by Emma Hamm
Eamonn remained silent. He knew the Seelie court was corrupt. It had been his desire to change those ways, even as he fought in the wars that upheld them. He had not been the king, though, and had little power to change anything. Now, he never would.
His silence spurred Cian on. “I don’t like you, Tuatha dé Danann. Not because of what you’ve done here, or even who you are, but for what you stand for.”
The hand against Eamonn’s spine flexed. His own hands slowly curled beneath the cape. If Cian pushed, Eamonn could catch himself on the half wall. He would need to have faith that the castle wouldn’t crumble under his weight.
“I lost everything I ever had because your people consider themselves above everyone else. It was a damned piece of bread, and I was banished from the Otherworld like I’d murdered someone. I wanted to feed hungry mouths, to get paid for the work I did. And look what happened to me!”
Eamonn felt the slightest nudge against his back.
“You got nothing to say to that?” Cian growled.
“There is little I could say which would change your mind.”
“You’re right. There’s not.”
The hand against his spine withdrew, and the gnome backed away. Eamonn straightened and squared his shoulders. He would not bow. He would not yield. Though he was a disgraced prince, he might have been king of these people.
He would not break.
Cian’s feet struck the ground in hard echoes as he returned to the door which led to the rest of the castle. Creaking floorboards fought with the thunder.
“You know,” the gnome’s words flung into the night like sharp assassin blades. “If you weren’t such a prick, I might respect you. You don’t even flinch.”
“I fear nothing and no one. Leave, gnome, before I throw you from the tower instead.”
The door slammed shut. A bolt of lightning sizzled through the air and struck the top of the tower. Thunder crashed so loud the pixies in the gardens below screamed and fled in terror.
Throughout it all, Eamonn stood silent and unmoving.
Long ago, he had been a pillar for his people. They called his name as he rode through the streets. They threw flower petals at his feet in hopes he might look upon them. Now, they ran in fear.
He tilted his head back and let his rage roar at the coming storm. He poured all the feelings of neglect, anger, fear, and self-hatred into the sound. It purged his blackened soul.
Eamonn twisted away from the edge of his castle and fell to his knees. Staring down at his ruined hands, he set his resolve towards living. He would begin his work again, turn his mind and passion towards saving his people in whatever way possible. Storms like this always brought shipwrecked cargo. He would wait to see what his people would find upon the rocky shore.
Death would wait a while longer.
Less than a week at sea, and Sorcha was ready to kill herself. She held onto the railing and breathed through her nose. In and out. Slow and intentional inhalations, or she would vomit again.
Manus tried to make her eat, but she couldn’t keep anything down. Even the ale tasted like bile. It exited her body as fast as she could drink it.
The ship coasted over a very large wave and crashed down the other side. Turning green, Sorcha moaned and leaned over the rail again. Watching the waves didn’t help, but what else was there? Waves upon waves, that was it.
Her vision blurred. The muscles of her stomach clenched, trying to force out what wasn’t there. She’d emptied her stomach of everything but thin bile hours ago. Now, dry heaves threatened to kill her.
The part of her brain which was a healer screamed she needed water. Not ale. Not whiskey. Water. Fresh, clean water that would hydrate her body. There was so much water surrounding them, and none of it was safe to drink. She licked her dry lips and wished for death.
“Sorcha! I need you away from the railing!”
She lifted her head and tried not to shake. “Can’t do that, Captain.”
“Now!”
“I can’t,” she whispered. “I can’t even move.”
A wall of dark skin and beaded hair stalked towards her. “When I give you an order girl, you best be following it. Get up.”
“No.”
“Get up!”
Sorcha leaned over the edge of the railing and prayed to whatever gods were listening. Take her now. Make it end, she didn’t care how. If only she could stop throwing up for just a few moments, she would consider herself blessed.
Manus grabbed the back of her skirt and yanked her up. Her knees shook, muscles quaked, body bowed as she retched.
“Enough!” he shouted. “We are sailing directly into that storm I showed you and I will not have you wrapped around the railing! The Fae wanted you in Hy-brasil, and that is where you are going. Now get back to my quarters!”
He released his hold, and she fell onto her hands and knees. “If I could stand to be in that room with that horrible raven then I would be there!”
“Raven?” Manus shook his head. “Damned thing can’t leave well enough alone. I don’t care who’s sharing the room with you. You will be out of sight until we are through the storm.”
“Why can’t I stay on deck?” She looked up at him, eyes wide and skin pale. “I’ll stay out of the way. The fresh air helps.”
“I’m sure it does, pretty thing. But that storm is going to hit us hard. Waves will crash right over the deck, and at least in the cabin you can hold onto the bed. Make sure you grip the posts tight. Don’t let go until I come for you.”
He held his hand out for her to take. Sorcha eyed it as though it were a snake which might bite. Going back in that cabin would make her vomit even more violently than before.
But she didn’t want to end up in the ocean during a storm, either. Sighing, she slapped her hand onto his. “I hate the ocean.”
Manus chuckled. “So many people do. She’s a cruel mistress, and a temptress when she wants to be.”
“A tempest you mean?” she asked while stumbling to the cabin.
“Well that, too, but it’s unlikely we’ll see a tempest while out here.”
“What do you call that storm then?”
He opened the door and shoved her through. “I call that a widow maker. Stay safe.”
Manus slammed the door so hard the floor quaked. The raven flapped its wings, slapping them against the table in anger.
“Yes,” she murmured. “I agree. The man is charming, but he’s also rude.”
The ship tilted at a drastic angle. The entire frame shook with the impact of the bow hitting the water. Swearing, Sorcha tripped and landed on her hands and knees again.
“Apparently, he wasn’t joking,” she muttered.
Standing proved impossible as the ship rocked back and forth. Moaning with seasickness and fear, she crawled to the bed. Her hands fisted in the dark blankets which slid off the frame rather than pulling her up onto it.
Sorcha curled her fingers around a post and hauled herself up. Her stomach heaved again. There was nothing to vomit, but she still leaned over the edge of the bed.
Another great wave tossed the ship against the hard walls of the ocean. Sorcha’s pack thumped hard against the wall, and a stone weight on the captain’s desk fell onto the floor with a heavy crack.
She squeezed her eyes shut and hugged a pillow to her chest. There was nothing she could do but wait out the storm. She couldn’t go out on the deck and help, she didn’t know how. There were no men who needed healing, not yet. All she could to do was follow orders and stay out of the way.
It went against every fiber of her being not to help, but she could stay where she was.
She heard the shouts before the ship rose, straight as a tree. She clutched the posts of the bed and whispered prayers.
“Please,” she called out. “I do not wish to die so far from my homeland, from my family, from the earth. Faeries of the water and sky, help us.”
The raven took flight, cawing its agitation and anger. The ship
shifted again and landed hard on the waves which seemed to turn to stone. Sorcha screamed.
One of the posts snapped with a harsh crack. The wooden piece went flying into the air, tossed by the waves and their uncontrolled jouncing. Someone hit the door to the cabin hard, the frame vibrating with the man’s weight.
Sorcha reached out her arms. “If we’re going to die together, I might as well name you. Bran!”
The raven’s head snapped towards her, as if it recognized the name.
“Come here!”
The ship rolled again, and the man leaning against the door shrieked as thunderous water ripped him away. Sorcha watched the handle rattle and whispered a prayer for the man to remain on the ship. Anything to keep them all safe.
Bran darted towards her as the ship crested another wave. Sorcha locked her arms around him and held him close to her chest. One hand gently stroked his breast feathers, the other clutched the nearest post and held on for dear life.
“I didn’t think I would die like this,” she whispered, treating the raven as her confessor. “I always thought it would be at the stake. Rumors called my mother a witch. She spoke with the faeries and kept the old tales alive. Because of that, they burned her alive. I still remember every moment of it.”
She pressed her face against his back. Bran tilted his head and tucked his beak against her throat.
“I’m not a witch. I’m not odd, or frightening, and I don’t have any knowledge that can’t be learned. Nothing will ever stop me from believing in faeries or leaving them gifts because they were here first. We need to take care of them because they take care of us in return. Not for payment, but because they are kind and good and everything humans have lost.”
The ship shuddered and froze. Sorcha listened to the groaning wood, the rivers of water splashing off the sides, and the pounding rain striking the deck. They had stopped moving.
A great deafening cry vibrated the entire ship. The high-pitched screams of men joined it and Sorcha realized with horror that the guardian had grabbed the ship in her mighty hands. She could imagine the wide split mouth gaping its terrifying scream, the thin pale hands clutching the Saorsa as if it were a child’s toy.
They were going to die.
She closed her eyes and breathed in a slow, deep breath. She had failed on the very first leg of her journey. But then again, this had been an impossible task from the start. The Fae didn’t want her to find the cure to the beetle plague. They wanted to watch a theatrical attempt by a foolish human girl who had trusted them too easily.
Hands slapped against the side of the ship. Tiny scratching sounds which were too small to be the guardian’s massive fingers.
Sorcha peeled open one eye, clutched the raven tight to her chest, and glanced at the porthole.
Green hair snaked through the opening, and dark eyes stared back at her. Rainbows danced across the merrow’s fingers as she reached through. When their gazes caught, the merrow paused and cocked her head to the side.
The raven struggled, squawking angrily until it wiggled free. He snapped at the air with his beak and flew towards the merrow.
“What?” Sorcha muttered.
Were they not going to die? Bran grumbled at the merrow who tilted her head to the other side. She reached out and brushed a long finger down the raven’s beak and then released the edge of the porthole. Her green tail shimmered as she pulled herself further up the ship.
“Are we saved?” She could hardly believe she uttered the words.
The angry look Bran cast towards her was answer enough. They were being saved by the very creature she was so terrified of. Now, she understood why it was so important to have a guardian in faerie waters.
Sorcha placed her hand against a post and rose on rubbery legs. She had barely been able to walk on the ship before the storm, now she didn’t trust her balance at all. Her hands were shaking, and she feared the guardian would drop them. She didn’t want to end up back in the water after that experience.
Carefully, she made her way towards the door. Manus’s voice echoed in her head. Do not go outside. Don’t open the door. Stay inside the cabin where it is safe.
Yet, she also heard the screams of his men. She heard the thumping crash of bodies landing against solid wood and the rushing waves of water cresting over the deck. There were people who needed healing.
It didn’t matter that she was afraid. Fear was a beast she could conquer as long as she could save just one life. This was what she was born to do.
Sorcha tugged hard on the door which resisted her movements. She threw her weight into the backwards motion and inched it open, bit by bit.
Men slumped all across the deck. Some had piled across each other, moaning and rubbing their wounds. Blood slicked her door, a red handprint catching her eye.
Merrows dragged themselves up the sides of the ship and across the deck. A few had curled around sailors and were gently patting their cheeks. They didn’t speak, instead, they hummed their concern. Their voices were deep and calming.
Sorcha stumbled towards the nearest sailor and dropped to her knees. “Where does it hurt?”
“Everywhere,” he groaned.
“Where is the worst?”
He gestured towards his chest. Sorcha reached forward without hesitation and ripped his shirt open. A bright bruise already formed, purple and angry.
She danced her fingers over his ribs and watched his reactions. He flinched from the tenderness, but didn’t respond overly much to her prodding of the bones. There was the slightest of groans when she palpated his stomach. Sorcha hesitated and did it one more time. She didn’t feel any swelling from internal bleeding but the number of bruises was concerning.
“Are you having trouble breathing?”
“Leave me, girl.”
“Answer the question, sailor. Can you breathe?”
Another hand touched hers. Webbed fingers spread across the bruising of the man’s chest and gently pulled Sorcha’s hands away.
Sorcha stared in fascination as the merrow wrapped herself around the sailor. The long green tail twined through his legs and down to his calves. Her chest pressed against the man’s spine and her iridescent webs glowed as they smoothed across his skin. She placed her chin on his shoulder, humming the deep base of the merrow song.
“Sorcha,” Manus said. “Come with me.”
She looked up at the hand he held towards her. “What’s happening?”
“I told you the Fae take care of us. Now, come on.”
Manus’s hand was just as cold as hers. He pulled her up and held onto her elbow when she swayed. “Were you injured?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He pulled her towards the bow of the ship. She glanced over her shoulder, watching more merrows swarm over the railings. Two dragged a man up from the ocean. They slammed him down on the deck so hard that Sorcha winced, but the hard strike made him cough up the seawater in his lungs.
They were not just saving the survivors, she realized. Three more merrows pulled up another man and laid him gently on the desk. They rocked back and forth over his body, keening their grief.
“They mourn the dead?” she asked.
“Of course, they do. We work with them, and we will mourn theirs before we set sail again.”
“They had casualties?” Sorcha glanced around, trying to find the merrow bodies.
“You won’t see them on the ship. Merrows turn to sea foam when they die. It’s a cruel death, but it’s better than letting sharks eat them.”
Sorcha swallowed hard. “I’m sorry to hear they lost loved ones.”
“Well, I lost good men as well. Feel sorry for the lot of us.”
She blinked and looked up at him. His cheeks were red and splotchy, his eyes casting glares in her direction even as he propelled her forcefully towards the end of his ship.
“Are you angry at me?” she asked.
“I never should have taken this foolish mission. The journey to Hy-bras
il is dangerous, and I was fully aware of that.”
“And that is my fault?”
“You asked to come here, freckles.”
Sorcha jerked the arm he held. “How dare you blame this on me? I did nothing wrong!”
“You made a deal with the wrong faerie!” He thrust her towards the bow of the ship and the wooden Fae staring off into the skyline. “I lost good men because of you. I won’t blame you for their deaths, but I’m damned well getting you off this ship!”
She stumbled, catching herself hard against the railing. The storm was subsiding, though the waves still churned with uncontrolled anger. She couldn’t see anything in those secretive waves, the water dark and foreboding.
The island was within sight. Tall cliffs framed one side and led down to a rocky shore. A castle loomed over the small isle, crumbling towers and decaying wood structures giving the land an eerie, abandoned feel. It looked like a better abode for ghosts than people. Certainly not faeries.
“Hy-brasil?” she asked.
“You wanted to go to the island. There it is.” His feet struck the deck hard as he walked away.
“Wait!” Sorcha spun. “How am I supposed to get there?”
“That wasn’t part of our deal. As you can see, I have enough to worry about here.”
“Can I borrow a rowboat at least?” She raced after him and caught the edge of his sleeve.
“Borrow? How are you going to bring it back? Swim to the isle if you need to get there so badly, freckles, or stay on the ship and return with us. I don’t care.”
“You want me to swim to that isle?” Sorcha jabbed a finger at Hy-brasil. “Do you even know what’s in the water here? You said this was the gateway between the Otherworld and ours, so how many more faeries are there? We can both be certain I won’t find just merrows!”
“Then stay on the ship, and I’ll bring you home!”
He whirled on her. His chest rose and fell in exaggerated rage while his hands opened and closed. Sorcha narrowed her eyes. He wasn’t just angry at her, he was frightened. The storm had cost him much, and he was second guessing coming here at all.
