Sorcha sat at the head table with Eamonn and marveled over the changes the dwarves had wrought in such a short time. The banquet hall was far more than the ruin it had once been. They even repaired the stained-glass windows, although she was not certain how.

Simple chandeliers hung from the ceiling. Candles stuck to their metal rings, melted and glowing merrily. They lit the entire space with ease. Wall sconces glimmered at the edges of her vision, giving light to even the darkest of shadows.

The tables were sturdier now that the dwarves had built them to last. There were a few extras, though many of the dwarves no longer ate in the hall.

Hundreds of dwarves had arrived in swarms. They refused to swear fealty to Fionn, and as such, left their mountain abodes to seek shelter from the coming winter. Each family chose where they wished to live, and the rest gathered by trade.

It was quiet and peaceful among the dwarves.

Sorcha wished it was in her life as well.

She clutched the spoon in her hand so tightly she worried the metal might bend. He hadn’t said a word to her since their late night when he returned from battle.

Eamonn made himself scarce. He fought, trained with the dwarves, ate dinner, and then disappeared during the nights. She did not know where he went.

“Eamonn,” she began.

He lifted a hand to silence her. “All is well.”

“We have not spoken in some time.”

“I have dedicated myself to repairing the castle. There is much work to oversee.”

“And at night?”

“There are secrets within these walls I need to uncover. I will not rest until I am certain this castle is safe for all who live within it.”

“The ancestors have assured me that everyone is safe.” They whispered secrets in her ears when she could not fall asleep. Stories of the old days, recipes for spells and magic. Anything that would keep her mind occupied while she waited for him. “You need not worry.”

“I do not know your ancestors, nor do I know the world they came from. What is not dangerous to druids may prove deadly for the Fae.”

“They would tell me if it was.”

“Would they?” He glanced towards her. “The druids have never been fond of my kind.”

“I am.”

She watched him struggle to find the words to respond to her. He knew she wasn’t lying. She had proven herself time and time again to all the people of this castle. Sorcha was a trustworthy woman who wanted to help them.

He knew that. He understood it as well, but he still held prejudices against the ghosts of her past.

It was a shame he couldn’t trust her.

Sighing, she stirred her soup and slowly nodded. “So, that is the way of it then.”

“Sorcha, I’m not angry with you.”

“No, I suppose you are not. But you are still distant. You have been since I returned here.”

“I don’t know how to change that.”

“Spend time with me.”

Eamonn tossed his cutlery to the table with a loud clatter. “I have so many things I have to do, I’m hardly finding time to sleep. And you want me to find more time to spend it with you? I am only one man, Sorcha. And there is only so much time in the day.”

“Then include me. Give me something to do, so I might report my successes. Then at least we are working together!”

“I—”

The banquet hall doors opened, cutting off Eamonn's exasperated words. Cian made his way through, arms pumping as he raced towards the head table. “My lord! Visitors!”

“Who?” Eamonn stood.

His shoulders squared and his legs spread wide. He crossed his arms over his thick chest, muscles bulging as he pressed them forward. Sorcha shivered as he changed from her lover to the high king who fed off the energy of war.

“I do not know.” Cian gulped. “They are not familiar to me.”

“Let them pass.”

“And if they mean harm?”

“Then let them come.”

She watched Eamonn place a hand against the Sword of Light. It rarely left his person although she had noticed it disappeared while he was assisting the dwarves on their repairs. She simply didn’t know where he left it.

Sorcha reached out and caught the fist resting upon the pommel of the blade. “No violence.”

“If they come here intending to harm, I will not stop.”

“You will. These people may seek shelter, and they do not know you. Your reputation as the man who kills precedes you. Do not give them reason to spread such a rumor any further.”

“They should be afraid of me.”

“Only in battle. When you are in your home, peace must reign.”

She waited until his fingers relaxed and released his hand.

A small troop of faeries entered the room. Their foreheads were overly high, eyes so large they reflected the light, their bodies thin and lithe. Twig like hair smoothed back and hung in dreadlocks down their backs. Moss grew upon their shoulders and arms while leaves covered their bodies where clothing might have been. Flowers bloomed on a few of them. The females, Sorcha assumed.

“Peat faeries,” she said in awe. “I didn’t know they still existed.”

“They don’t in your world. Humans killed them off, along with the will-o’-the-wisps. Their kinds have warred for centuries.”

“They’re beautiful.”

“They’re dangerous. Too many of their kind have turned Unseelie.”

“That is a personal choice, so you’ve said. It’s not bred into species whether they are Seelie or Unseelie. They make a choice to uphold the honorable ways, or they do not.”

“That does not mean they are trustworthy.”

She glared at him and stood. Turning towards the faeries who hesitated before their table, she forced herself to smile. “Hello, and welcome travelers.”

“Thank you, lady,” one of the flowered faeries said. She stepped forward, large eyes blinking rapidly. “We come seeking shelter.”

“From whom?”

“That of the king. We no longer wish to have our homes trampled by the High Fae and their ilk.”

She had suspected this would happen and was pleased to see she was correct. News had spread fast that the High King had returned and was taking his subjects back one by one. To prove a point, she asked, “How did you find this place?”

“The legends speak of a Stone King who provides shelter for those who seek it. We have journeyed far to understand the truth of this legend.” The woman’s eyes dipped towards the ground. “I see the rumors of his ferocious nature were not exaggerated.”

Sorcha glanced over her shoulder to see Eamonn’s hard expression. He was trying to scare them and succeeding. Rolling her eyes so only he could see, she turned back to the faeries. “He is fierce on the battlefield and unparalleled by any warrior. But he is also a protector of his own.”

“We would like to swear our allegiance to him.”

Again, she looked back at the large man standing behind her. Lowering her voice, she asked, “Is this what you wish?”

Eamonn replied directly to the peat faerie. “Your people have feuded with many. There will be no fighting amongst mine.”

“We have no wish to fight any more than we already have.”

“I will hold you to that. The first person who lifts a finger in anger will be measured by my judgment.”

A shiver raced through all the faeries. Their leaves turned over, revealing silver veins underneath the vibrant green. “We understand and acknowledge your warning.”

“Good. Then you may stay within the castle walls.”

“With all due respect,” the faerie said, “we would prefer to stay in the peat bogs on the other side of the bridge. We are happy to sound an alarm if anyone approaches.”

She could see Eamonn was considering it. “It may be of use,” she murmured. “There is merit to knowing when someone is arriving, rather than when they get to the bridge.”

“Every faerie here has a use,” he declared loudly. “If you will provide us with a watch, then we will gladly provide your food. My dwarven army will also provide you safety should any issues arise.”

“Thank you, High King.” The peat faerie and her kin dipped into low bows. “You are most gracious.”

“Do not forget my warning, for I will not.”

“Thank you,” they said in unison again.

They turned to leave the hall on trembling legs. Sorcha stared at their backs with a troubled expression.

“What?” Eamonn grumbled as he sat back down. “I know that expression, you think something is wrong.”

“I don’t think you should rule through fear.”

“How else should I rule?”

She shrugged. “I’ve never been a queen, I do not know.”

“Then sit back down, Sorcha. I’m doing my best.”

“That’s all one can ask.” Her words trailed off as her eyes caught upon a bright, vibrant color laying upon the floor.

She left the high table without thought. Her feet whispered across the stone floor and the din of the crowd fell silent as she walked to the center of the room. She felt the eyes of a hundred dwarves on her back like a physical weight.

Kneeling, Sorcha scooped up the bright pink blossom that smelled like sunshine and sweet wine. Its oversized petals drooped over her fingers, limp and forgotten.

One of the peat faeries would miss this, she knew it in her heart that a flower was as much a part of them as their vines. She cupped it as gently as possible and rose to her feet.

A soft sound made her look up.

The smallest peat faerie stood before her, wringing its hands and staring at the flower.

“Is this yours?” Sorcha asked.

The tiny female nodded.

“You don’t have to be afraid, I don't plan to keep it.” Sorcha held it out for the faerie to take. “It’s the most beautiful flower I’ve ever seen.”

“Thank you, druid.”

At the word, Sorcha’s vision skewed. She could see all the threads that tangled around the peat faerie. Golden loops that tied her back to her family and far beyond Sorcha’s vision. A thread that Sorcha could tug so easily, and secrets would spill from it like water from a basin.

She did not tug, instead, choosing to leave the faerie privacy.

“You are safe here,” Sorcha said. “All of you are safe.”

“That is all we have ever desired.”

“It is what all of us strive for every day. If you have need of anything, please reach out to me.”

“Thank you, lady.”

She watched the peat faeries leave. The small one affixed the flower back to her person, just above her heart. The head female patted her on the head and glanced back at Sorcha with a soft smile on her face.

All would be well, Sorcha could feel it deep in her bones.

Turning back to Eamonn, she sighed at the scowl on his face. There would be many more battles to fight with him. The faeries were still dangerous to her and to his people. But he needed to understand that this was the path towards growth.

He would come around, she decided.

She walked back to their table and sat down. “They will be a good addition.”

“Are you so certain?”

“Yes.”

He lifted his goblet to his lips and nodded. “Then they will stay.”

“Just like that?”

“You are the one with the golden heart, mo chroí. I trust your judgment even more than my own.”

She relaxed. “You made me worried.”

“That I would not accept them?” Eamonn shrugged. “The more you speak, the more I see the light. You have taught me much, Sunshine, and I would be a fool not to listen.”

* * *

The clang of hammers striking stone echoed throughout the castle. Sorcha’s head pounded, pain blooming in the center of her forehead and radiating out in pulsing circles.

“I have to go,” she said to Oona. “I can’t stand this incessant noise any longer.”

“Are you ill, dearie?” Oona reached forward and pressed the back of her hand to Sorcha’s forehead. “You feel a touch warm.”

“I’m fine.”

“Have you been sleeping well? I know it’s been a stressful time for all of us.”

“Really, I am well. I just need to get away from all this noise.”

Otherwise, the headache behind her eyes might explode. She couldn’t stand the constant movement of the castle, the watchful eyes of the faeries, the dwarves who made constant jokes. They were wonderful in small doses, but Sorcha desired a single moment of pure silence.

“There’s a garden behind the castle which needs tending,” Oona said. “I’m uncertain anyone has looked at it. The vines have created quite a mess, and the thicket is large enough to hide a human.”

“Thank you.” Sorcha’s chair squeaked she stood up so fast.

“I understand the desire for freedom, dearie. Get yourself off and enjoy the quiet.”

“Do you need anything before I go?”

Oona gave her a bright smile, lifted two oversized pieces of cotton, and stuffed them into her own ears.

That would certainly do the trick.

Sorcha grinned and slipped out of the kitchen, heading to the one place where she might find a little peace. She knew which garden it was. They had all seen the ominous, overgrown area. It was impenetrable, axes couldn’t hack through the tangled roots and weeds.

There was a small path leading into the center. A few of the younger dwarves had dared each other to race to the center. Sorcha had watched them jostle around, but none had actually attempted the frightening adventure.

Now, it was her turn, and she refused to hesitate.

The ancient castle door shrieked as she pushed it open. The wild scent of autumn air bit at her arms and lifted the hairs. She had missed this most of all. Sorcha enjoyed being outside, away from the stifling, thick air inside of the castle.

Rustling leaves filled her ears with music while chirping crickets overpowered any remaining hammer strikes she might have heard.

“Thank goodness,” Sorcha said, relieved by the cool touch of silence.

Finally, she could hear herself think. She appreciated the little moments when she could be alone.

Brushing aside tangled ivy, she peered into the shadows. It was a perfect place for a lover’s tryst, or for a Fomorian to hide.

Twigs crunched underneath her feet, snapping and cracking as she trod over their fallen limbs. Light disappeared as the thorns and vines arched overhead. The thicket was dark even when the sun was at its peak.

A hand pressed against her back, ghostly and smoother than any she had felt before. It was a comforting touch.

Sorcha wasn’t certain the exact moment she had grown used to the druid souls that clustered around her at any given moment. They were as much part of her daily life as the dwarves. She was just as grateful for their presence as the faeries who toiled throughout the castle.

At the center of the wild garden, a natural altar grew. Purple amethyst and quartz crystals jutted from the land. Each peak was hewn flat, creating a table bare of offerings.

Her heart thumped painfully. No altar should be left untended. It reminded her too much of the faeries her own people had forgotten, and how much the land had suffered.

The gentle hand pressed against her spine again and smoke swirled around her. “Honor the dead,” a calm voice whispered. “Wake them.”

She didn’t hesitate. Sorcha walked up to the altar and sank to her knees.

Her fingers curled into the dirt at the base. “I ground myself through the earth,” she began.

She tilted her head back and breathed in the crisp, clean air. “I fill my lungs to clear my mind.”

The brittle thorns shifted, letting a spear of sunlight play across her features. “I connect with the fire of the sun and link it to my own.”

A single drop of water fell from a rose that bloomed above her head. “I heal all wounds with the water of life.”

Her soul settled. Each word pieced together a part of her she hadn’t known she was missing. Sorcha had gone to her own forest altar at least once a week, more if she was feeling stressed. That part of her life had disappeared, and now, returned.

The rituals made her feel whole.

“Well met, daughter.” The warm voice from before was one she did not recognize. “See what your offerings have begat.”

Sorcha blinked her eyes open and stared up at the altar. The crystals had changed form. They grew and stretched towards the sun, creating a figure who was more beautiful than anyone she had ever seen.

The woman wore a druid ceremonial garb. Furs graced her shoulders, a tunic touched the tops of her knees, and a headdress made of deer antlers sat atop her head. But it was her face that captured Sorcha’s attention. It was beautiful, perfect in every way and form.

“It is a fair likeness,” the voice said. “Although I always think they are too kind.”

Sorcha glanced over her shoulder at the real life version of the crystal woman.

Beauty, so overwhelming that it was painful to look upon, made the newcomer all the more otherworldly.

Dark hair curled in waves down to her shoulders. Her face was pointed at the chin, delicate with perfect, smooth skin. Vibrant green eyes, so close to Sorcha’s own, glittered with a smile.

“Ethniu?” Sorcha asked.

“Yes, granddaughter. It is I.”

“You’re alive? Or are you dead like grandfather?”

“I am neither. I exist in a world between life and death, a place where you could never find me.” She reached out and brushed a hand over Sorcha’s head. “But I am real enough to touch you.”

“How is this possible?”

“You look very much like your mother,” Ethniu said. “She was one of my favorite students. So talented, bright, capable, the kind of woman who could take the world by storm.”

“She honored the old ways.”

“And they burned her because of it. Humans can be unnecessarily cruel.”

“They dislike what they cannot understand.”

“To horrible ends.”

Her grandmother wandered over to the altar and pressed her hands against the smooth surface. The ancient Tuatha dé Danann did not hesitate to show themselves to her, now the Fomorians also spoke with her.

“We visit our grandchildren,” Ethniu said with a chuckle. “Even Nuada has visited Eamonn.”

“Did you read my mind?”

“Being ancient has its perks. Druid minds are fragile, easy to peek into.”

“You found nothing that disappointed you?”

“How could I?” Ethniu smiled at her, brilliantly white and blinding. “You are everything I ever desired. The druids were meant to be like you. Kind creatures who looked out for the humans in our absence.”

“Were they not?” Sorcha heard the sadness in her grandmother’s voice. “The old druids?”

“No one can control their creations. We didn't expect the druids to be so unpredictable, but they are two races with anger and pride in their blood. The Fomorians, my people, were beastly and cruel. The Seelie Fae, Nuada’s people, are thoughtless and rule with iron fists.”

“And the combination made druids dangerous. They desired power,” Sorcha replied. She had heard the legends from the other faeries.

“They did,” Ethniu agreed. “And some, like you, were wondrous. They did great things, created empires, healed small creatures, and then they died quietly along with the small miracles they wrought.”

“Witches.”

“Druids. Men and women connected to the earth as no human had ever been before. I am glad you became exactly what I meant for your race to be. The druids were banished from the Otherworld because they wanted to rule. They survived in this castle for a few hundred years, but eventually the faeries overran them. Banished to the human world where the druids nearly disappeared. They were burned at the stake or unable to pass along their knowledge to children capable of great magic.”

Her grandmother reached out, hands hanging in the space between them.

Sorcha took Ethniu’s hands. “I do not know what you wanted me to be. I can only continue to live by my own morals.”

“Healing?”

“And spreading love.”

“This is why your mother was my favorite. She, too, thought the world could change just by a little healing energy sent out the window every night.”

“I remember that.”

Tears welled in Sorcha’s eyes as a memory long forgotten surfaced in her mind. Her mother used to hold her hands out the window as if she were cupping hands full of water. When Sorcha asked, her mother would laugh and say she was letting happiness drip through her fingers.

Eventually, she would toss her hands into the air as throw good feelings out into the world. Sorcha used to find it a rather odd, but entertaining ritual.

Now, she knew it was real.

“Why are you here?” Sorcha asked. “I have not had luck with Tuatha dé Danann telling me things they want me to do.”

“Ah, but I am Fomorian, and I want nothing from you.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I wanted to meet my granddaughter, face to face.”

“Just as Balor did?” Sorcha’s voice grew hard as stone. “I do not trust him, and you must forgive me for having difficulties trusting you as well.”

“My father is a difficult man to trust. He has caused so much heartache in this world he no longer knows how to prevent himself from doing so. You should not trust him, but ask the right questions.”

“Why?”

“The Fomorians are a proud people. We gather knowledge as the Fae gather art. I sometimes wondered why they are so enamored with beautiful things when there is so much more out there. Knowledge is a power that can be turned against anyone. Beauty is merely a talent.”

Sorcha arched a brow. “A talent? Or a gift from birth?”

“Anyone can be beautiful if they love themselves, but not everyone can be intelligent. Which do you want to be?”

Sorcha didn’t know the answer to the question. When she was younger, she would have chosen beauty. Making men fall to their knees because she was the most beautiful woman in the world made her knees tremble.

But then the knowledge of every living creature and thing would provide her with everything her soul needed. Beauty was fleeting, but intelligence meant that her name would remain on people’s lips for thousands of years to come.

“Knowledge,” she answered. “I would choose knowledge.”

“Why?”

“If I measured my worth in beauty, I would live a life full of riches and happiness. If I am valued for the knowledge I impart on the world, then I live forever.”

The smile that bloomed on Ethniu’s face warmed Sorcha’s soul. “Yes, you are correct, my granddaughter. I am proud that you are of my blood.”

“And I thank you for it. I did not come to this grove to meet you, but I am glad that is the path my future took.”

She leaned forward and pressed her forehead against Ethniu’s. They leaned against each other, fingers linked atop the crystal altar and the remains of a once great empire around them.

Sorcha breathed in the magic that crackled around her grandmother like lightning. Ethniu was beautiful in a hard way. Perfect, lovely, but so smooth that she seemed made of stone. It was fitting for a creature who had come from a difficult familial line.

“Sorcha,” Ethniu breathed, “There is so much to say. I would give you wisdom if you will listen.”

“Always.”

“Nuada and I did not have an easy life. We made decisions that angered each other and changed the course of the Otherworld. There are things I have done that I regret. But I never feel guilt for staying true to what I love, and the people I hold in my heart.”

Sorcha understood what she was trying to say. Love came in many forms and underwent much stress throughout the course of time. She stayed silent as Ethniu continued.

“I know what it is you seek. The Sword of Light has changed many people’s lives. Though it can bring an army to its knees, destroy an entire race of people with a single word, it can also do much good. My husband used it in such a way, and I would not see you destroy it.”

“I have to. How else can I prevent Eamonn from turning into his brother? He’s hurting his people because he is so blind to his own rage.”

“Then hide it. Leave it in the waters of the ocean, throw it from the cliff and give it back to my capable hands. Let the sword sink to the ocean floor where it will remain until the next generation has need of it. But do not destroy a relic that is one of the few remaining pieces tying our people to the original race.”

The words dug into her heart and twisted. These people had lost enough over the centuries. They wanted to hold on to whatever they could from the old days, the good days, the ones where they had ruled over everything.

Now, their children continued to fight and quarrel like vultures picking through bones.

“I want no one to use it,” Sorcha admitted. “In my generation or the next. No one deserves the power to control.”

“Like you?”

“I will not use my power against the Fae. I do not want to control them, and I see no reason why I should. They are intelligent creatures with the capability to love greater than any other.”

“You want to appeal to their good senses,” Ethniu said with a chuckle. “You know that won’t work.”

“It has to.”

“Fionn has no reason to give you any time to speak. He will listen to your pleas and then he will strike you down.”

“I won't let him.”

“By controlling him?” Ethniu leaned back and squeezed her hands. Vibrant eyes stared into hers with more knowledge than any person should hold. “You’ve already controlled him once, Sorcha. He knows what you are capable of and that is why he is so frightened.”

“If he truly knew what I was capable of, then he would not be afraid. I will not hurt anyone.”

“Throw the sword off the cliffs of the castle, and I will hide it in a place where it will not surface again.”

“Where?”

“I will give it back to my husband. The Tuatha dé Danann have no desire to change the course of this story. We’re enjoying watching you. Druids are unpredictable in their choices, and you far more than the rest.”

“There are others?” Sorcha blinked, her heart squeezing as hope lifted her chin. “Are there are other druids who live?”

“Yes, although you are all spread out. I do not know if you have ever met another, but I feel as though you may some time in your life.”

“Will you take me to them?”

“That would meddle with the story, and unlike your Unseelie friend, I dislike meddling.”

Ethniu stood, the furs on her shoulders touching Sorcha’s hands. They were impossibly soft, smooth, like that of a rabbit rather than a sheep. But Sorcha had never seen a rabbit large enough to create a seamless shoulder piece.

Where was this giant woman from?

“Thank you, granddaughter, for sparing a relic of the Tuatha dé Danann. For that, I will look after you in the coming days.”

“What is coming?” she asked.

“War. Violence. Death. All the things you have feared, they follow your lover’s footsteps like a loyal dog.”

“Is there any way to shake him free from that grasp?”

“Not that I know of,” Ethniu breathed. “But I believe you may find a way.”

Sorcha closed her eyes as sorrow coursed through her veins. She wanted this to end. Everything. Every bit of hatred and anger that spread through the Fae like wildfire through a dry forest. They deserved happiness.

She deserved happiness, and it wasn’t fair they weren’t allowed to have it. After all she had been through, after all she had given up, she was still stuck here waiting for the moment when her life would begin again.

“Ethniu,” she called out, “I need your guidance. He is so much like his grandfather, warlord more than politician, that I do not know what his next step will be.”

Silence was her answer. Sorcha opened her eyes and glanced around the grove which had fallen so quiet. Ethniu had disappeared.

A cricket strummed a tentative tune, growing louder when it realized nothing would speak again. It was as if the meeting had never occurred.

Cold air brushed across her skin, lifting the tiny hairs until Sorcha rubbed at her arms. The Fomorian had been far more unsettling than the Tuatha dé Danann.

What did that mean? Was she so unsettled by her own people?

“Yes.” She let the word fly into the wind, in case Ethniu was listening to her thoughts. “I am.”

All she knew was there was now a step to take. A beginning to the end in the form of a sword and a cliff.

She had to find it.

* * *

“I’m not telling you, girl. Off with you!”

“I healed you, Cian! You must pay with something.”

He blew air at her, flabs of skin turning bright red in anger. “If I had known the payment for healing would betray my master, then I would have gone elsewhere!”

“You’re not betraying him! Stop being dramatic.”

“I am! You don’t want that sword for just anything, I know you girl.” He waggled a finger at her. “You’re up to something.”

“I am not.”

“Yes you are.”

“I’m sorry, did you somehow learn to read minds while you were off on your adventure? If I tell you I’m not up to anything, then I’m not!”

Oona opened the door to the kitchen with a loud crash. Her arms were full of carrots, so large they piled nearly above her head. “Are you two arguing again?”

“Bartering,” Sorcha corrected. “Do you need help?”

“No, dearie, I’m just dropping these off before I go back out. Those dwarves grow the most impressive vegetables!”

She dumped her armload in the corner of the room with a loud bang. Dusting her hands on her skirts, she turned back to them and shrugged.

“Do they?” Sorcha asked. “Strange, I thought gnomes were renowned for gardening.”

Cian hopped up to smack her shoulder. “We are!”

“You made nothing so impressive. I wonder if size difference matters?”

“Excuse me?”

She’d never seen the gnome look so angry. His face turned tomato red, and every roll jiggled as he held himself in check.

Peals of laughter filled the room. Oona leaned against the table and wiped tears from her eyes. “Do you think it’s because he’s so small, dearie?”

“Well the height difference certainly makes me consider that the dwarves, with a few extra inches, may have a significant advantage.”

“It’s a good thing to be closer to the earth!” Cian shouted. “That’s where all the plants are!”

“I’ll stop teasing if you tell me where it is.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Oona? Have you ever heard the joke about the gnome and the dwarf who met the same lovely elven lady? She said she would only sleep with one, but that it all depended on how large the faeries was. So, both men turned and pulled down their trousers—”

“Enough!” Cian shouted.

Oona looked as though she might burst. Giggles shook her form until her wings rattled. “What is it that he’s hiding from you, dearie?”

“I want to know where Eamonn is keeping the Sword of Light.”

“In the treasury, love. It’s the safest place for it.”

“Oona!” Cian shouted. “The girl is up to something! Don’t tell her where it is!”

“Thank you, Pixie.” Sorcha dropped a kiss to her cheek as she passed. “That’s exactly what I wanted. Cian, if you follow me I will drop you in a bin you won’t be able to climb out of.”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“Try me. I’m all too happy to see what happens when you stuff an angry gnome in a barrel.”

“Fine then! You can handle Eamonn when he finds you.”

She absolutely would. The man might be intimidating, but he knew what she was like when she wanted something. Sorcha didn’t know how to stop.

She left the kitchen with a smile on her face. One step closer to her next goal. Life was turning around.

In the cold quiet of the hall, she took a deep breath and reached deep into the well of power inside her. It still felt unnatural. Almost as though there was something else inside her, a woman she didn’t quite know yet but could feel.

“Ancestors?” she asked. “I need to know where the treasury is.”

They didn’t answer her immediately. The longer she remained in the castle, the more they saw fit to leave her alone. Sometimes she went days without feeling their hands on her skirts.

The ghosts were kind, but odd. They didn’t react to things the way normal people did. A tea kettle shrieked, and they flew out of the room in a panic. Swords striking against each other would invigorate them to beg Sorcha to train. Horses pawing the ground almost made the ancestors visible.

She had yet to discover the key to what frightened them and what they liked.

The halls were quiet this time of day. Every dwarf in the area dedicated their attention to finishing the castle as soon as possible. Eamonn was in the training yard with those who were working and Bran, who had shown up again.

Sorcha grinned. The Unseelie continued to say he didn’t like them all that much, and that they were more work than they were worth. Yet, here he was. This time training with the dwarves and teaching them all the ways to fight dirty.

A voice whispered in her ear, “The Unseelie throws them to the dirt and laughs.”

“He’s teaching them how to fight his way.”

“The Seelie are honorable in their battles. This dark newcomer is not.”

“Is war honorable?” Sorcha turned down a dark hallway. She picked her way over the cracks and craters left by a battle long ago. “I have never seen a battle where the soldiers took the time to be polite.”

“There is an etiquette to fighting.”

“And I’m supposed to place a napkin in my lap before eating, yet I rarely do.”

Sorcha didn’t have time for the druids to whisper their opinions in her ear. She didn’t want to be distracted while wandering the castle. The Sword of Light was far more important than debating the properties of war.

“Is the treasury this way?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“How far?”

“To the right and down the stairs.”

“It’s in the dungeon?” She had only seen the dark underbelly of the castle once. The memories of screaming victims left imprints. She had left when their screams became too much for her.

“It is beneath the dungeon.”

“There’s further to go?”

The voice chuckled. “The castle stretches deep into the heart of the mountain. You will find much within its belly.”

“Well that’s not ominous at all,” she muttered.

The ragged edges of ripped vines hung in front of the dungeon. Plants were already taking back the areas where Eamonn and his men had slipped through. Moss covered the footprints they left behind, only the faintest hint of a divot revealing she was still in the same doorway.

Mist curled out of the opening. Sluggish and thick, it was more magic and ghostly essence than water.

A blast of cold air rushed from the bowels of the dungeons, bringing with it the echoing call of screams.

“I don’t want to go down there,” she said.

“It’s the only way.”

“Why would Eamonn put the sword in the most terrifying place?”

“No one goes into the dungeons.”

“No one but foolish women who want to help,” Sorcha corrected. “After all, why else would any sane person walk through this haunted place?”

“You traveled through the Unseelie court.”

She shuddered. “Yes, I did. And it was eerily similar to this place.”

“The Unseelie gather souls like gemstones. They let them wander through their dark castle hallways so they never truly die. They like to watch the specters relive their death over and over again.”

“Of course they do. That fits with all the things I remember,” she said as she brushed aside a vine and started down the long stairwell.

Each step squelched underneath her booted feet. The moss covered steps were dangerously slippery, but no railing guided her way. Instead, Sorcha placed her hands on the walls and made her way while holding her breath.

Slipping and falling would end poorly. No one would know where she was, other than Cian and Oona. She didn’t see them often enough for them to raise the alarm.

She repeated all the ways she could help a head injury to herself. “Check the pupils to ensure they are not dilated. If they are, keep the patient awake for as long as possible. Wrap the wound with white fabric so the bleeding will stem, and to create an easy way to monitor any potential wound. Pack with yarrow and mugwort to stem the bleeding and prevent internal bleeding.”

She recited another directive on how to help injured people with each step. It calmed her. She remembered how to heal, and that meant she had not changed. Druid blood ran through her veins, faeries worked around her, but Sorcha was still the same person.

She could say it over and over again, but she wasn’t certain how true the thought was.

Reaching the bottom, she pressed a hand against her chest in relief.

“There. Now where do we go?”

A druid soul wrapped around her bicep. “Past the cells.”

“Really?” Sorcha groaned. “I don’t want to go all the way back there.”

“You want to go to the treasury?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to climb the cliffs?”

“I don’t think I know how to do that.”

“Then you go forward.”

Sighing, she started forward with her shoulders set. If she had to walk by all those deranged souls, she would. But she refused to look as if she was afraid.

A clanging started up as soon as she moved. The souls liked to throw stones, rattled their cages, anything they could do to get her to look at them.

Sorcha wasn’t sure if the others could see them. Eamonn hadn’t reacted when a faerie soul who’s jaw hung limp from its socket billowed through him. She had seen it, gasping in shock and horror.

He had looked at her as if she had gone insane. Sorcha knew what she had seen, the green glowing light of the dead man hadn’t been magic. It was the fiber of what made him live.

Souls shouldn’t pass through solid bodies.

She told herself not to look. The cells weren’t filled with real people, these were the last remaining pieces of souls that replayed over and over again. She could do nothing to help them.

But she looked. Sorcha glanced over at the nearest cell and immediately regretted her decision. A dryad, masculine and covered in bark, grinned at her. There was a gaping hole where his heart should be and sap oozed down his skin in tiny rivers.

“Hello, pretty girl,” he said, the muscles on his face twitching. “Want to help a man out?”

“You’re dead,” she told him. “You have no place in the land of the living.”

“It is my job to remind people like you what waits for them at the end of the dying light. Join me. Share your beauty and I will save you from the darkness.”

“Be gone.”

A druid pressed its ghostly against her spine, smelling like pine and earth. “Weaver, use your magic.”

Could she? She looked over at the spirit of the faerie and wondered just how far her power stretched. She could compel him to keep his mouth shut.

But there were better things to do.

The ghostly guidance of her ancestors helped pull thread from her flaxen magic. She spun it in her mind and wove it around the thread of the dryad spirit. Tugging lightly, her fingers danced in the air.

His eyes widened. “What are you doing?”

Sorcha didn’t know. Her magic and everything she was capable of felt new and shiny. Fingers gracefully swaying in the air, she mimicked sewing a thread through a tapestry.

“I release you from this realm,” she said. The magic needle between her fingers dipped. “Go home to your ancestors and family. Tell them of your journey and adventures, feel peace in the comfort of their arms.”

“How?” The spirit looked down at his arms which were slowly losing form. “This is impossible.”

“You have earned the right to death, warrior. Find your eternity.”

“What have you done?” He looked her in the eye, horror and fear glimmering in their depths.

“I have released you.”

“Thank you.”

He dissolved into thin air. She felt the pull of his soul disappearing even as the energy left her own body. Every time she controlled a faerie, she felt it deep in her gut.

“You did well,” the druid whispered in her ear. “Far better than expected.”

Sorcha didn’t respond. Controlling even the remnants of a soul felt wrong. It was the reason she was in this dungeon. Preventing others from controlling the free will and mind of faeries meant more to her than life itself.

And then she used such power herself.

The floor grew slick with moss and algae. The souls shook the bars of their prisons, screaming their rage and anger into the air until Sorcha’s headache blossomed again. She did not stop and help any of the others.

“There,” the voice proclaimed. “The treasure room is ahead.”

She saw the door now. Gemstone encrusted hinges fairly glowed in the dim light. A sweeping movement had recently disturbed the dust on the floor.

The door handle was molded into the shape of a snake. It reared up with an open mouth, waiting for her to place a hand upon its metal surface. Gritting her teeth, Sorcha tentatively grasped the silver metal and pulled the door open.

Faint light filtered through slits on the walls which let salty air stir the room beyond. Roots hung from the ceiling, tangled and gnarled. Bats squeaked above her. Sorcha could just barely make out their small, fuzzy forms.

Graceful archways were carved with legends and myths, Tuatha dé Danann battling back beasts. Hallways split off from the main chamber, suggesting rooms upon rooms of ancient knowledge and treasure.

She was not here for the riches.

“Where is it?” she asked the druid souls.

“Clasped in the hands of the most ancient king.”

“Which king?”

“Walk towards the center.”

Movement in the shadows caught her eye. She glanced over to see the ghostly specter of her grandfather. Beads embellished his full beard and a sparkle in his eye made her worried.

“Grandfather,” she acknowledged.

“Are you certain this is the path you wish to take?”

“There are many ways to alter the future. I wish to walk the path with the least death.”

“Then you have chosen correctly. Towards the back of the room is my own tomb. You will find the sword in my corpse’s hands.”

“You really are dead?” Balor seemed like he was impossible to kill.

“Even the most ancient of beings must die, my dear child.”

A stiff breeze passed through him, and he faded away into green light. Sorcha took a deep steadying breath and made her way across the wide antechamber.

The tomb was relatively simple for a god who had made such an impact. A rectangular stone with a plain cover. No carvings marked him as anything other than one of many soldiers who had died in this land.

For that, Sorcha felt her heart soften towards Balor the great. She ran her hand over the top, noting the crumbled stone at her feet.

“You chose a plain coffin?” she asked.

“It is not my place to ask for grandeur in death.”

“You made a good choice.”

“I like to think so.”

Perhaps she was more similar to her grandfather than she gave herself credit for. Sorcha leaned her weight into the cover and pushed hard. It groaned, scraped, screamed in her ears until it fell from its base and crashed upon the floor. The heavy stone cracked in two.

King Balor lay with hands crossed over his chest. A golden crown circled his skull while all the flesh had withered away long ago. Skeletal hands clutched the hilt of the Sword of Light.

“Why would he put it with you?” she asked. “This is not your sword and giving it to you would anger Nuada.”

“Nuada does not know. And if someone was searching for the Sword of Light, they would not look in my grave.”

He had a point. She wouldn’t have looked in Balor’s tomb for it was far more likely he would raise from the grave than hold the legendary Sword of Light. His brittle fingers wrapped around the hilt, gemstones glittering on each skeletal finger.

“Do I—” she hesitated and gestured towards his corpse, “pull it out?”

“It won’t hurt.” Amusement warmed her grandfather’s voice.

“I don’t want to break anything.”

“What harm could you possibly do to my body? I’m dead.”

“Good point.”

It still felt wrong to touch his corpse. Swallowing hard, she reached out to touch the dust covered hands. Mummified skin slid off the smooth bones at her touch, sloughing off like parchment paper piled too high. She gagged.

“I didn’t expect you to have such a weak stomach, granddaughter.”

“Have you touched a corpse before?”

“Many times.”

“I don’t want to know why.”

His bones creaked as she pulled back the fingers, snapping and cracking until one hand released its hold. She gently set it aside while her stomach muscles clenched.

“Don’t think about the corpse moving,” she said. “The body is dead, the soul is what makes it move.”

“Are you reassuring yourself?”

“Hush.”

She peeled back the second hand, wincing when one of the fingers broke off between hers. This was not how she wanted to find the sword. Why had Eamonn hidden it so thoroughly?

The wolf’s mouth gleamed in the dim light, rubies dripping like blood from its jaws. Magic swirled around the blade. Tendrils of mist too thick to be water coiled around it like snakes.

She didn’t want to touch the cursed blade. Nuada may have been a strong enough faerie to handle such magic, but she had no desire for it to touch her life. Steeling herself, she grasped the hilt and pulled it from the tomb.

It was heavier than she expected. The sheer power of the sword weighed her down until her arms shook and the tip touched the ground.

Her biceps quaked. Did she want to throw the sword over the edge of the cliff? She could take it with her instead, force them all to bend a knee to Eamonn and stop the war now. There didn’t need to be any more fighting. It could end with her.

“The future hangs in the balance,” Balor mumbled. “It is your choice now. Destroy the sword, use it, or throw it away for later generations.”

She saw the threads of magic wrapping around her. Unlike her own woolen threads, these were coarse and improperly spun. They weren’t right, and they couldn’t control her.

She snapped the threads hanging onto her mind and straightened. “Where is the cliff where Ethniu waits?”

“There is an opening to the waters below.” Balor pointed down a hall near her. “Do not fall.”

“I don’t plan on it.”

The sword suddenly felt much heavier. It dragged on the ground, sharp tip sparking red hot embers as it screeched across the stone. She did not stop even though the sound made her ears bleed.

“I don’t care if you want to stay,” she growled at the blade. “You’ve caused enough trouble for me and mine. Wait for the next desperate generation.”

Sorcha swore the sword grew even heavier. Gripping the hilt with two hands, she threw her back into carrying it and pulled it down the hall where light filtered into the cave.

Salt spray coated her skin long before she reached the edge. The salt stung the scrapes on her arms from the thorns she battled in the garden and filled her mouth with the bitter taste. Waves crashed and foam flooded the front of the cave.

Sorcha did not hesitate this time, flexed her arms, and heaved the sword over the edge. It spun wildly in the air, rubies shining sunlight in her eyes.

Just before it hit the surf, an arm shot out of the waves. Graceful fingers caught the hilt of the sword, holding it aloft for a few moments before sinking back into the depths.

“And good riddance,” she muttered, kicking a stone into the surf for good measure.

She froze when Eamonn’s voice rang out behind her.

“What have you done?”