Veins of Magic

by Emma Hamm

  “They’re in our bed.”

  “They missed you.”

  He sighed. “Ah well, we’ll have a new bed soon.”

  Oona pulled back and stared at Sorcha. “You succeeded?”

  “We conquered Cathair Solais and its previous king now rots in the dungeon until we decide what to do with him.”

  “Dearie, that is wonderful. And now the true king can take the throne.”

  Eamonn grinned, but Sorcha winced.

  “They won’t like me with you, Eamonn. You may wish for me to step aside for a while, just until you are comfortably king.”

  “Why would I want that?”

  “There’s a reason my people were cast aside. They fear me, even more so now that I proved what I can do. I can control them so easily. They are right to be afraid.”

  He reached out and took her hand. “They fear what they do not know. You’ve already captured the love of half the Seelie Court, and that’s far more than any king has ever managed.”

  Sorcha lost herself in his gaze. He believed in her so much, it made her heart swell. She could do anything with him by her side.

  Oona cleared her throat. “Then we go back to the Castle of Light?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  Cathair Solais was abuzz with movement. For the first time in hundreds of years, a new coronation was being held. No one knew much about the mysterious king and queen who had fought through the golden army and won.

  But all were curious. And all were invited to see the momentous crowning.

  Servants rushed through the halls, Lesser Fae and High Fae alike. Some of the High Fae enjoyed their new lives. Working gave a purpose rather than constant balls, drugs, and alcohol.

  Others chose not to have a respectable life, and they had the right to that choice. Old money would sustain them for a time, but eventually, they too would need to earn their keep.

  “M’lady!” A shout echoed down the hall. “That’s for the ceremony!”

  “Oh it’ll be fine, Ada! Shh.”

  Sorcha giggled at the startled expressions. The servants had yet to grow used to her strange behavior. They expected her to be like the countless other queens and princess they had seen. Stoic, demure, kind to a fault.

  She stuffed the sweet pastry in her mouth and waved her fingers at them. Someday she might act like a queen, but certainly not within her own quarters.

  Wiping sticky fingers on her skirts, she wiggled away from the wall of servants and rushed towards her room.

  She still couldn’t believe that an entire wing of the castle was dedicated to her. She had looked at the woman who ran the castle with wide eyes and asked why on earth she would need an entire wing.

  Apparently, most queens thought they needed that much room.

  Sorcha wanted a painting of the woman’s expression when she had said to give the servants the bottom three floors. It was as if she’d suggested keeping farm animals inside her rooms.

  “Sorcha!” Oona called out. “If you aren’t in your coronation gown, I will come and stuff you in it myself!”

  Her eyes went wide. Right, she needed to get into her dress, and wait patiently for the hairdresser.

  She heard the tell-tale whoosh of Oona’s wings and spun on her heel to race up the stairs.

  “I can see your skirts!” Oona shouted. “Get dressed!”

  The servants had to get used to their relationship as well. No one would dare speak in such a way to any previous queen. But Oona was nearly a mother to Sorcha, she could say anything she wanted.

  Feet flying up the spiral stairwell, she made her way to the highest tower. Why had she insisted on this room? Her breath sawed out of her lungs and dizziness threatened to throw off her balance.

  She slipped through the door, screeching when arms wrapped around her waist and lifted her off her feet.

  This was why she had insisted on a tower room. Eamonn yanked her back against his chest and peppered kisses over her shoulders.

  “You’re supposed to be in a gown made of sunlight,” he growled and bit down on her neck. “I don’t see a gown, I see a milkmaid hiding from the scolding fishwife.”

  “Did you just call Oona a fishwife?” she laughed.

  “She shrieks loud enough to have earned the name.”

  “Did you call me a milkmaid?”

  “Oh, is that only in my fantasies?” He spun her around to capture her lips.

  Sorcha shook her head, laughter bubbling through her lips. “You have fantasies about me as a milkmaid? Of all things, Eamonn!”

  “What? There’s something rather entertaining about the idea of returning from war, hungry, aching, tired. And there you are, on a hillside among the heather with your hair down and a smile on your face.” He tugged at her dress. “And skirts that aren’t too tight to toss.”

  She rolled her eyes. “That’s more what I expected. Are you trying to distract me? We have a coronation to go to.”

  “And we’re the king and queen! We can make them wait.” He backed her towards the bed, tugging at the laces of her bodice.

  Sorcha laughed again, slapping at his hands. “Stop that! You’re only tangling them further!”

  “I’m helping.”

  “You are not!”

  “Sorcha, I’ve undressed more women in my lifetime than you have yourself. Stand still!”

  It was to this playful scene that Oona barged in on. She pressed a hand to her mouth and blushed bright red, but Sorcha knew she had seen far worse.

  “I see the master has taken it upon himself to get you into the coronation gown.”

  Sorcha shrugged and yanked the strings out of Eamonn’s hands again. “It seems as though everyone is working against me.”

  “Into the gown with you.” Oona pointed at Eamonn with a severe expression. “And if you delay her any longer, I will take a switch to your backside, boy.”

  “You haven’t done that for centuries.”

  “Don’t think I won’t!”

  She left the room and Eamonn glowered at the empty space. “We shouldn’t have given her so many airs. She speaks to us as if we’re children!”

  “We are to her,” Sorcha said with a chuckle. “More than that, we’re her children. So don’t take it away from her.”

  “Hm. Maybe just a little?”

  “No!”

  She let him spin her around and start on the clasps at the back of her dress. There was something quiet and sweet about the way he undressed her. Whether he had a particular goal in mind, or was helping after a long day.

  Eamonn was always so gentle with her. And she still had a hard time believing this was her life.

  Such a short time ago she was a peasant girl living in a brothel. The old religion was her escape from the mundane world of her life. And now? She sat on a throne with a man she would have claimed a god.

  One of the Fair Folk loved her. How was she so lucky?

  “I’m the lucky one,” he said against her shoulder as he let her outer layers drop to the floor.

  “Was I speaking out loud?”

  “No, I could read it in your expression, mo chroí.”

  “Then we shall both be the lucky ones, for we have surely been blessed in this life.” She spun around, shoved her hands against his shoulders, and forced him to sit on the bed. “Eamonn, I’ve been wanting to tell you something for a while now, and I refuse to have a crown placed on my head without you knowing.”

  “You were married before you came here.”

  “What? No!”

  “You killed a man on the battlefield.”

  “No.”

  “You’ve been cursed to shout ‘toad’ whenever you see my twin?”

  She burst into laughter again. “No! You foolish man, none of that.”

  He palmed her hips and dragged her forward until she stood between his thighs. Pressing a kiss against her collarbone, he breathed, “Then what is it? It surely will not make me love you any less.”

  “No I suspect it
will make you love me quite a bit more.”

  The words were hard to find, and nothing would do it justice. Instead, she took his hand and guided it over her lower belly where the slightest of bumps had formed.

  He took a moment to understand what she meant.

  Sorcha watched as each emotion danced over his features. His brows drew down in stubborn concentration as he worked thoughts through the feel of her belly. His eyes widened as he realized what she meant. Then, his hand flexed ever so gently over their child.

  She had never seen Eamonn so stunned, or so moved. Tears filled his eyes and a rapid exhale took all the air from his lungs.

  “Ours?”

  Tears pricked her own eyes as she laughed. “Could it be anyone else’s?”

  Beside himself and without words, Eamonn slid from the bed onto his knees before her. He pulled her close and pressed his forehead against her belly. She felt the slow glide of his nose as he nuzzled closer.

  “You are loved,” he growled, both to her and the child. “You will be great and honorable and good. You will have your mother’s flaming hair and your father’s stubborn chin. I will rock to sleep at night, and your mother will kiss you awake every morning.”

  She pressed one hand to her trembling lips and the other to Eamonn’s head. She held him against her, close to their child who seemed so much a miracle in the midst of such darkness.

  Voice choked, Eamonn looked up at her. “How long?”

  “I can’t be so certain. Six moons, maybe a little longer.”

  “Is it a girl?”

  “I don’t know,” she chuckled. “Don’t you want a son?”

  “I want anything you can give me and hundreds more.” He lurched to his feet and drew her so gently into his arms she wondered if he thought she were now made of glass.

  “Hundreds?” she chuckled. “That’s too much to ask, high king.”

  “Not enough. I can’t ever have enough of you.”

  She lost herself in his kiss, in his embrace, as he held her against his heart.

  “Are you ready?” Eamonn asked.

  They stood just outside the throne room, fully garbed in the most uncomfortable clothing Sorcha had ever seen. He looked wonderful. Dressed all in white and gold, the long tail of his braid left free to swing as he moved. Ocras swung from his hip and a large starburst pendant from his neck.

  Sorcha’s high necked dress made her want to scratch. It splayed out around her chin like a wave from the ocean, and in theory was stunning. The bell sleeves touched the floor if she let her arms dip too far. Gemstones studded the metal corset and sprayed down the heavy skirt in fine, embroidered stitches. Her hair piled heavy on top of her head, braided so tight she could feel the skin at her temples pulling back.

  It was too bad the whole thing made her feel as if she were an antique on display.

  “Sorcha?” Eamonn asked again.

  “Yes, yes I’m ready.”

  “Are you certain?” He reached out and touched a hand to her belly. “We can always postpone if you wish.”

  “I’m no different than I was before, and you didn’t treat me like glass then. Besides, we’ve already made them wait too long.”

  “It will be overwhelming.”

  “Why should it be? They will be silent as the grave and wondering just how much we will change.”

  He smirked. “You’ll see. Guards, open the doors.”

  The two men in silver armor, Eamonn had insisted the uniform change no matter how much Sorcha argued it was wasteful, swung open the doors to reveal the crowd of faeries.

  They saw their king and queen and burst into boisterous cheers. She forced her mouth to remain shut at their enthusiasm. She had thought they would remain reserved, unsure of their new rulers who had taken the kingdom by storm.

  They were not. Some faces she recognized, dwarves from the battlefield, pixies in the air, peat faeries in the shadows with bright smiles on their faces. But others, she did not. Tuatha dé Danann, dryads, brownies, those who had remained faithful to Fionn until the bitter end.

  Even they were pleased to see Eamonn and Sorcha at last.

  She gripped his forearm tighter and glanced up at him. “I had not expected this.”

  “The Fae are much used to changes in their lives. The royalty moves, pieces changing, switching as the game is played. They hope we shall be better than the last, and if we are not, that we will be overthrown just as quickly.”

  Sorcha blew out a breath. “That is a lot of pressure.”

  “It is, but we will be a good king and queen.”

  “How can you be so certain?”

  He looked out over his people, a soft smile on his face. She was struck by the ease he stood among them. The simple way he could switch from warlord to king seamlessly.

  “This is what I was raised to do, Sorcha. I saw the injustices our people were forced to bear, but it was you who convinced me they could truly be changed. We will make a great difference in this world, unite our people, and give this land much needed peace.”

  She looked up at Eamonn and smiled. They made their way up the steps towards their thrones. One jagged edged, burned, and foreboding. The other with roses blooming over every inch.

  A voice shouted, “Thus ends the era of Fionn the Wise and so begins the reign of the Stag King and the Rose Queen!”

  Two of the oldest Tuatha dé Danann stood, carrying gilded crowns that made Sorcha’s heart pound. Was she ready for this? Could she ever be ready to be Queen?

  She looked out over the crowd and saw faces she loved, people she trusted, and she knew that if it were her destiny to become queen, then she would wear such a destiny with pride.

  The strange creatures were a myriad of color and textures. Wings, horns, glittery appendages, all blended together to creature a patchwork of magic and wonder.

  Except one single person, who stood out like a sore thumb.

  She gasped out a wrenching sob. “Papa?”

  Eamonn squeezed her hand and nudged her back towards the crowd. “The crowning can wait.”

  She didn’t care what her people thought of a queen who fled from her throne and burst into the crowd. She threw her arms around her father’s shoulders and sobbed into his neck.

  “Oh, Papa! I didn’t think I would ever see you again!”

  “Neither did I, my sweet girl.” He held her close, laughing in her ear. “But your husband found me far too easily, and here I stand.”

  “And my sisters?”

  “Waiting in our room. I’m afraid they were much overwhelmed by the Otherworld.”

  “And you are not?”

  “No, I’m too ornery to fear these creatures.” But he looked around them and gulped. “Besides, it’s not every day a father gets to watch his child crowned queen.”

  Sorcha tightened her hold around his neck. “I must go and do that, father. But I wish to speak with you immediately afterwards.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be having some kind of ceremony?”

  “They can wait. My family is far more important than stuffy old traditions.”

  He chuckled. “I believe your husband feels the same way.”

  “He does.”

  It took quite a bit of effort to release her hold on her father’s neck. She missed him terribly and hadn’t realized the hole in her heart that came from him not being here. Sliding from his embrace, she smiled brilliantly before turning back to her husband.

  Eamonn. The man who had not only saved her life and convinced her to become something far more than a midwife, but who catered to her every whim and desire.

  She walked back up the steps and reached her hands out to him. “You did this.”

  “I knew you wouldn’t want to go through it without at least one of your family members.”

  “I would never have asked. I don’t even know what you must have done to bring him here.”

  “You don’t want to.” He pulled her close to him and feathered a kiss over her lips. “But I w
ould do anything for you, mo chroí.”

  “Then let us be crowned and get this over as soon as possible. I wish you to meet them.”

  He whirled her around so her skirts flew in a bell shape around her knees. The faeries cheered, and he sat her down in her throne, taking his beside her.

  The herald cleared his throat and began again. “We crown thee the Stag King! May you rule with honor, confidence, and a sure hand.”

  The faerie behind Eamonn lowered a crown which twisted and turned, pockmarked like the tines of an antler.

  “We crown thee the Rose Queen! May you rule with kindness, nobility, and forgiveness.”

  She felt the thin gold crown nestle in her hair. She knew without looking that delicate roses had been crafted by the finest artisans in all the land. Looking out over the crowd of her subjects, she smiled at them and prayed she would never let them down.

  Eamonn reached for her hand and squeezed it. “Together.”

  She looked over at him and felt her heart swell. “Together.”

  “Are you certain you’re up to this?” Eamonn asked.

  “Would you stop asking me that question today?”

  “It’s just in your delicate condition—”

  “If you say one more word about me being pregnant and fragile, I will set the drapes on fire.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  Sorcha glared up at him. “I most certainly would.”

  “Your sisters sound…” He glanced at the door as shrieks of laughter blast through the thick wood. “Exhausting.”

  “They are. But they are very kind and have good heads on their shoulders. I think you'll find that they are wonderful women who love me very much.”

  “They let you go.”

  “Because it was what I wanted.” She put her hand on the doorknob and grinned. “You’ll be all right, won’t you?”

  “Just open the door.”

  Sorcha turned the knob and threw her arms wide. “Sisters!”

  “Sorcha!”

  The shrieking group of thirteen women surrounded her. They passed her around for hugs, tears, and blubbering words incapable of being understood. They didn’t need to know what the others had said, the love was already in the air.

  Each woman had missed Sorcha so much that it boiled over into a cloud of happiness that tasted of salt and relief.