Heart of the Fae

by Emma Hamm

  “I’m not leaving yet, Geralt. I can at least watch the examination. Perhaps I might have—”

  “Sorcha,” he interrupted. She could feel each finger burning through the fabric of her dress. “Perhaps you can explain why you don’t have time to wait? I would like to offer my help.”

  “I don’t want your help.”

  “But I want to give it. So please, walk with me.”

  She peered over her shoulder at the body. “If they would just listen, for once in their stubborn lives, I might be able to teach them something!”

  “Not today, lovely. Not today.”

  He propelled her from the room with such ease Sorcha wondered if he had cursed her. More likely he was overpowering her. Geralt stood a head taller and didn’t mind using his greater weight to his advantage.

  There was little else she could do. Sorcha wanted to stay, but would only make a larger scene if she did. Perhaps someday they would let her linger, even in the corner or in the shadows.

  But she was just a midwife, and therefore, a lesser being.

  Geralt leaned down, his lips brushing her ear. “Now, what is wrong with your father?”

  “You know what’s wrong with him. He’s infected.”

  “I know he's infected, but you’ve never used him as an excuse before. What has changed?”

  “It’s progressed.”

  Geralt nodded at another nobleman. The other did not return the gesture. Old blood rarely acknowledged new riches. “How far?”

  She stopped in her tracks. “Why are you even asking? You don’t care how he fares!”

  “Of course I care.” He pressed a hand against his chest. “I have always cared, Sorcha.”

  Everything was spiraling out of control. Her gut clenched and her fingers curled into fists. “This is not why I am here, Geralt. I’m not having this conversation with you in the middle of the Guild.”

  “Then let us walk outside.”

  “We’ve talked this through so many times! Enough!” Her exasperated shout echoed. Men stopped in their work and glanced towards them.

  Her face turned bright red, freckles standing out in stark relief against her pale skin. The last thing she needed was for these men to think she was hysterical. She already shouted enough.

  Sorcha ducked her head and headed towards freedom, reminding herself to stay calm and composed.

  “Sorcha!” Geralt called after her.

  She rushed forward, bursting through the front door, and jogging down the steps. He caught up with her. The harsh tug of his hand on her arm would leave bruises.

  “Would you at least listen to me?”

  “I think I’ve heard it enough times.” She shook herself out of his grip and rubbed at her bicep.

  “You would have everything you desire,” he said as she walked away. “You’d have a home, a husband, children.”

  “Is that what I’m supposed to want?”

  “A man who adores you. Who whispers poetry in your ear every night and devotes himself to your happiness.”

  It sounded so good that she paused. He spoke of a life every woman desired. A loving relationship with a man who supported her every whim and passion. But she knew Geralt well. He wanted to believe he was that man, yet his eyes lingered upon the curves of other women. He drank more than he admitted and, above all else, he wasn’t as good as he thought.

  “I desire a useful man. One who can help us in our hour of need.” She glanced over her shoulder. A curling red lock brushed across her face in the stiff breeze. “Words are of no use if no one is left to hear them.”

  “You want me to be the hero? I can’t save everyone!”

  “No, you cannot. You’re not a healer. You pay to be in that room among the brightest minds to satisfy your morbid curiosity,” she lashed out. “Why won’t you believe me when I say I can help?”

  “You are a woman! What help could you provide?”

  There it was. There was the anger, the red rage she saw so rarely. He buried his temper deep inside until it boiled over his edges.

  “My sex doesn’t change how much I know.”

  “You’re naturally weak. You cannot help that, and we all understand. Why can’t you?”

  She drew herself up, squared her shoulders and gripped her plaid. “I am not weak because of my femininity. I do not look down upon you for not knowing how to birth a child or the right way to guide a woman through her first menses. Perhaps you should ask yourself why you feel the need to look down upon me.”

  A crowd gathered around the edges of her vision. This wasn’t the first time she had screamed at a man in the street, or a woman for that matter. She gritted her teeth.

  “You can’t change the world, Sorcha.”

  “I would if I could.” She turned away from the town, from the villagers hiding smirks, from confused, handsome Geralt.

  A crash shook the entire kitchen. Clay plates rattled, and a mug fell to the floor, shattering with an echoing clatter. The shutters slammed against the stained-glass windows with thunderous bangs.

  The brownies flinched. They lifted their pointed, furred faces towards the ceiling. Nervous chuckles floated in the air with the bubbles from their dishes.

  Oona, the only pixie in the kitchen, lifted her violet gaze and sighed. “The master’s angry tonight.”

  “He was angry last night and the night before that!” The gnome walking into the room could look a sheep in the eye. His face was eerily similar to a bowl of mashed potatoes, with winged eyebrows always drawn down in an angry frown. He waddled to Oona and dumped a basket of flowers on the table. “For dinner.”

  “Thank you, Cian. Are you bringing the master his supper tonight?”

  “That grumpy thing up there? Howling like he plans to tear the whole castle apart? I will not, under any circumstances. He’s been too angry lately, the boy can go hungry.”

  “He has a right to be angry.”

  “No one has a right to be angry for that long.”

  Oona turned, lavender wings fluttering in the air. High arched eyebrows lifted even higher. The leaf-like fan of her forehead vibrated in anger. She shook a long finger at Cian, the extra digit giving her tsking weight. “You know as well as I why that man is angry. His own brother banished him here. His twin! After trying to kill him, more than once, need I remind you.”

  Cian crossed his short arms over his wide chest. “I have never felt bad for a king, and I don't plan to start now.”

  “Not a king.” She shook her head. “A man who might have been king, if circumstances were different. Those he loved betrayed him, hanged him, and sent him to this isle with us. The least we can do is bring him supper.”

  “You bring it to him, then. I don’t need to get thrown across the room like last time.”

  “He wouldn’t dare.”

  “Few would,” Cian nodded. “You’re a frightening woman, pixie.”

  “And don’t you forget it.” She reached out and rapped him on the head with a wooden spoon. “Now where is the master’s dinner?”

  He blushed, the red color highlighting on the peaks of his wrinkled skin. “Didn’t get him one.”

  “Cian!”

  “What? I told you I wasn’t bringing him dinner!”

  “There’s not enough time to find him something to eat! And what do you think I’m going to do? Bring him pollen and honey?”

  “Why can’t he eat what we do?”

  “Because he’s a direct descendant of the Tuatha dé Danann! You think they eat like us?”

  Oona spun and frantically searched the kitchen for anything she could bring to their howling master. He wasn’t a picky man. He rarely ate at all, but he couldn’t eat flowers, and he certainly couldn’t drink only cream.

  She ended up with her hands full of bread, honey, and milk. It was the best she could do although it wasn’t likely to cool his anger.

  Oona blew out a breath which stirred the petals of her hair and left the kitchen.

  The stone steps to th
e master's quarters always made her nervous. No railings prevented her from falling straight down the center. Looking down the stairs, she gulped. The fall would kill her, so she was certain to tread carefully while making her way to the master’s quarters.

  The peak of the tower opened to a walkway suspended over open air. Wind whistled past her ears. The vines in her hair turned to whips striking against her cheeks and neck.

  She strode across the walkway while holding her breath. A stone door blocked the master’s side of the castle from everyone else, protecting them from his rage.

  Oona placed her shoulder against the door and grunted as she pushed.

  Sounds of shattering glass and splintering wood filled the room beyond. Her hands shook as she traversed the broken landscape of furniture and vases. The master had gone through his seating area and beyond into his bedroom.

  She paused a moment and stared at a crooked painting. The Queen stared down from the wall with a soft smile on her face. Now, three ragged strips were missing. The sagging canvas warped her face along the sliced edges.

  “Master has never harmed you before,” she whispered. “What happened tonight?”

  The sounds of the master’s wrath silenced at her words. He'd heard her.

  Oona took a deep, steadying breath, and walked towards his bedroom. She tentatively pushed the wooden door open with her toe, holding her breath.

  “Master?” she asked.

  “Go away.”

  She peered into the dim light. The curtains hung over the windows, covered in dust, and tied down at the bottom to hold them tight. Shadows formed around a four-poster bed with one post snapped in half. She could make out his dresser, the chandelier swinging on the ceiling, even where his rug began. But she could not find him.

  A bell rang in her mind. It warned her to leave and not let him lure her into his darkness. To preserve her own life and let him go hungry.

  Her heart said the opposite.

  She lifted her hand, snapped her fingers, and a warm faerie light danced in the air.

  “There you are,” she said. “I could hear you from downstairs and grew worried. You did quite a number on the front room.”

  “Go away, Oona.”

  He huddled beyond the bed, folded in on his great height until he was little more than a ball. His face turned away from her light as he always did when he saw her.

  Not for the first time, she wished he would look at her without prompting.

  “Master,” she shook her head and marched to his dresser. “What have you done with your cloak?”

  “I didn’t think I would have visitors.”

  "Well, we share a castle. There’s more of us than there are of you. What would you have done if the will-o'-the-wisps wandered up here to clean?"

  “Frightened them away.”

  She reached into the top drawer and pulled out one of his many hooded cloaks. “Frightened them away. They already tremble when you walk past. Do you want them to run?”

  “They should.”

  “I don’t.”

  “You find no value in your own life.”

  Oona tsked. “That’s cruel and unlike you. What happened, Eamonn?”

  The glow from her faerie light reached him. He lifted a hand to cover his face and the other to reach for the cloak. “Not now.”

  “Yes, now.” But she gave him the hood, watching the silk trickle from her fingers like black water. “You can’t keep breaking furniture, we have a limited supply. Shipwrecks don't wash up every day.”

  He pulled the cloak over his shoulders as if his muscles had stiffened. Oona knew better. Once he lifted the hood over his face, she knelt on the floor.

  “Don’t—”

  She didn’t listen. She reached out and pressed her hand against his. “What happened?”

  Eamonn turned his hand, letting her fingers dance over his palm which now held an open wound. “Another careless mistake.”

  “Oh, master. It’s just a cut.”

  “You know it’s more than that.”

  She glanced down, peeling her hand back from his. His flesh had parted from the meaty muscle of his thumb in a diagonal to his pinky. No blood welled from the wound. Instead, sparkling violet and blue crystals grew in the golden glow.

  The wound would never heal again.

  Oona curled her fingers over the disfigurement. “It’s not as bad as the others.”

  “No, but it is a reminder of what I am.”

  “You are our king.”

  “I am an abomination and a pathetic excuse for Seelie royalty.”

  She linked her fingers through his. “Those are your brother’s words, not yours. You are not ugly, nor are you deformed. In every way that matters, you are a Seelie Fae.”

  “Except physical perfection. I can never be king.”

  “Rules like that were meant to be changed. It isn’t right that you’re here and he’s sitting on your throne.”

  Eamonn pulled away. He rose with creaking knees to his massive height. Oona was not a small pixie, but the Tuatha dé Danann were giants among men. The hood covered his face, and his hands glimmered in the light. His entire body was a geode cracking open with every slice to his flesh.

  “Leave,” he growled.

  “Are you going to be all right alone?”

  He turned his back on her. “I always am.”

  With a breaking heart, Oona solemnly left the room. She was careless on the stairs and nearly tumbled to her death before she made it back to the kitchens. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

  Cian peeked in through the garden door. “What’s he done now?”

  “Nothing. He’s done nothing but chosen to be alone.”

  “Ah, good riddance. All he’d do is break things down here. I like my garden the way it is.”

  He disappeared, and her heart stung as if she had swallowed something bitter. She looked up at the ceiling and shook her head. “He shouldn’t be alone. He doesn’t deserve to be alone.”

  Chapter Two

  THE TWINS

  A branch launched back and smacked Sorcha across the face. She flinched, another twig pulling at her hair until she whimpered. She paused and tried to untangle herself, huffing out a breath.

  The trees held fast, tangling her curls around their thin branches and twisting at her scalp. Her plaid stuck on the lower branches and her arms held down by vines.

  “I don’t want to let go of my anger,” she growled. “It’s healthy! No man should tell me what to do.”

  Anger rose again at the memories. Even her tromp through the woods hadn’t cleared the red haze obscuring her vision. How dare he suggest she still her tongue and then follow up those words with yet another suggestion of marriage? He must be mad!

  “Let me go!” she grunted. “I’m calm!”

  Another harsh tug made her wince.

  Sorcha sucked in a slow breath. Her cheeks puffed as she exaggerated the movement. “See? I’m not angry and won’t desecrate this place with my…” she paused and grimaced. “With my trivial issues.”

  How had she forgotten? This was a sacred place, a haven for all who needed it, and here she was waltzing in wearing anger like a cloak upon her shoulders.

  She hung her head in embarrassment. “My sincerest apologies. I will not make the same mistake again.”

  The trees groaned their approval. She shook her head and her hair slid from the confines of branches and leaves. The curls bounced against her cheeks, untangled and smooth. Her dress fell heavy against her legs, her plaid swaying with the sudden movement.

  Her lips tilted in a soft smile. “I have learned your lesson, Danu, and I will remember it.”

  Nudging a branch aside, she stepped into the clearing. Green moss carpeted the ground all the way to the stones piled in the center. An artist had carved a triskele long ago; the three linked swirls faintly glowed on the granite. Water bubbled in between the mounds, smoothing the stones into perfect spheres.

  She felt the warmth of the Fae
here. The lingering effects of magic and nature made the tips of her pointed ears heat.

  She pulled the bag off her shoulder and placed her offerings upon the stones. “Great Mother of old, I bring you gifts from those who seek your favor. Aileen, Eithne and Nola leave honey, lavender and sweet mead.” As she spoke, Sorcha placed her hand upon each item. “I have brought you my mother’s pin. It sparkles in the sun and reminds me of this place. I would like to leave it if it pleases you.”

  A warm breeze spiraled around her. It lifted her hair and teased the end of her nose. Dust motes danced and butterflies stirred into motion. Their wings flashed brilliant colors as the sunlight played across them.

  Danu was pleased. Sorcha tilted her head towards the sun and let its heat soothe her soul. Although she was here, in her favorite place, dark thoughts still shoved to the forefront of her mind.

  There were too many things to worry about. The blood beetles. Papa. Geralt. Her sisters. The list went on and on until she was drowning.

  “Danu,” she whispered, “my mind is troubled. I do not seek help, as I know you cannot always give it, but if there is a spare moment of your time… listen to my fears.”

  The air in the glen stilled as though something or someone was leaning forward in anticipation.

  Encouraged, Sorcha sank to her knees and dug her hands into the moss. “The blood beetle plague is spreading ever faster. My own father has contracted the infection. I have the knowledge to extend his life, but I cannot stop him from dying. I fear I am only prolonging the inevitable.

  “My sisters will not last long without his guidance. The man who takes his place will be unlikely to view them as people. I do not wish for them to lose their business or their home. They have done what it takes to survive here in the city. There is no shame in their profession, but there will be many who seek to take advantage of us in our father’s absence.

  “The Guild members refuse to listen. They sit in their ivory tower and poke at dead bodies while so many people die. They have gone so far as to say that because I am a woman, I do not have as much knowledge as them. I do not have the patience, nor the endurance, to continue. I will say something foolish or headstrong, and they will never listen again.