by Emma Hamm
The faces of the isle’s Fae danced behind his lids. They had been banished for many things. Stealing from a Tuatha dé Danann. Worshiping a different ancestor than their master. Going home to visit family when they should have been working.
Nothing as serious as murder. They would’ve swung next to him on the gallows if they’d done such a thing.
There was no purpose to this place, other than a punishment worse than death. Fionn’s voice echoed in his mind.
“Let him rot.”
And that was exactly what he was doing. He might as well grow barnacles rather than crystals. Eamonn was doing nothing other than sitting and waiting for time to pass.
He glanced over and met his mother’s cold gaze. “I’m coming home, Máthair.”
Sorcha wound through the hallways, twisting the armful of lavender she carried into a purple crown. The brownies were busy cooking and had little time to entertain her. She’d tried to talk with one of the selkies, but he had to go fishing to replenish their stocks.
Every day that passed brought new frustrations and new boredom. Blowing out a breath, she stuck her tongue out as she finished the very end. Lavender made a beautiful flower crown, but the tiny buds sometimes fell off before she could finish.
She’d smelled the patch before she saw it. Rosaleen had always been searching for more lavender to hang in her room. She said it took away some of the more unpleasant scents.
Sorcha didn’t have the heart to say that even lavender couldn’t take away the scent of death. It wasn’t what Rosaleen had been talking about, but Sorcha’s struggles had been far different.
Crown finished, she placed it atop her head and let her red curls coil around it.
Soft slippers on her feet rendered her footsteps silent. If she came across anyone, Sorcha planned on telling them that she’d gotten lost. In reality, she was looking for the master of this isle. He had disappeared after one drunken, angry night.
Again.
She was growing tired of having to find him. Stone should be accessible for all his people, herself included. She had to convince him to come back to the mainland with her.
Every time she saw him, her tongue tied itself into a knot. She hadn’t even asked the question again!
One part of the castle was off limits. The faeries said she was forbidden from entering the western tower. It was the master’s and the master’s alone.
But she had seen Oona slip into the shadows. She had carried food in her arms, for the master himself, but she had still gone into the western tower. That meant it wasn’t off limits for them.
Just off limits for her.
She placed her palm on the cracked wooden door and glanced around. She couldn’t see any faeries, and no one cried out for her to stop.
“Hello?” Sorcha said.
No one responded.
“Good enough,” she whispered as she pushed open the door.
A blast of cold air pushed her backward. Purple petals tangled in her waist length hair and fell onto the floor. The blanket of cobwebs on the ceiling stirred. They bounced with the weight of the musty air and shadows danced upon the walls as spiders fled the light.
Sorcha blew out a breath. “There is nothing to be afraid of. Shadows are just that. Shadows.”
Her own voice echoed, distorted and warped. She shivered, but pushed on.
She wandered for a while. The western tower was far larger than she expected. There were many doors down the long hallway into darkness. None of them opened, no matter how hard she pushed.
Eventually, she gave up trying. She stayed close to the wall and squinted in the darkness to make out where she might go next.
There, up ahead, was a light. Dim and with no source she could distinguish.
Sorcha squared her shoulders and snuck down the hallway until she could press her palm against the door. The light was yellow. Candlelight?
A smile spread across her face.
“Got you,” she whispered. “Let’s see what you’ve been up to.”
She tested the door, one hand on the handle and the other firmly against the wood grain. Unlike the others, this door was well oiled. Silent, it hid her presence as she slid it open inch by inch.
Sorcha peeked through the small crack. A candelabra glowed with the light of a dozen candles placed atop a sconce on the wall nearest her. There was a nice blanket of shadows behind a pillar. If she could sneak over to that, he wouldn’t be able to see her…
Bravery, foolish bravery perhaps, was her middle name. Holding her breath, she darted through the door and ducked into the shadows.
Her heart pounded so forcefully she was certain he would hear it. He’d be so angry if he found her sneaking. Even his servants would berate her for hours if they discovered she had snuck into this forbidden place.
Sorcha furrowed her brows. She listened for some kind of sound. The movement of fabric, the exhale of a breath, the murmuring of voices.
Was he here?
She leaned around the pillar. The room was small, quaint even. Blue glowing flowers grew up from the floor, stretching their vines into the ceiling. Leaves larger than her entire body folded over the thick tendrils and swept the ground.
At the end of the room, a large stone loomed in the shadows. She had seen its ilk before. A sacred stone, the triskele carved into its surface marking it as a holy object.
He knelt before it wearing nothing but a small loincloth. His back was broad, sliced so many times that he glimmered in the weak blue light. Even his feet were broken, she noticed. The sole of one gaped open and a valley of violet crystals danced down it.
Her cheeks burned. He held his hands folded before him, long braid trailing down his back and completely still.
She should leave. This was a holy place and her intrusion was not welcome.
Shame made her palms sweat. She had always been a curious creature, but she’d never waltzed into a church just to watch. This was sacrilege.
“Grandfather,” he murmured. His voice was deep, like the shifting of the earth in the middle of the night. “Nuada Airgetlám, I beseech your help.”
Grandfather? She ducked behind the pillow again and pressed her hands against her chest. He was the grandson of Nuada Silverhand? It wasn’t possible!
“I am lost. I have followed your paths, listened to your wisdom, and still I am here.”
The pain in his voice made her ache. Sorcha had never heard him speak in such a way. He was a private person, and she wasn’t surprised that he kept his secrets close.
Her eyes locked upon the cracked door. He fell silent and her opportunity to do the right thing was now. She could slip out, forget that she had intruded, and tell herself she had eased the curiosity eating at her.
But now, here, she could satisfy that curiosity. It burned so brightly her thoughts burst into flame.
She gritted her teeth and twisted her fingers together. She would regret this.
A few moments more, she told herself. He had to leave eventually. Sorcha leaned around the pillar again, watching as Stone leaned forward and pressed his forehead against the ground.
The strong muscles of his thighs bunched. His back flexed, tightening into a valley following the ridge of his spine.
“They know where I am. I have always said that if they find the courage to fight me, then let them come. My brother must find the man within if he wishes to wipe me from the Otherworld. And I have remained alone.”
She pressed her chest against the pillar. Her fingers were freezing, but she couldn’t pull away from the shadows. Her eyes stayed locked upon his prostrate figure.
“You raised me to be a weapon. I was untouchable with your sword at my side, and then you allowed me to be cut down by my own blood. Through all this, I endured. I existed. But now, I do not know what path you wish me to take.
“There is another here. A woman who survived the journey from Ui Neill to Hy-brasil. I thought such a thing impossible for one so frail, and surely the mark of your children
is upon her.”
Sorcha held her breath. She wanted to know what secrets he held regarding her presence.
“She is a distraction I do not need. If I wish to be prepared for my brother’s attack, then I should ignore her. Or perhaps send her away.
“He sent more men. I entertained them for a time in the throne room, but their eyes wandered. They searched for the best place to attack. The easiest way to draw blood and strike at my heart. I’m confident they found nothing.”
He hesitated, and she leaned forward to hear his quiet words.
“I have no fear of pain. My hands are stained with the blood of kings and the ashes of old gods. But I fear what my brother might do to her, should he find out about her existence.
“She is strange. Unlike the creatures I am used to, or remember from Seelie. Breakable and yet strong. Flawed, yet somehow perfect and uncommonly kind. I don’t know what it is you would tell me to do, grandfather.”
Sorcha knew what she wanted Nuada to tell him. Try anything you want, for our time is fleeting.
Her heart raced as her mind played through the possibilities. He was not an ugly man. The crystals were unusual and dangerous, but they didn’t detract from the harsh angles of his face. Her sisters would run from him in fear.
His height alone would be a problem. And if he was so tall, there may be issues with fitting together…
She cocked her head to the side and looked him up and down. It was worth taking a chance. He was a beautiful man.
Stone sat back up, his back and shoulders flexing. Shadows danced across the imposing muscles, flickering to life only to disappear as he shifted.
“I fear touching her with my hands. I am an unyielding man, created to do violent things. Laying with a woman, being kind to a woman, is not in my nature.”
Her heart shattered all over again. Did he truly believe he was incapable of being gentle?
Green light trickled from the top of the triskele to the bottom. Great drops of emerald fluid leaked from the edges of the stone and slid to the ground.
“Peace, grandson.” The voice was smooth honey wine, the comforting voice of the wind after a long journey home. “The course of love is no easy path to tread. The sky may tremble, and the wind may howl, but the only person who can sway your decisions is yourself. What do you feel when you look at this girl?”
“It is like nothing I have ever felt before.”
“Do you like the way it feels?”
“It makes me feel weak,” Stone growled. “One look from her and I am ashamed of myself, of my decisions, of the path I walk.”
“And what path is that?”
“I walk towards my death. My birthright was taken, and I will not allow another to take what should be mine.”
The green light flared so bright that Sorcha had to duck behind the pillar.
Nuada’s voice rose, “And whose choice is that, grandson?”
“My own.”
“Do you wish to die?”
“No.”
“Then my suggestion is for you to live. As much as you can. Experience life, experience courage and honor in ways you were never given as a young man. You are still a being capable of brutality, but that does not define you. The Fae are infinite creatures, capricious and volatile. It is far past time for you to discover other purposes for yourself.”
“You approve?”
Nuada’s chuckle echoed in the room, and the green light faded. She watched the nearest pillar until the light completed disappeared from its gray stone. Only then did Sorcha peek past her own hiding spot, and glance towards Stone.
He remained kneeling in the same spot, head heavy. His hands flexed upon his thighs but he did not move. He did not speak.
He did not know she was there.
Sorcha turned and let herself out of the altar room. She wasn’t certain she breathed a single breath as she raced down the hallway and out of the western tower.
What had she heard?
She pressed her spine against the wall and leaned her head back until her hair caught in the cracks of stone. What was that? What would she make of that?
His words rang through her skull over and over again. She made him weak.
Was that a good thing?
Chapter Eleven
THE KELPIE AND THE KING
Sorcha rubbed her eyes, yawning as Oona dragged her down the hallway.
“Where are we going?”
“The master has asked for you, dearie.”
“The master?” Sorcha asked. “Why would he be asking for me this early in the morning?”
“It’s not for me to say.”
“Do you know?”
“Haven’t the faintest idea! It’s just a lovely thing that he’s asked for you. He doesn’t ask for anyone.”
“And here I thought that might be just the tiniest bit frightening.”
Sorcha didn’t know what to think as she walked through the hallways in nothing but her faded cotton nightgown. Her hair stuck out in all directions, curls creating a nest of hair that hardly bounced as she moved. Sleeping always meant she had to brush the waist length mass at least a hundred times.
She spent more hours than she could count taming the wild beast of her curls. It was even worse when it was short, or she’d have sheared it at her skull.
“Wait, hang on,” Sorcha grumbled as she twisted her arm. “I’m hardly dressed for meeting with Stone.”
“Stone, is it? You’ve given him a nickname?”
The sparkle in Oona’s eyes made her uneasy. “I won’t call him master. But it’s hardly proper to meet him in my nightclothes!”
“Oh, faeries don’t have the same delicate sensibilities as humans. You’re fine as you are.”
“I most certainly am not!”
“No matter, if we go back now, we’ll be late. And I can promise you, the master won’t appreciate us being late!”
Sorcha blew out a breath to stir the curl in front of her eyes. “Why should I care what upsets the master?”
“He’s been so nice to you lately, dearie! You should be kind in return!”
“He’s been kind?” She wracked her brain, trying to remember even the slightest bit of kindness he had shown to her lately. But try as she might, she couldn’t remember even seeing him. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“You didn’t notice the daisies on your bedside?”
“Those were from Boggart.”
“Nor the sweetmeats that are far better than the kitchen has ever made before?”
“You were trying new recipes. I watched you bake them!”
“There were far more dresses in your clothing chests than I remember!”
Sorcha shrugged her shoulders. “I found another chest in the hag’s hut that were my size. I’m failing to see how the master has been kind. You aren’t helping, Oona.”
“If you just looked, you could see that he had a hand in all of that.”
“I see just fine,” she ducked underneath a low hanging beam that Oona could fit underneath easily. “But he’s been hiding again.”
“Oh dearie, he’s never hiding. He’s just making sure you’re comfortable in every way he can.”
“Somehow, I doubt that,” she grumbled.
Oona shoved her around a corner, through a room she didn’t recognize, and out a side door of the castle. Sorcha spun around, hands on her hips.
“I didn’t even know that door existed!” How could she? Once closed, it blended into the worn stone. “Strange.”
“Is it?” Stone’s deep voice traveled like a physical touch down her spine.
“Oh!” Sorcha spun, pressing her spine against the cold wall of the castle. “I didn’t know you were there.”
“Obviously,” he said as he stepped from the shadows. Black breeches covered his legs, his ever-present dark cloak covering his form and blending into the shadows. “Although one begs to understand why you wouldn’t be looking for me? Oona must have told you I requested your presence.”
“She said you summoned me.” Sorcha stuck her chin into the air. “I don’t like being summoned and dragged out of bed.”
His gaze lowered. The burning touch of such a bright look made her knees weak and her hands clutch at the wall for support. He looked as if he could see straight through the thick cotton nightgown. It showed her ankles, which was more than enough, but somehow it felt as though he could see all of her.
Sorcha tugged it higher up her neck. “Why did you want to see me?”
“I thought perhaps we could share breakfast.”
“Breakfast? And I couldn’t get dressed to do that?” She shivered. “It’s nearly time for the first snow fall.”
“I would gladly take the blame for your shivers, if only it was my decision to not allow you further clothing.” Sorcha watched with wide eyes as he swept the cloak from his shoulders and held it out to her. “If I may.”
“So chivalrous,” she commented.
The crystals marring his face had lost most of their strangeness. She now saw him, the man beneath the scars and cruel curse. Still, she wanted to wince when she saw the new cut along his jaw.
She swept the cloak over her shoulders, his lingering warmth enveloping her. She inhaled and without thinking blurted, “Why do you always smell like mint?”
His startled laugh was a balm to her homesick soul. “Why do you ask?”
“I didn’t think it was a Tuatha dé Danann trait. Bran does not smell like mint although I believe he is the same species as you.”
“You think Bran and I are the same?” The brow not held still by crystals arched.
“Well, yes. Although he has more physical deformities, it does appear that you are similar in structure and build. You are not lesser Fae.”
“Astute. You notice things most humans would not.”
“Why do you smell like mint?”
He chuckled again. “You aren’t letting that go, are you?”
“I must have my curiosity satisfied.”
She watched as he held out an arm for her to take. Strange, she thought, that he could swing so quickly from raging bull to well-bred gentleman. He’d have to work for forgiveness, and a simple gesture of kindness wouldn’t be enough. Sorcha arched her own brow.