Heart of the Fae (The Otherworld #1)(106)

No, not candlelight, she realized. Fire from outside the window of the castle’s tallest tower. Something was burning outside. She could smell the smoke now, acrid and burning her nose until she wanted to sneeze. She would not look.

“Elva was the faerie Oona wanted me to help. She said she was raised with you and your brother. She spoke very highly of you and the good things you might have done if you became king.”

“Elva,” he whispered. “That is a name I have not heard in a long time.”

“The king made her his concubine.”

“He had no right.” The sudden anger in Eamonn’s voice startled Sorcha.

“Was she yours?”

“No. She was another's, but he would not have claim over a Seelie woman if the Seelie king wanted her.” He cursed. “How dare he meddle in such things? No wonder he is so hated.”

Sorcha swallowed. “Eamonn, why are you in armor?”

“The king is here.”

Of course. She should have guessed, but she hadn’t wanted to think the worst had happened.

“Why?”

“You know why.”

And she did. The king wanted to kill his brother once and for all. Sorcha ducked her head, stroked her hand across the smooth plates of his armor, and nodded.

“What do you need me to do?”

“Stay safe and out of the way.”

“How?” She looked up at him for guidance. “I’ve never been in a battle before.”

“Follow me. I will bring you somewhere I know you won’t be harmed.”

“And if you fall?” She didn’t want to ask the question. The thought of him bleeding out on the battlefield without her assistance made a scream rise in the back of her throat. “I can help the wounded.”

“I need you to stay out of the way. Follow me as closely as you can, and if we come across any of Fionn’s men, do not interfere.”

Sorcha nodded and followed as he rushed from the room. The weight of his armor must have been great, but he moved as if he wore nothing. It differed from the metal armor she had seen before. Interlocking pieces slid easily against each other and did not hinder his movements. No adornments made the armor “pretty.” It was functional. Practical. Like him.

She held her skirts high as they raced through his chambers and out onto the dangerous parapet hanging above the ground. It was then that she saw the army.

Spread out across the isle she loved so dearly, men and women in golden armor lifted their swords and spears. The Fae who lived in the castle and served their true master stood around the castle in a weak line.

There were so few of them.

Sorcha stopped running, fisting her hands in the fabric of her skirts as tears dripped down her cheeks. They would die. Under no circumstances could such a small amount of Lesser Fae stand a chance against an army in full battle gear.

The faeries she knew and loved held kitchen pottery in their hands. Pots, pans, garden hoes.

A choked sob rocked her forward. “They don’t even have weapons,” she whispered. “Please have mercy on them, they don’t even have weapons.”

“Sorcha!”

She flinched at Eamonn’s shout, rocking forward dangerously near the edge.

“Sorcha get down!”

A man climbed over the edge of the parapet. Twin blades glinted in the moonlight. He used them as hand holds, puncturing wounds into the side of the castle. They knew where Eamonn was.

The gilded edge of his armor was sharp as a knife. He spun towards her, not Eamonn, and grinned at her look of fear.

“You’re getting in the way,” the faerie grunted. “Off you go.”

He lunged, and she spun away. His hands caught in the fabric of her dress and she fell onto her hands and knees. Stone bit into her palms. Hair fell in front of her face, obscuring her vision. His hands gripped her ankles, and she screamed.

Then he disappeared. Ripped away from her legs with a panicked shout of his own. She looked over her shoulder to see Eamonn lift the faerie over his head. Too easy. Too simple. His expression was cold and heartless as he threw the man over the edge.

The echoing scream sounded like the wail of a bean sidhe.

“Come.” Eamonn reached out a hand for her to take. “We have to go.”

“That man—”

“One of my brother’s and not worth your guilt. Get up.”

She wanted to vomit. Sorcha had seen death many times over, but never so carelessly handled. That was a life that was thrown away, quite literally, and he wasn’t even bothered by it.

For the first time since meeting him, she looked at Eamonn with new eyes. Somehow, she had fantasized about him as the hero in a fairytale, but he was a flesh and blood warrior whose hands and body were stained with death and war.

She fit her hand into his, knowing full well what it meant. She could not support death. But she would not turn from him either.

He pulled her to standing and nodded. “That’s not the last of them, Sorcha. There will be more.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t.”

“I do now.”

He gave her one last, lingering glance before racing towards the door to the main part of the castle. Sorcha followed, her heart thudding hard in her ears.

The clattering of his armor echoed in the winding stairwell. It bounced up the circular tower, growing louder and louder. The slamming gong of church bells. Funeral bells.