Fractured Magic: Chapter Twenty-Three

Fractured Magic is a fantasy webserial about political and personal accountability, ghosts both figurative and literal, and a pair of estranged friends who act like they’ve gone through the world’s messiest divorce.

Back home, Maebhe spent all her free time exploring the forests and valleys around Orean. She was a hunter, a runner, a climber, and a swimmer, but even with everything she put her body through on a regular basis, even with all her strength and stamina, it seemed she had no tolerance for fae wine.

That might have stung her pride, if she could think past the pounding in her head, so she lied and told herself this throbbing ache was from jumping off a building into uneasy waters. She knew what it really was, though: a hangover. And that thought led to more pressing concerns: first, that she couldn’t remember much of the previous night. Second, that she didn’t know where she was.

She lay on the ground, enveloped in a warm quilt. Unable and unwilling to move just yet, she relied on the sounds around her for clues. Birds sang. Kieran snored nearby. Beyond a closed door, feathers rustled and feet shuffled.

Finally, Maebhe flopped onto her back and opened her eyes. The ceiling was high, higher than she could reach if she jumped. Higher than she could reach if she stood on Kieran’s shoulder and then jumped, and that gave her her best clue yet: this was one of the massive frìth houses they’d passed on their way into Home, made of the same clay brick and climbing vines. She sprawled at the foot of a bed wide enough for someone with a wingspan to sleep on comfortably, but not long enough for a frìth, and that gave her another clue: the fae. When she sat up, she saw Kieran and Íde’s sleeping forms curled up on the mattress.

Before she could puzzle through anything else, the bedroom door slammed open. The room flooded with sunslight, haloing the tall figure standing in the door’s frame. Maebhe groaned and covered her eyes.

“Good morning!” came a deep voice, far too loud and far too cheerful for a morning like this.

“Why are you so loud?” Maebhe asked. She uncovered her eyes to massage her temples but regretted it when sunslight colored the back of her eyelids. Even that was too bright.

“The better to wake you, dear, though I see you were already up,” Drys said.

On the bed, Íde sat up and blinked blearily at them. She looked around the room, then down at Kieran, who’d slept through Drys’ arrival.

“You’re going to have to be much louder than that if you want to wake him,” Maebhe told Drys. Nodding, the faerie drew a breath as if to yell, but Maebhe hurried to stop them: “Don’t! Please. My head.”

“Mine too,” Íde sighed. She passed her hands across her face, then tried to flatten some of her bedhead.

“Our wine has that effect, especially on humans,” Drys said, not sounding particularly sympathetic. “I should have warned you.”

“You should have,” Íde agreed.

Drys’ impish expression faded into something more serious. “I’m not here to torture you needlessly, I’ll have you know. The elders of Home are meeting to discuss what Maebhe told Leileas last night.”

“What I told Leileas...” Maebhe echoed. When she said it out loud, she uncovered a hazy memory of a conversation with the gentle frìth. “Oh, fuck! I told her everything. I’m sorry, Drys. I know you said not to.”

“What’s done is done. As I predicted, they’re not pleased with the news. For those of them that already hate outsiders, this is vindication.” Seeing Íde and Maebhe exchange wary looks, Drys sighed and said, “Yes, outsiders includes orinians. You aren’t Unity, but your forebears still committed terrible violence during the Great War. To you, it was so far back you don’t see it as being connected to you, but the elders of Home lived that war. It’s fresh in their memory, and they’re not wrong to remember it. Their children are not wrong to remember it, either, when they see the effects of it every day here in Home. Trust is not a right, and it’s your responsibility to prove you are not your ancestors.

“That said,” Drys added, “All meetings in Home are public. Muir and Senga, at least, would be happy to see you there, taking an interest in Home’s politics.”

“Yes, please. We should wake Kieran. He’d want to be there, too,” Maebhe said. Unfortunately, though, that was easier to say than do. Between them, they spent the next ten minutes prodding, pleading, and eventually jumping on Kieran until he was awake as well, rubbing sleep from his eyes as Drys led the way outside.

Home was calmer in the morning, quieter. A layer of dew blanketed the ground and above, around, the trees of the forest were still. Back home, Maebhe had to journey far into the mountains to taste air this clean. Orean was no industrial force, but Illyon was; it tainted the valley and the sky above both cities. On the walk, Drys gave what advice they could. Receiving advice from a faerie, however, was a difficult thing: they didn’t explain anything they said and half of what they did say contradicted itself.

“These meetings have a tradition of lazy beginnings,” they explained. “Don’t rush them or get impatient. Commit their songs and stories to memory, enough that you could repeat them back. Remember who they belong to or you’ll offend them all. A song is a sacred thing. It’s your honor to hear it, but their honor to share it. These cancel each other out, so don’t offer additional thanks or you’ll offend the sharer. Do not clap. Speak your mind if you must, but don’t speak over anyone and don’t interrupt. Always acknowledge the point of the person who spoke before you.”

“Right,” Maebhe said, glancing at Kieran to see how he was handling the information. He stared down at his feet as he walked, nodding to himself like he understood, but Maebhe could tell that he didn’t. She felt a little better for it.

Drys pursed their lips. “If you can’t remember that, just be your darling, charming selves. I’m sure it’ll work out fine for you.” Their voice was light, but they shot a stern look back at the trio. “You’re lucky my people rarely attend these meetings. They’d be less forgiving of social missteps.”

They led the orinians to the same field they’d danced in the night before. All signs of the revelries had been cleared away, and in the morning light, Maebhe noticed how strange the field was. A ring of toadstools enclosed it in a perfect circle, the long grass within not just green, but turquoise and purple, too.

At the center, two dozen frìth lounged around baskets and trays of food. It looked more like a picnic than a meeting, but Drys stepped carefully over the line of toadstools and approached the group, so Maebhe and the others followed. As they did, a frìth with horns nearly as long as Maebhe’s body looked their way, his black eyebrows drawing low over blue eyes and his lips pulling back to show his teeth. While Maebhe was far from an expert at reading frìth expressions, she didn’t think it was a smile.

“Good morning! How do our guests find themselves, after last night?” Senga called to the newcomers as the frìth all shifted to widen the circle. Senga’s voice was rougher than her daughter’s and her fur grayer around the eyes, but sitting beside Leileas, they looked as identical as Maebhe and Kieran. Muir sat on Leileas’ other side with a tall instrument like a twisted harp propped in his lap.

“Wholly changed, thank you,” Kieran said, offering a wobbly bow. Maebhe watched him with horror, realizing too late why he’d been so amiable on the walk over: he was still drunk from the night before. Íde winced, coming to the same conclusion.

The words made Muir smile, though, as he passed the instrument to Leileas. “Sit, please. Help thyselves to food. I’m afraid thou hast missed the start, but there is much still to hear. Leileas?”

Leileas nodded, adjusted the instrument in her lap, and began to play. Maebhe’s legs gave out as she sat, the song quite literally sweeping her off her feet. Leileas’ fingers danced across the strings in intricate loops, pulling from the instrument a surprisingly sweet song. Though there were no words, it felt like bright suns in early morning and a breeze billowing through tall grass. It was over far too soon.

Maebhe raised her hands to clap but remembered Drys’ advice in time, changing the direction of the movement to brush her hair out of her face instead. Beside her, Drys nodded approvingly as Leileas passed the instrument to Senga, who began a song of her own. So it continued, only a few frìth passing the instrument without playing. They sang songs of merriment, sorrow, hope. Songs with stories, songs with feelings. Songs about everything and nothing. It was different from the music they’d made last night, music that had been made with only one purpose: to encourage dancing. This was so much more.

By the time the instrument reached Drys, Maebhe had half a dozen melodies swimming through her mind, some wordless, others not. Some simple, others impossible. Despite Drys’ warning, there was no remembering them all. Maebhe was the kind to stand on a bar and join a hearty drinking song, but complexity like this...she drowned in it. The faces around the circle, too, were too similar to her untrained eye. She couldn’t say who sang what. She felt vaguely dizzy.

Drys passed the instrument to Maebhe without playing. It was lighter than she expected, the wood warm in her hands as she passed it to Kieran. Before she could hand it off, Muir interrupted with: “Did Drys explain the rules to thee? If thou dost not share a song, thou mayest not speak until the meeting is done.”

Maebhe froze. “What if I have no songs to share?”

“Everyone has a song.”

Maebhe wracked her mind for a song that wasn’t horribly inappropriate for the situation. “Maebhe can’t sing,” Kieran provided.

Maebhe elbowed him and hissed, “Shut up.”

In return, Kieran gave her a wounded look. “No. You obviously don’t have a song. I do. Give me the thing.”

“No,” Maebhe said, holding the instrument closer. “What do you mean, you have a song?”

Kieran wordlessly held his hand out for the instrument.

“Does Maebhe know it, too?” Leileas asked. To Muir and Senga, she said, “They are twins—born at the same time. They should be allowed to sing together.”

Muir nodded. “In that case, thou mayest share. If thou dost not know the hearpe, thy voice is enough.”

Maebhe didn’t think her arms would be long enough to play that thing even if she did know how to. She met Kieran’s eyes. Without waiting for Maebhe to catch on, Kieran began to sing:

Under pink morning suns,
I made my way to you.

Maebhe winced. She should have seen this coming. Of course Kieran—especially a drunk Kieran—would choose that song. Taking a shaky breath, she joined on the next line.

The road was lone, my pack was heavy.
For you, o’er land I flew.

To see your smile, I’d run again.
To hear you laugh, my love, I’d fly.
And though I may be gone again,
You’ll see me soon, ere springtime’s end.

Kieran let Maebhe carry the melody, his light voice spinning harmonies around her that she hadn’t known him capable of. In all the times their mother had sung this to them, her voice had never wavered the way Maebhe’s did now. When they finished, Maebhe closed her eyes. In her memory, she was in her parents’ arms again, holding them after they’d returned from one of their trips. They were singing to her, their voices soft and gentle and fond, and Maebhe’s heart was breaking with their loss all over again. Wordlessly, Kieran took the hearpe from her and passed it to Íde.

“That was beautiful,” Senga said gently. “It is a lovely thing, sharing songs. It is a way to share joy and wonder and knowledge...as well as memories, emotions.”

Maebhe nodded and wiped her eyes, opening them in time to see Íde pass the hearpe on without singing. She reached over Kieran to take Maebhe’s hand, and Maebhe held it as tightly as she wished she’d held her mother’s on that final morning.

Eventually, the hearpe reached the frìth with the long horns that Maebhe had noticed earlier. He strummed a few thoughtful notes, and in a voice deeper than the lowest point of Home’s canyon, said with a sharp smile, “I have a song about an orinian. For our guests.”

He strummed a cascade of flowing notes that reminded Maebhe of a waterfall and sang:

Lady Luighseach, Lyryma bound
Bathed in black night beneath the moon
and sang sweetly songs from her home.
Nearby, beneath the nightdark trees
a dragon drank, but drawn by strains that
like a lark, Luighseach sang
he treaded ‘tween the trees to her.

Unknowning now how near he lurked,
our Lady lingered in her lapping pond.
O’er crystalline calm he called to her:
he meant no malice, meant only to hear.
And Luighseach laughed, allowed him near,
unafraid and unabashed. Each unable to resist
the other, they offered out secrets and sighs,
and softly spoke while two suns rose.

Orean opposed our lady’s flight
and searched swiftly for signs and tracks.
Bewitched by her beauty and bound by budding love,
the wyrm withdrew to the woods with
Luighseach to live in Lyryma for good.
But forgetting this forest is full of darkness,
the lovers lost themselves in Lyryma’s night.
It sank to their souls, sundered their hearts.
It tore apart their—

“Enough, Galam!” Leileas interrupted.

Galam’s fingers stopped abruptly on the strings with a twang, and all the frìth in the circle turned to Leileas. Her voice was a snarl, her teeth were bared. All six of her ears were pressed flat to her head.

“You interrupt my song?” Galam asked, sounding more amused than insulted. Still, an uneasy wave swept through the assembled frìth. Maebhe watched, wide-eyed.

“I do. You insult our guests. They have all the forest to travel through yet, and you are trying to frighten them,” Leileas accused.

“She is right,” another in the circle said. “We all know how the song ends. Galam knows his choice is inappropriate.”

A few others murmured agreement. Maebhe looked at Drys, wanting to ask how the song ends, but they shook their head.

“Enough,” Senga said. She gave Galam a sharp look, again looking very much like her daughter. “I believe no one here would intentionally slight our guests, but Galam, thy song is finished. It does not do to speak of the darkness of the forest, not with all we have seen in it, of late.”

Drys leaned toward Maebhe. Quiet as a breath, they said, “Ask what she means.”

“Why don’t you do it?” Maebhe hissed back.

“I didn’t sing, remember?”

“But I don’t want to be rude—”

“What do you mean?” Kieran asked, shooting Drys and Maebhe a quick, exasperated look. “What have you seen?”

Muir shook his head, and Senga looked away. Even Galam seemed cowed, his ears lying flat and his hands tightly gripping the hearpe. It was Leileas who finally answered. “The forest has been restless,” she said. “There’s something evil lurking at its heart, a plague we cannot find. An illness we cannot root out. There are strange creatures here, new monsters and ill omens.”

“Do not worry, little ones,” Muir said. “The path to Orean skirts around the heart of the forest. The danger is lesser, there.”

“Lesser,” Kieran repeated.

“We will speak of this no more,” Muir announced. “To speak of dark things is to invite them in, and I will not bring that upon Home. Galam, pass the hearpe along and let us finish our sharing.”

Galam did. Though the remaining few frìth played, their songs lacked the earlier spirit, more a chore to hurry through and less a celebration. It ended again with Muir, who laid the hearpe beside him. Maebhe expected the meeting to begin then, and maybe it did, but it still felt nothing like a meeting. She learned about how someone named Taran asked to court Mael Muire, and Mael Muire’s father disapproved of the match. Another frìth named Alpin was heard arguing with his mother about joining the hunt. Leileas caught her first shaari, whatever that was.

It reminded Maebhe of her older aunts, when they got together for tea. Always gossiping and bragging over snacks. They would never call it gossiping or bragging, of course.

With an irritated look in the orinians’ direction, as if he hated they were even there to hear it, Galam talked about his home village, how the crops were doing well but hunting had grown dangerous. Others asked about this frìth or that faerie, and he answered. He told them he’d be returning home at the end of the week, so if anyone had any gifts or letters they’d like him to take, they should get them to him before then. At that point, the frìth beside Muir said she’d found limneberries south of Home and was making a tincture for them. He should take a jar back with him. Someone suggested she send some with the orinians as well.

It carried on like that—a lot more nothing, but Maebhe remembered Drys’ advice about lazy starts and made herself wait. Even when frìth started rising to leave, she bit her tongue. It began with Galam, of course: he frowned at the orinians as he passed them by, others following at his heels. But as they left, Kieran blurted, “Wait, what about Unity?”

Galam paused. “We do not wish to talk about Unity.”

“I don’t care what you wish,” Kieran said. It was so unlike him, so bold that Maebhe could only stare. “I don’t want Unity poking around my city, but they’re probably on their way there now!”

“So you say.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Kieran asked, struggling to keep his voice even.

“Kieran,” Íde warned.

“We wouldn’t lie about that,” Maebhe tried. “I promise.”

Galam ignored her. “You may be allowed to speak in our circles, but you are not from Home. I am. I adjourn this meeting.”

“Can he do that?” Maebhe asked Drys in a whisper.

It was Muir who answered. “A meeting requires twenty-four frìth to be present. If Galam leaves, we will not have enough.”

And then Galam was gone, making the circle that much smaller. It wasn’t until he was well out of earshot that Senga explained further. “Forgive him,” she said. “Like many of us, Galam is wary and frightened of Unity. He is worried about thy story, and worry makes him hostile.”

“But you can’t just ignore things you’re worried about!” Kieran tried, probably loud enough for Galam to hear. Maebhe remembered reading about how good a frìth’s hearing was in some old textbook.

“That is what Lyryma is for. That is why Ellaes made this forest for us to begin with. During the Great War, the other peoples of this world nearly destroyed us, just as they did the red dragons. When our killers joined together under the guise of peace-making, forming Unity, our Guardian helped us hide.”

“And we have been in these woods for so long, little ones,” Muir said in a gentle voice. “We are used to confronting problems at our own pace. Thy news came as a surprise, and we are not yet ready to discuss it.”

“When will you be ready?” Kieran asked.

“That is hard to say. When it becomes urgent. When we have fixed the problems in our own forest. When we know more. Kieran, thou art our guest and we shall not insult thee, but Galam is right. This is too large a matter to take thee at thy word. We will look into the truth of what thou sayest about this Unity mission, and when we do, then we shall speak on it more.”

“We understand,” Maebhe said, before Kieran could argue, “But I won’t apologize for telling you about it. I’m glad you know, just so you can be wary. We don’t know what Unity wants from us. Our friend thought there might be more to it than the missing King.”

“I hope they mean thee no harm, and I am sorry we cannot be of more assistance,” Senga said. She hesitated, then added, “If Unity’s intentions prove foul and thy king requests our help directly, that would be a different matter.”

It was a hint. One she shouldn’t have given, based on Muir’s warning look. Maebhe nodded and did her best to keep the hope off her face. “Thank you.”

“Enough of this, for now,” Muir said. “Truthfully, we hoped thou wouldst spend the morning regaling us with stories from Orean.”

“Stories?” Maebhe asked, glancing nervously at her companions. “I’m not sure we have any that are interesting enough for—” Someone as old as you, she’d been about to say. Would that be rude?

Before she could decide, Drys waved a hand. Now that the meeting had adjourned, they apparently could speak again. “Interesting doesn’t matter. You have the advantage of novelty. Trust me, the frìth will take any story that’s new, if it means they don’t have to listen to the same old ones again and again.”

“It’s true,” Muir said, sounding pleased. He sighed dreamily. “Ah, when Egil lived here, we had new stories every night. It was the liveliest our meetings have ever been.”

Maebhe sat forward. “Egil lived here?”

Beside her, Kieran snorted. “Since when have you cared so much about Egil?”

Maebhe ignored him. “He’s the one who saved us from Unity,” she told Muir. “And Drys, too! Oh, I completely forgot—Senga, he says hello.”

Kieran stared at her, wide eyed. Senga stirred, too, her ears back with surprise. Finally, she smiled. “Is that so? Little ones, it seems thy story is very interesting, after all.”

Ah, the classic fantasy tradition of embedding song lyrics within chapters. I'm very much not a poet, but it fits the frìth so well I couldn't resist. I read SO much about alliterative verse for Galam's

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