by Emma Hamm
“Welcome, sister.” She placed a crown of ivy on top of Sorcha’s red head.
“Sister?”
“We’re all sisters,” another voice rasped in her ear. “And now you have finally returned.”
“I’ve never been here before.”
“You have.”
“No,” Sorcha shook her head. “I would remember this place.”
They traced circles on her skin, leaving blue paint in their wake until runes and markings she did not recognize covered her body.
Hands pushed her forward, towards another altar she had not noticed.
“Lie down,” the voice behind her cajoled. “Lie down and join us.”
“I don’t know what is happening.”
“Come home,” they chorused. “Come home and finally be free.”
“Free?” Tears gathered in her eyes, although she could not explain why. “I want to be free.”
They pushed and pulled, stretching Sorcha out on the altar. The red light of the moon bathed her skin, its rays nearly as warm as the sun.
She heard the vines slithering over the stone altar before she saw them. Leaves softly rustled as they tentatively touched her legs and wrapped around her calves. They twisted around her arms and coiled in her hair.
“What is happening?” she moaned. “What are you doing to me?”
“We’re waking you up,” a voice sang. “It’s long past time for you to join your mother.”
“My mother is dead.”
“Your mother is always alive.”
Sorcha’s mind spun as the painted women chanted. They linked hands and rocked back and forth. They spoke in a language she did not understand, but that didn't matter. The moon was shining, its rays red as blood.
She thought the moon had cured her of the viper’s venom but she had been wrong.
The snake’s scales rasped over her hipbone. It traveled up her belly, between her breasts, and arched until it loomed over her and obscured the red moon. It opened its mouth.
The women stopped chanting. All fell silent as a fat drop of venom landed upon Sorcha’s chest.
“It is time,” the women cried out. “Will you join us?”
“Yes,” she found herself saying. “Yes I will join you.”
The snake lunged forward and sank its fangs into her neck.
Sorcha jolted forward. She landed on her knees in the snow, curling her fingers in the cold. She patted her body down, feeling only her woolen cloak and thick layers of skirts.
“What?” she mumbled.
It wasn’t possible. She had been in that forest glen with chanting women and a snake digging its fangs… She felt her neck for puncture wounds.
Two perfect scabs left raised edges on her neck.
“Hello, granddaughter.” The voice came from the edge of the clearing. It sounded like the whisper of tree leaves and strangely familiar.
She glanced up at the man. A leather thong pulled his silver hair back. Furs covered his body, and he held a staff made of silver wood she did not recognize. He stared at her with a gentle expression and recognition in his green eyes.
She knew his eyes.
“You have my mother’s eyes,” she observed.
“That is because she shared mine. Just as you do.”
“Who are you?”
“I am your grandfather.”
“What happened to me?” Sorcha gestured at her neck. “Was that real?”
“In a way. The things that happen in our minds always have meaning and are not always simply in our heads.”
“What was it?”
“An ancient ritual no longer practiced by our kind.”
“Our kind?” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Who are you?”
He strode forward and held out a hand. “My name is Torin. I am your grandfather.”
She stared at his hand. Fine wrinkles stretched from the palm out to his fingers. They would have meant nothing to her before coming to this clearing, but she read them easily. A long life. A lost love.
Sorcha slid her fingers into his. “You are my mother’s father?”
“I am indeed.” He pulled her to her feet. “And you look exactly like her.”
“You knew her?”
“I did.”
“I did not.”
“An unfortunate mistake I take full blame for. She should never have been allowed to leave when she was insistent upon staying so close to the Fae.”
“Why did you let her?” Sorcha’s heart clenched. “If you knew it was dangerous, why did you let her go?”
“She wanted to take you into the wilds of the world. Brigid was never afraid of anyone.”
“Brigid,” Sorcha repeated the beloved word. “You knew my mother.”
“She was beautiful, like you.”
“I am not beautiful.”
He reached forward and tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. “How do you feel?”
“Like myself.”
“Not new?”
Sorcha flexed her fingers. “Perhaps a little new. What should I feel like?”
“Changed.”
“Why?”
“You took part in the ceremony. You are not the same person anymore.”
“Why can I not be the same person as before?”
“You gained much knowledge.”
“And knowledge changes a person?”
“It does.”
Sorcha wracked her mind for any differences, but she could feel none. She shook her head. “I feel the same.”
Torin frowned and held out his staff. “Take this.”
She took it.
“It’s well made,” she observed.
“Does it feel warm to the touch?”
“No.”
“Hm,” he pulled it out of her hands and pointed towards the forest. “Look at the forest. What do you see?”
“Trees.”
“And?”
“Leaves.”
“Hm,” he grumbled again. “And listen to the air. What do you hear?”
She closed her eyes and exhaled. She tried to listen, but couldn’t focus. Her hands were shaking, her heart beating so rapidly she forgot how to breathe.
Had she really been in the forest glen this whole time? Had the snake been in her mind? The women too?
He hadn’t answered her questions. Instead, Torin had spoken in veiled truths and strange riddles.
Who was he?
She found it hard to believe a relative appeared out of nowhere. Her mother’s family had never tried to contact her before. Nor did she remember her mother ever speaking of them. It was as if they didn’t exist at all.
“Child?” he asked. “What do you hear?”
“The wind,” she shrugged and opened her eyes. “I hear the same things as before.”
“Try again.”
“I fail to see what you are doing. Why do you want me to listen, look, and feel? What good will this do?”
“I’m trying to see what kind of druid you are.”
“I am me.” Sorcha lifted her hands palm up. “I am Sorcha of Ui Neill. I am a healer and a friend of the Fae. That is all.”
“A druid is always something.”
“Then I shall be the first to remain who I am.”
“Your mother was one of the Banduri. A legendary healer and seeress.”
“My mother was just a healer,” she corrected. “A friend of the Fae, as am I.”
Torin scoffed. “You can ignore your legacy all you want, but you are one of ours. You accepted it in the ritual and now you must learn.”
“I don’t take kindly to people telling me I must do things.”
“You will learn!” He struck the staff upon the ground, and an echoing strike slammed against her ears. “You have no choice!”
“You will be silent, old man!”
Her scream echoed through the forest and shook snow from the leaves. A cry echoed hers, the aching grumble of a troll awakened from its slumber
.
“Oh,” he said. “So you are one of those.”
“What did you say?”
“We call your breed of druid a ‘Weaver.’”
Sorcha shook her head. “What are you talking about?”
“A Weaver’s purpose is to tie together the lives of druid and Fae. To link those of us who keep watch over the land and its people. It is a rare gift.”
“What do you want from me?”
“I want nothing from you.” He flexed his hands on the staff, leaning against it with a soft smile. “I want to help.”
“What can you possibly help me with?”
“Curing the plague. Returning home to your lost love. Finding the faeries and affecting the course of time.”
Sorcha blinked.
What was he going on about? Did he really think he could change all those things with a little druid magic?
“The druids are long gone,” she said. “How do I know you can do all you say you can?”
“Trust me.”
“I find that trust has grown far more difficult to earn.”
“Yes, after all you have gone through, I imagine it is.”
“What do you know of me?”
Torin nodded towards the remains of the faerie stones. “I have watched you since the beginning. I know you went to Hy-brasil, that you fell in love with the high king. I saw him force you to leave the isle so he could battle his brother without fear you would fall.”
Sorcha’s heart leapt in her throat. Eamonn’s image danced before her eyes. “Is he well?”
The question fell from her tongue like a drop from the moon. She wanted to suck it back in, to not ask at all for fear of what he would say. Her heart hadn’t healed yet. It couldn’t be torn open again so soon.
“He lives,” Torin said.
Her knees buckled, and she fell back onto the ground. “He lives?”
“He fights for the throne.”
“I told him to,” she sighed. “I don’t know if that was right or wrong.”
“He will save his people, but you must save him.”
“Why?” She looked up at her grandfather and saw an eye painted in the center of his forehead. Memories swam in her mind, images of a fearsome beast and her husband. “You work for the Unseelie Queen.”
“I have contact with her, but a druid works for no one.”
“Why am I so linked with the fate of the Fae?”
“You are his.” Torin smiled. “And he is yours. The end does not happen without both sides of the coin.”
“And his fate decides that of the Fae?”
“Precisely.”
“Oh, Eamonn,” she said quietly so that Torin would not hear the faerie’s real name. The forgotten prince was so intertwined with the future and he didn’t even know. “I should be there with him.”
“Yes, you should. But not now.”
“Why not now?”
“There are people you must save.”
Sorcha threw her hands into the air. “Why does everyone keep telling me that? I cannot save anyone at all! The blood beetle plague is worse than before. I need a cure.”
“Then you must ask for one.”
“Why? Because you have one?” She scoffed. “No one has the cure. All I can do is watch people die and wish I knew how to help.”
“I have the cure.”
Sorcha froze. He had a cure? There was no possible way he could have a cure, but he didn’t appear to be lying.
She rose to her feet and pointed at him. “You have the cure?”
“Yes.”
“The faeries said they had it.”
“The Fae you spoke with knew I had the cure. They would have traded that knowledge after you’d completed three great deeds.”
“And you’ll give it to me?”
“Yes.”
“For what price?”
“Druids do not ask for payment. It is a gift to my granddaughter.”
Sorcha shook her head. “No. Nothing is free. What do you want from me?”
“Our seers have looked into your future, and we wish for you to remember us kindly.”
“Why?”
“You did not want to see your future when the Unseelie Queen provided you the opportunity. Have you changed your mind?”
Had she? Sorcha wasn’t certain. So many other people seemed to know her future. Why shouldn’t she?
“No,” she conceded. “I do not want to know my path before I walk it.”
“Then I give you this gift, granddaughter.”
He reached underneath his cloak and pulled out a small vial. Gold filaments wrapped around the glass, leaving a melting texture on the outside of the orb. It was not of this realm, although she did not think it was from faerie either.
“This contains waters from the Cauldron of Dagda. They can give any human immortality, or heal any grievous wound. Make your choice wisely.”
She took the vial and held it to the weak sunlight. Fracturing rainbows danced upon its surface, like the water of the moon. “I would never consider keeping it for myself. There are so many people this could help.”
“Precisely why I feel no worry in giving it to you.”
She clutched the vial in her hand and sighed. “And returning to the Otherworld?”
“The Fae banished Druids from their shores long ago. I cannot assist you in returning. But if you create miracles as you travel, the faeries will find you themselves.”
“One drop of this will save a life?”
“And it will always replenish itself.”
“You believe Macha herself will find me?”
“I believe there are many ways to get to the Otherworld, and you will find at least one, if not many, in your travels.”
Sorcha blinked. “Travels?”
“Do you want to just save your family? Or do you want to save the world?”
She thought about the question long and hard. Long ago, she would have said the world. She would have given up everything she had just to journey and have that appellation stamped onto her name. Sorcha of Ui Neill, the healer of the blood beetle plague.
Now? She shook her head. “If I could give it to another, I would. As soon as I find a way back to the Otherworld, I will hand off this burden to another.”
Torin nodded. “I thought as much. You feel very strongly for him, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“Why?”
“I have no answer for that. He earned my trust and showed he is an honorable man. That is enough for me.”
“Do you love him?”
Did she love him? Sorcha knew she wasn’t herself without him. That she missed him so much her heart ached, and a great crater grew with every passing day. She could survive without seeing his face. She just didn’t want to.
Sorcha sighed. “What is love but burning passion and fleeting moments? I knew him for a small amount of time and I cannot say if I love him or the idea of him.”
“He loves you.”
Her heart stopped. Her stomach clenched and her hands began to shake. She tucked them underneath her armpits and shook her head again. “What?”
“He loves you. Faeries do nothing by half, and he admired you greatly.”
She wanted to go back to Hy-brasil. So much that she could barely breathe. But it wasn’t there anymore. Her home, her people, all destroyed by a beautiful king and his golden army.
What could she do? There was nothing left for her there but a faerie who wanted his throne and whose brother wanted him dead.
She sighed. “I wish we had longer together, but I cannot go back. How would I even find him?”
“I have faith in you.”
Sorcha turned to leave, but hesitated at the edge of the clearing. This place was always where her life changed. Glancing over her shoulder, she looked at her grandfather. A man who should have been in her life since she was a child.
“What can a Weaver do?”
He flashed a grin. “They’re the reason the druids we
re banished from the Otherworld and hunted until we nearly disappeared forever. They knit the Fae together with humans, but they can also control them.”
“They can control the Fae? They must need the faerie's name.”
“Druids have a drop of faerie blood. Some can control nature, some change the shape of objects or themselves. But Weavers? Weavers can command the Fae without knowing their true name.”
She clenched her hand around the vial that would save her people. Eamonn’s face flashed before her. The ruined crystals of his body glinted in the light of his brother’s sword. She remembered the mistreatment of faeries by the Seelie Fae and the corrupted castle of the Unseelie Queen. Their pain and anguish called out to her.
She could leave this clearing and never return. She could heal her people and be renowned across the land. She didn’t need the faeries’ help. Sorcha could forget them entirely as they had so clearly forgotten her.
Her hands trembled, and she turned towards her grandfather.
“Show me.”
A harsh strike of a hammer slammed against the back of Eamonn’s knees, and he fell with a grunt, crystal cracking against stone. It annoyed him to hear the harsh sound that no normal faerie would cause. There was no pain, no discomfort, not even the smallest twinge from his knees.
How far gone was he that he couldn’t even feel pain?
“So this is the high king?”
The deep voice of the Lord Under the Mountain rattled him. It was a voice Eamonn recognized, though one he had never expected to hear again.
Glancing up, his eyes caught upon the throne. The dwarf seated on the giant gold monolith was tall in comparison to the rest of his people. His beard was short, trimmed rather than left in a long braid. His hair hung to his shoulders which were free of armor and covered only by a sleeveless shirt. Black tattoos swirled in circular patterns from his shoulders down to his fingertips.
“Angus,” Eamonn said. “How fortuitous.”
The dwarf behind him shoved at his shoulders. “You’ll treat the lord with respect!”
“I’ll treat him with respect when he gets down off that throne.”
The Lord Under the Mountain snapped his fingers. “Have you no care for the head that resides upon your shoulders? At any point, I can order the guards to remove it, and they will not hesitate.”
