by Emma Hamm
Sorcha stayed until Elva’s breathing slowed into the steady rhythm of sleep.
What had this woman endured? What had they all endured?
She stood slowly, taking care to not shake the bed. They all had such tragic stories, such heartbreaking lives where hardships did not end.
Humans struggled throughout their entire existence. Poverty, death, illness, were all things that humans understood came with their humanity. Sorcha had never thought that faeries would also struggle. They were spirits of nature, surely they would live better lives?
She had been wrong.
“You got her to sleep?” The king’s voice was quiet as he entered. “I don’t remember the last time she laid herself down without a fight.”
“She needed comfort.”
“And you think I’m incapable of providing that,” he murmured as he sat on the edge of her bed.
“It is not my place to judge, Your Majesty.” But they both heard the hidden words beneath her quiet tones. Yes, she blamed him. She blamed him for a lot more than just Elva’s unhappiness.
He stared down at the beautiful faerie he called concubine. There was something about his expression that made Sorcha feel as though she were intruding. He didn’t glare, or grasp at her flesh. He simply stared at her with a soft expression and followed the line of her cheek with his gaze.
“I love her,” he said. “I love her so much it hurts to breathe. But that is one of the hardest things about being king. If I marry her, I put her in harm’s way. If I leave her as concubine, she stays safe, but she hates me.”
Sorcha’s tongue got ahead of her mind, words slipping from between her lips without permission. “I don’t think it is the title that offends her.”
“No,” he chuckled. “No, it’s everything. I am not my brother. I do not see the lesser Fae as creatures capable of having positions of power. I do not believe giving them free will benefits our people. The old ways have worked for a very long time. Changing things leads to unanticipated endings, and I will not risk the future of our people on the dreams of others.”
“I asked her if change was a bad thing, and she said she didn’t know. Now I ask you the same, King of the Seelie Fae. Do you believe change is bad?”
He looked at her with a troubled expression wrinkling his brow. “The Fae are unused to change. Perhaps you would be better suited to answer such a question.”
“I think controlling the future with an iron grasp only limits the possibilities of tolerance and positive change.”
“You are far too wise to be human.”
“I am not Fae,” she said.
“You are something else entirely.” He looked back down at Elva, fingering the edge of her blanket before standing. “I owe you a boon.”
“A boon? From the King of the Seelie? That does not seem a wise choice to offer.”
“And yet I offer it freely. Easing her troubled soul is worth more than just a boon, but I do not believe you will use such a gift in a way I will agree with.”
He held out his hand for her to take. Sorcha raised a brow and hesitantly grasped his hand in hers.
She wanted to trust him if only because he looked like Eamonn. His palm was smooth against her calloused fingers. No crystals bit into her skin. No scars abraded the sensitive flesh of her wrist. He was perfect. Everything Stone was not.
Sorcha shivered. “Then I accept your boon with the understanding that I do not agree with your choices, King.”
“You are not the first to disagree with me and you will not be the last. Know that I am grateful for your assistance, and will not forget it.”
“I hope someday that is useful.” She pulled away from him and scooped up her cloak.
“As do I, little midwife,” he said. “For I fear you and I will face each other on different sides of a battlefield someday.”
Sorcha glanced over her shoulder, hand on the door to her freedom. “Have you consulted with anyone to see your future?”
“I know my future without having to ask any of the Unseelie their opinions. Both of my endings result in killing myself. Either this flesh, or that of my mirror.”
Something inside her clicked like a key turning in a lock.
He knew.
He knew she lived with Stone. He knew where she came from, and still he ordered her here.
And now he was letting her go.
“Why?” she whispered.
“The end will come whether you are involved in this story or not, midwife. I believe it will be far more interesting with your intervention.”
“Why is it that all Fae seem to think that their own future is a story?” Sorcha said. “There is no story here! No one will sing of two brothers who destroyed each other!”
“How can you know that for certain?” The king waved a bejeweled hand. “There are stranger stories told to this day. Keep your head up, little midwife. Your journey has only just begun.”
“I want no part in this story.”
“You’re already in it. War is coming. Tell my brother to enjoy his last few days of life.”
Chapter Twelve
THE HUNTER’S MOON
“Where are we going?” Sorcha asked. A blindfold covered her face, the velvet soft against her skin.
Stone had walked into her bedroom with it in his hands, a sheepish grin on his face. He refused to tell her where they were going, but she also refused to stop asking.
“Sorcha, just let it be a surprise.”
“I can’t do that. I want to know.”
“You’ll find out!” he said with a chuckle.
“But not soon enough!”
She didn’t think he knew about her recent escapade into Seelie. He certainly hadn’t mentioned it.
Sorcha had scrubbed her skin for an hour before she saw him. Clean water and lemon verbena washed away the scent of faeries and anything else he might have recognized from home.
Weeks passed. Sorcha took to begging him every night to return to the mainland with her. Sometimes, she thought he might bend. Other times, all she did was anger him.
He grew angry so easily.
But tonight, he was happy. Pleased, almost. The surprise he planned obviously meant something to him.
“Stone,” she begged, “I want to know!”
“And you will, little human. Just not yet.”
Sorcha tried to figure out where they were going. She knew each turn of the castle by heart, but got lost when he spun her in circles.
“What are you doing?” she asked with a laugh. “You’ll make me dizzy!”
“I don’t want you to guess what direction we're going.”
“I wasn’t tracking our steps.”
“You most certainly were. I could hear you mumbling under your breath.” He leaned close, breath tickling her ear and sending shivers down her spine. “I refuse to let you ruin this surprise.”
“I don’t like surprises.”
“You’ll like this one.”
He placed his hands on her shoulders and guided her down the hallways. Each step felt more and more unfamiliar until he finally tugged her to a stop.
His hands were so big. They covered her shoulders and dipped into the hollows of her collarbone. She was intensely aware of the soft circles he drew just beneath the winged bones. He seemed to stroke her skin without thought.
“You have been so kind to my people. And you have made a lasting impression upon all of us. I wanted to do something for you.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I don’t deserve anything special though. I hope you didn’t go out of your way.”
“We only spent a few nights on it.”
“A few nights? Stone!”
“My name is not Stone.”
“I refuse to call you master.”
He chuckled, hands sliding across her shoulders and tangling in the heavy weight of her hair. “Someday, I would like to hear the word cross your lips just to see how unnatural it sounds.”
“You won’t like it if
I ever called you master.”
“No, I wouldn’t. I’ve come to expect you to surprise me, Sorcha. It would be a shame for you to fall in line like the rest.”
The knot at the back of her head pulled, and the velvet fell free.
She gasped in delight. The throne room glimmered with light. The ceiling, free from cobwebs and dust, had a mirrored finish that reflected the candlelight. Smooth marble and great swaths of red fabric made the room seem fit for royalty.
Sorcha couldn't care less for the grand appearance of the room. It was the people her eyes locked upon and the sight of them that made her knees weak.
Every faerie on the isle had dressed in their finest. They did not decorate themselves with silk or velvet, but clean clothing and woolen cloaks. Their faces scrubbed clean, they had tied their hair in intricate braids.
They were not a people of royalty. They were not kings and queens, but men and women who lived on the land.
“They look out of place,” she said with a chuckle. “And they are the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.”
“Good. You’ll be seeing a lot of them tonight.”
“Not for me,” Sorcha turned with a worried expression. “You didn’t bring them all together for me, did you Stone?”
He winked. “You have lost your memory coming here, haven’t you Sorcha? As much as I would love to force my people to bend a knee to your beauty, that is not why they are here. It’s Samhain.”
“Already?”
She’d left home in spring, and it was Samhain already? Sorcha felt as though she’d only just washed up on the shore, and now autumn knocked upon the door of the human world.
The tangled mass of people parted, and Oona marched towards them. Her wings were on full display, red markings painted from her lip to chin.
“Child of the human world, would you do the honors?”
“The honors?” Sorcha tilted her head. “Do you celebrate the same way my people do?”
“Your people? Or your mother’s people?”
She grinned. “My mother’s people. My father and siblings were never ones to celebrate the old ways.”
“Then light the fires for us, child, and honor the dead.”
Sorcha tangled her fingers with Stone’s for a moment, squeezing his hand. She looked over her shoulder as she descended the stairs. His gaze caught hers, pride and honor reflected in their depths.
“Thank you,” Sorcha said.
“I knew it would be important to you.”
“How?”
He shrugged. “I just knew.”
Her fingers slid from his, trailing along the crystals of his palm and whispering across their twin callouses. She walked backwards down the stairs with a soft smile on her face. “And will you be partaking in the festivities, my king?”
Stone’s jaw dropped and Sorcha reveled in his surprise. He seemed unable to speak. A state she found surprisingly suitable to her tastes. With a wicked grin on her face, she turned to Oona and followed her to the altar.
“The Wild Hunt is tonight?” Sorcha asked. “Are we safe here?”
“This is not the Otherworld, but it is not the human world either. The Wild Hunt does not touch upon these shores,” Oona replied. “But we still honor the ride and dream of seeing their might once again.”
“We won’t even see them?” Sorcha had hoped to catch a glimpse. Now that the ointment had cleared her eyes of glamour, it would be a treat to see what the faeries saw. The Wild Hunt, led by their great horned king, had always been fascinating.
Her disappointment was great, but it was also a blessing. She didn’t know what Cernunnos would do if he saw a human in the faerie prison.
Thick branches with green leaves still clinging on their twigs created an altar where Eamonn's throne usually sat. The roots of the tree wrapped in a circle on the floor, creating a base that was strong and steady. Offerings piled near to overflowing all around it. Milk, honey, and more food than any Tuatha dé Danann could devour.
“It is a good offering,” she said.
“This year has been better than most. We have much to be thankful for.”
“As do I.” She reached for a goblet filled to the brim with wine and poured it on the roots. “To many years with family and friends, may we all last the night without nightmares and the next year without pain or strife. I thank my ancestors, the gods above, and the gods below. We come to this place to celebrate Samhain and seek shelter from the Wild Hunt.”
Something stirred within her breast. A memory, or an age-old knowledge passed down through generations. She remembered the words as if her mother whispered them in her ear.
Sorcha lifted a finger and traced runes into the air. “Spirits of the East and Air, I welcome you into our circle and bid you well tidings. On this sacred night of Samhain, come dance with us.”
Faeries stirred behind her, pixies lifting into the air and buffeting her spine with their breeze. Her curls blew over her shoulders. Blue light lifted from the runes she drew. She gasped. Never before had she seen a Samhain ritual like this before.
Leaning forward, she struck flint and steel to light the candle at the base of the altar. “Spirits of the South and Fire, I welcome you to feast with us on this sacred night.”
The candle flared, and the air turned hot. She told herself not to wipe at the sweat on her brow, that it would insult the faeries who enjoyed the heat.
She dipped her fingers into the goblet to her left and flicked the droplets of water. “Spirits of the West and Water, I welcome you to drink and be merry with us tonight. Join our revelries on this sacred Samhain eve.”
The air turned muggy. Her dress stuck to her back and her hair felt heavy with the weight of water in the air. A kelpie snorted although she had not seen any in the crowd.
A small pot of dirt was the last and final piece of her ritual. She rubbed the dirt between her fingers, feeling the ancient knowledge it held.
“Spirits of the North and Earth, I welcome you to this hall and ask that you tell us stories from ages past. Speak easy and loosen thy tongue on this sacred night.”
She felt the powerful cheer of the faeries before it made her ears ache. Sorcha grinned, unable to keep her own happiness from bubbling forth. This was a good night. A blessed night. A peaceful night.
Her chest squeezed tight and her eyes lost focus. There was one more candle that should be at this altar.
She reached forward, traced the outline of leaves that died and withered as she watched. She struck the flint and steel one more time, lighting the dead tree on fire.
The faeries fell silent.
“I welcome thee Morrighan and your sisters to our fold. Lady of Fate, War, and Fear, you are welcome within these walls.” Sorcha lifted a goblet of wine, tilted her head back, and closed her eyes. “Morrighan—hail and welcome!”
A deafening cheer followed her words, but she did not hear it. Instead, Sorcha heard a pleased chuckle and smelled the wheatgrass scent of horses.
“Well done,” Macha murmured. “Feast and stay safe from the Wild Hunt.”
Oona wrapped an arm around Sorcha’s shoulders and gave her a shake. “Well done! It’s almost as if you were born a druid priestess!”
“A what?” Sorcha opened her eyes in shock. “What did you call me?”
“Oh, dearie, you have druid in you! I knew there was something strange about you! Only a priestess would know that ritual. And someday I’ll ask who taught it to you, but for now, drink!”
Another goblet of wine pressed into her hand. Holding two, she watched Oona dance a merry jig towards Cian who watched with a sour expression. When the pixie reached him, he sighed and held up his arms. They spun in wild circles around other Fae until everyone in the hall was dancing.
Sorcha stood with her hands full, watching the merriment with shock. A bubble of laughter escaped her lips, effervescing until she couldn’t contain it any longer.
A crystal hand plucked one of the goblets from her grasp. “Well met
, priestess.”
“I am no priestess,” she shook her head. “My mother may have been, I’m realizing now. It was from her book that I gathered that knowledge.”
“That kind of precision comes from years of practice.”
“I can honestly say that I have never performed a Samhain ritual quite like that. Do you think it’s because we’re closer to the Otherworld?” She gulped a mouthful of wine as if that might help clear her head.
“No. I think it’s because druids pass knowledge through maternal lines. And because you were born a priestess.”
“My mother said I was a changeling.”
“Your mother was wrong. We’ve already confirmed you’re not Fae. Perhaps there are a few things we might consider.”
“We?” Sorcha glanced up.
His ocean eyes stared down at her, curiosity and kindness reflected in their depths. “If you are so inclined to find out who you are, I offer my services.”
“What help can you provide?”
“There is a library.”
“Here?”
“Yes.”
Sorcha placed her hands on her hips. “When were you going to tell me?”
“When you asked.”
“And if I never asked?”
Stone’s lips quirked to the side. “Then you would never know.”
“You are a cruel man,” she said as she handed her goblet to a passing faerie. “Do you dance?”
“I did.”
“That sounds as if you no longer dance.”
“It is no longer graceful,” he patted his hip. “The crystals prevent much movement. Fighting is one thing, grace is innate when you’re fighting for your life. Dancing does not come naturally.”
“Good,” she said. Sorcha lifted her skirts high enough to show her feet and pointed. “I have two left feet. I cannot dance well at all, and it’s very likely that you will be thankful for the crystals because otherwise I might crush your toes.”
“I don’t have crystals on my toes.”
“Then you will when I’m done with you.” She winked. “Perhaps you would care to look at your dance card for a free space where I might write my name?”