares for them.”

  “He did,” she replied. “He cared for them as no one else ever did. He understood them in ways I never will be able to.”

  Balor and Ethniu shared a troubled glance over her head. Ethniu guided Sorcha deeper into the mist. “My sweet girl, let me tell you a story.”

  “I have no need for a story, grandmother. I have need of a miracle.”