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 her free time exploring the forests and valleys around Orean. She was a hunter, a runner, a climber, 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.

It might have stung her pride, if she could think past the pounding in her head. She didn’t get hangovers. It simply didn’t happen. So she lied and told herself this full body ache was from jumping off a building into uneasy waters, and then she moved on to more pressing matters: 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. Outside, birds sang. Nearby, Kieran snored. Beyond a closed door, her sharp ears caught a rustle of feathers and shuffle of feet. Then, a knock at a far door.

Finally, Maebhe rolled 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: the frìth. This was one of the massive frìth houses they’d passed on their way into Home. 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. When she sat up, she saw Kieran and Íde’s sleeping forms curled up on it.

Before she could puzzle any further, the bedroom door slammed open, making her leap to her feet and scramble back like a startled cat. The room flooded with sunslight; it haloed the tall figure standing in the door’s frame. Maebhe groaned and covered her eyes.

“Good morning!” came a deep voice, happier than it had any right sounding.

“Why are you so loud?” Maebhe asked. She uncovered her eyes to massage her temples, regretting 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 thought about it, 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 that already hate outsiders, this is vindication.” Seeing Íde and Maebhe exchange wary looks, Drys sighed and said, “Yes, that includes orinians. You must understand: your forebears committed violence during the Great War. To you, it was so far back you no longer see it as being connected to you, but that’s not so for the elders of Home. They lived the war and violence. It’s fresh in their memory, and they’re not wrong to remember it. Trust is not a right, and it’s your responsibility to prove you are not the same as your ancestors.”

“Can we talk to them?” Maebhe asked. “I’d like to try, if we can.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Drys said, fanning out their wings. Maebhe thought the motion had a distinctly smug air. “All meetings in Home are public. Muir and Senga, at least, would be happy to see you taking an interest in Home’s politics.”

“We should wake Kieran. He’d want to be there, too,” Maebhe told Íde. Unfortunately, it 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 early 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 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. 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 blunders.”

Drys led the orinians to the same field they’d danced in the night before. All signs of the previous night’s festivities had vanished, and in the morning light, Maebhe noticed how strange the field was. A ring of massive toadstools enclosed it in a perfect circle and wove through it in swirling but definite patterns, cutting through long grass that wasn’t just green, but turquoise and purple, too.

Two dozen or so frìth lounged in a circle around baskets and trays of food like a picnic. It didn’t look like any meeting Maebhe had ever been to, but Drys stepped carefully over the line of toadstools and approached the group, so Maebhe and the others followed. One frìth with horns nearly as long as Maebhe’s body looked their way, his black eyebrows drawing low over blue eyes. He bared his teeth. While Maebhe was far from an expert at reading frìth expressions, she suspected it wasn’t a smile.

“Good morning. How do our guests find themselves, after last night?” Senga asked the newcomers as the frìth all shifted to widen the circle. Senga’s voice was rougher than her daughter’s, her fur grayer around the eyes, but sitting right 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 with a wobbly bow. Maebhe watched him with horror, realizing too late he might still be drunk from the night before. It wouldn’t be the first time, and it would explain how he’d yet to complain of a hangover. Íde winced, coming to the same conclusion.

It made Muir smile, though. He passed the instrument to Leileas and said, “Sit, please. Help yourself to food. I’m afraid you’ve missed the beginning, but there’s 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 promptly sweeping her off her feet. With Leileas’ fingers dancing across the strings in intricate loops, a surprisingly sweet song burst from the instrument and filled the field. Though there were no words, it felt like bright suns in early morning and a breeze billowing through tall grass. Far too soon, it was over.

Maebhe raised her hands to clap but remembered Drys’ advice just 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, love, sorrow. Songs with stories, songs with feelings.

By the time the instrument reached Drys, Maebhe had half a dozen 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.

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 you?”

“Um...no?” she said.

“If you refuse to share, you forfeit the right to speak until the meeting is done.”

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

“Everyone has a song. Even if you do not, you can invent one.”

Maebhe wracked her mind for a song that wasn’t horribly inappropriate for the situation. “Um.”

“Maebhe can’t sing,” Kieran provided.

Maebhe elbowed him and hissed, “Shut up.”

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

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

“I have one,” Kieran simply repeated, holding a hand out for the instrument.

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

“She knows it. But technically, I’m an hour older,” Kieran said, wincing when Maebhe elbowed him again. He tried to elbow her back and missed.

Muir nodded. “In that case, you may share a song. If you don’t know the hearpe, your voice is enough.”

Kieran met Maebhe’s eyes. Without waiting for her to catch on, he 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 one. 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. And as she sang, she wavered in ways their mother never had in all the dozens of times she’d sung this to them.

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, 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’s 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 crater, 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 into 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.

“I do. You insult our guests. They have all the forest to travel through yet, and you’re 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, your song is finished. It does not do to speak of the darkness of the forest, not with all we’ve seen 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?”

“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 can’t find. An illness we can’t 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. You will not be in much danger.”

“Much,” Kieran repeated.

“We’ll 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 with Muir, who set the hearpe aside. 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 another named 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 in turn, but of course, they would never call it by those names.

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 crops were doing well but hunting had grown dangerous. Others asked about this frìth or that faerie, and he answered. He told them all 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 then suggested she send some with the orinians as well.

It carried on like that — a lot more nothing. Maebhe remembered Drys’ advice about slow 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 want to talk about Unity.”

“I don’t care what you want,” Kieran snapped. It was so unlike him, 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 the story you bring with you, and worry makes him hostile.”

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

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

“And we’ve 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. Your news came as a surprise, and we are not yet ready to discuss it.”

“When will you be ready?” Kieran asked.

“That’s hard to say. When it becomes urgent. When we’ve fixed the problems in our own forest. When we know more. You are our guests and we will not insult you, but Galam is right. This is too large a matter to take you at your word. We will look into the truth of what you say, of this Unity mission, and when we do, then we shall speak on it more.”

“I understand,” Maebhe said, before Kieran could speak, “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 you no harm, and I’m sorry we can’t be of more help,” Senga said. She hesitated, then added, “If Unity’s intentions prove foul and your 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 her hope off her face. “Thank you.”

“Enough of this, for now,” Muir said. “Truthfully, we hoped you would 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 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? You met Egil?”

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! The friend I mentioned — he was Egil!”

Kieran stared at her, wide eyed. Senga stirred, too, her ears back with surprise. “Is that so? Little ones, you should have mentioned sooner. It seems you have a very interesting story to tell, 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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