Prologue

Cycles of the Kings - Ríocht na Meon, Éire

The wailing screams of a woman caught the attention of everyone waiting inside Hayes Bakery. Silence descended as the customers briefly watched out the windows as guards of the First Order chased a young woman down the street, her bright blonde hair trailing behind her. Customers whispered of the druids as a general sense of fear momentarily washed over them.

“Free samples!” Fergus Hayes called out to his customers. “Sorcha, dear, cut up those cinnamon buns for the customers. That’ll calm ’em.”

“Was that a scream, Pa?” Sorcha asked.

“Nothing to worry your sweet face about.” Fergus wiped a bit of sugar from his daughter’s cheek.

Buns and bread were displayed in a glass case, their aroma chasing away the customers’ worried frowns, replacing them with eager smiles. Sorcha, taller than most in their tenth year, fetched the bread knife and cut each bun into quarters. She savored the taste of cinnamon as she licked the sweet syrup from her fingers and placed the sample plate on the counter. Unable to resist the meat pies, she reached for one, still steaming, but her father’s warning voice stopped her. Yanking back her hand, she wiped her sticky palms on her newly finished apron. Her fingers still throbbed from pricking them a dozen times over, but she was proud of the design she’d created with threads of yellow and a blue as bright as the summer sky.

Sorcha deftly slipped under the bar separating herself from the customers, haphazardly shoving a few rolls and a fresh loaf of bread in a small basket for Fiona, who was sure to arrive with her father today. Hayes Bakery was a regular stop on Noah’s delivery route, and as a longtime friend, Sorcha and her family provided baskets of freshly baked goods for Noah’s large, ever-growing family.

But for the last few deliveries, Fiona had stayed home to care for her new baby sister. It made Sorcha wonder what it would be like to be a big sister. When her mother announced her pregnancy, Sorcha had thrown a fit, though she was too old for such behavior. It had been the three of them all her life, and she feared they’d love her little sister or brother more.

The small bell above the door chimed as Noah entered with a large bag slung over his shoulder, Fiona clutching his free hand. She was shorter than Sorcha, with silver-blonde hair pulled back into a neat, tight bun. Her icy blue eyes lit up as she spotted Sorcha. The two threw themselves at each other and embraced. The aroma from Fiona’s farm clung to her, and Sorcha wrinkled her nose while squeezing the air from her lungs.

Sorcha turned to her father with pleading eyes. “Can we go play, Pa, please?”

With a glance at Noah, Sorcha’s father gave a nod. She grabbed Fiona’s hand and dashed through the front door as Noah called out: “Only for a few minutes!”

Sorcha regularly played behind her father’s bakery while he worked, and her mother rested at home. Her toys leaned against the fence beside the bakery, awaiting her. This was the best way for her to keep out of trouble and not get in the way since she burned any bread or pastries she helped bake, always too distracted to stay focused.

A string of carriages raced past the bakery stirring up more dust. The storefront faced the road, allowing for easy access for townsfolks and travelers. Aligning along the main road, to the left of the bakery, were small stalls and more shops selling wares and goods. To the right, slightly set back from the main road, stood Sorcha and Fiona. They gagged as their eyes watered from the dust. The girls dropped the toys and hurried to the roadside as people gathered along the cobblestone streets to peek at the carriages heading toward the castle, only to disappear into a cloud of dirt.

“Stop them!” The bellowing rage of a shopkeeper’s voice pulled the crowd’s attention.

A wall of First Order guards emerged as the dust settled. Merchants plastered on false smiles, children scurried away, and the townsfolk gave a wide berth, afraid to give the guards an excuse to ruin their day. But Sorcha’s attention wasn’t on the guards—instead, she watched two frightened girls sneaking behind a stall directly across the street from them.

“They have the same face,” Fiona whispered to Sorcha, also noticing.

The two girls had eyes of onyx. One looked around the market frantically and noticed Sorcha and Fiona staring. The girls’ eyes watered in fear, silently begging Sorcha for help. Their dark brown complexion was covered in cuts and grime. The girls were most likely orphans, runaways, or dearmad, the forgotten children of druids.

Rumors of the dearmad ran rampant through the Meon. After authorities captured people for practicing arcane magic, their children had nowhere to go and wandered the streets, ignored or forgotten. People feared taking them in, worried they’d manifest one of the four eilimintí, putting them and their families in danger.

No child should live without their parents, and the urge to help those two cowering girls burned Sorcha’s eyes as she held back tears.

“There you are!” the shopkeeper shouted, then yanked the arm of the girl with cropped black hair and she dropped the apple in her hand. “I have a thief for you.”

Some fled the scene, rushing into the safety of their homes and shops. The First Order were on the hunt for a druid, and held most of the townsfolk spellbound, freezing them in place and making it impossible to look away. Sorcha stared in shocked realization that the girls were likely dearmad, since that was the First Order’s reason for existing. The one with cropped hair fought back, kicking and screaming. The guard threw her over his shoulder, while another guard shoved the girl with long locs to the ground.

The dearmad with cropped hair went still, and the guard’s grip slipped. She pushed off his shoulder and charged the guard crushing the other girl to the ground as he wrenched her arm back and pressed her face into the cobblestone.

The girls’ screams of pain made Sorcha’s tears spill over.

With a battle cry that made her blood run cold, the girl with the cropped hair pushed with inhuman strength and knocked the guard down with a nauseating thump as his head hit a large stone. The guards halted, mouths agape, at the dearmad’s violence. Red seeped from the guard’s head as the light disappeared from his eyes.

Fiona shivered and wept from the violence they witnessed by the men who had sworn to protect, and it enraged Sorcha. Anger simmered in her chest and the fleeting desire to throw rocks at them blurred her vision. But she knew a single rock would land her in the stocks for the day, or worse, a lashing.

“Imogen?” The dearmad with cropped hair crawled to the unconscious girl lying beside the dead guard. She cried out the name repeatedly, like a prayer, her voice echoing in the silent street.

The townsfolk could not pull their judging gaze away as the young girl crawled passed the dead guard, reaching the limp body of her sister, her hair and face covered in dust and blood.

Sorcha gasped, clasping her hand over her mouth. The guards seized the girl, but she kicked out as an Otherworldly scream wrenched from her soul, calling out her sister’s name. But Imogen didn’t move as she lay beside the dead guard, his blood now pooling around the two bodies. Even if she was a dearmad, she was too young to display any magic. But still, the guards forced her to the ground, while one retrieved chains to secure her tiny wrists. As the girl pulled at the guard’s arm, he suddenly lurched forward and fell face-first onto the ground. The townsfolk scattered at first in confusion, then in fear as the dearmad revealed herself as a druid, confirming Sorcha’s suspicion. The surviving guards put a safe distance between them and the dearmad, suspecting her touch caused the guards’ death. She curled her knees to her chest, rocking back and forth, repeating, “Imogen. Imogen. Imogen.”

“What’s going on here?” A deep baritone voice interrupted the chaos, and silence descended upon the people.

A man, well into his third decade of life with a dark brown complexion and haunting eyes, sauntered past the frightened guards who hovered around the dearmad. He stole a glance at the dead guard, halting at a sallow face with veins of black spiraling down his neck beneath his armor, weaving inky knots. The man’s attention flickered to the dearmad, then to Imogen, and his eyes softened.

“What’s your name, child?” he asked.

Tears ran down her face as she curled into herself, struggling to speak through her shock. “I didn’t mean to do it,” she finally stuttered, wiping snot from her face.

“Of course not. We all make unforgivable mistakes,” he said and then pointed behind her. “Your sister?”

“Yes, sir,” she cried.

Her sorrow was palpable. Sorcha turned away, blocking both Fiona and her view.

Fiona’s hands clenched at her chest. “It hurts,” she breathed. “Make it stop.”

“What hurts?” Sorcha panicked as tears streamed down Fiona’s face.

“Everything. Make it stop,” Fiona whimpered.

Unsure how to help, Sorcha led her away from the tragic scene, failing to push the death and violence from her mind. She’d never seen one so young with arcane magic, or that kind of power.ption text goes here

Cycles of the Kings, Winter

Ríocht no Meon, Éire

Ten years later

Chapter One

The bright morning sun cascaded into the kitchen, warming Sorcha’s face, as she washed dishes. Exhausted from her daily chores, she closed her eyes and drifted into a memory.

Fiona huddled against her under the warm summer sun in their secret spot in Triquetra Forest, an unfinished skirt rested in Sorcha’s hands as she stitched small purple flowers along the hem. Her expert copying of the flowers around them mesmerized Fiona, and warmth crept throughout Sorcha’s body. Fiona attentively watched her sew, then tilted her face up and Sorcha gazed into Fiona’s crystal blue eyes.

“What are you staring at so intently?” Sorcha asked.

“I wish I could create as you do.” Fiona looked forlorn.

Incredulous, Sorcha inspected her sewing. “These? They are so simple, even my sisters can do this. You were cooking at such an age, and well, I might add.”

“It’s not the same,” Fiona murmured. “You create beautiful art. I will never find time to learn this skill.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll always be here to give you flowers. I’ll make a whole dress of them just for you. You’ll look like a spring meadow. A closet full of immortal flowers.” They dissolved into a fit of giggles over the ridiculousness of such a notion. “I’ll always have time to make you flowers. Always.”

The thunder of hoofbeats and rattle of carriage wheels broke Sorcha from the memory. Elaborately decorated and gilded horse-drawn carriages passed her family’s home as they made their way toward Pálás na Meon, where the king awaited the next candidates to become his queen. After the sudden deaths of his two previous wives, the queen’s throne remained empty. Sorcha couldn’t comprehend the desire to marry a king whose wives die during childbirth.

The kingdom, Meon, was made up of three concentric rings, one inside the other, each representing a distinct stratum of the clan’s populace, which were easily seen from high up. Sorcha’s family lived within the outer ring between those who lived in poverty and the inner sanctum of the capital. The outer ring was a vibrant hub of commerce and community made of the four provinces.

At the pinnacle of the Meon’s hierarchy stood the middle ring, Gorias, elevated both physically and symbolically. Th innermost ring was the castle, Pálás na Meon, which dominated the skyline with its majestic presence and stood opulent, protected by its stone walls. Its grand towers stretched skyward, crowned with gilded spires that glinted in the setting sun, a testament to the wealth and power of its inhabitants.

From her kitchen window, she wistfully pretended she and Fiona lived in Gorias, but those childhood fantasies were unhelpful to a young woman entering her twenty-first year. Her life would change after her next birthday, thanks to the law requiring all unmarried people to register for the singil tax, and therefore pay a fee to remain unmarried. If it weren’t for her sewing allowing her to pay the tax, she’d probably be married within the year, likely without any choice.

Sorcha grew up observing the lords and ladies pass by her family home, wearing jeweled gowns of rare silks, eager to win the king’s favor. The house was on a direct route to the capital where Pálás na Meon remained hidden. The lords and ladies vanished far up the hill to partake in the luxuries awaiting them in the castle.

At the kitchen table behind her, Nell was hunched over mending winter socks and asked about Sorcha’s last sale.

“I sold a bundle of dresses to the Reid family,” Sorcha said. “They have triplets. I’ll put the coin toward Lillian and Leona’s singil tax.”

“Bless you,” Nell said. “I don’t know what we’d do without you. Thanks to your earnings, they’ll choose who they marry. But I still worry it’s not enough.” She paused. “It may be time I sell my weaving again. Lillian and Leona are old enough to take care of themselves.”

“Mother, no,” Sorcha said, guilt gnawing at her stomach. She’d received multiple offers from a well-known dress shop in Gorias, but she didn’t want to leave her family or Fiona. “The girls need you here, and your fingers, they can’t take the abuse any longer.”

Nell set down the socks and inspected her gnarled knuckles. “If you want to help, accept the offer from the shop in Gorias.”

“Please. Mother, don’t make me leave,” Sorcha said.

“Think of the life you could create. If you’re scared to meet people, you need not worry. You’ll work with other seamstresses, make friends, maybe even meet someone?” Nell hinted at Sorcha’s love life.

How could Sorcha explain she had Fiona and didn’t need to meet anyone. She was perfectly content with their relationship. Leaving would make it impossible to see Fiona, and Sorcha was unwilling to give her up.

“I don’t want new friends,” Sorcha said. “And I like sewing for the families of Muir. The folks here need new clothes more than those in Gorias.”

“I just think,” Nell started.

“No, please Mother. I won’t leave my family, or Fiona,” Sorcha said.

Nell dropped the conversation and continued sewing while she hummed old lullabies about the ancient deities. Sorcha rolled her eyes at her mother’s misplaced faith, believing the deities were uninterested in humans, or long dead.

This was a reoccurring discussion with Nell, and Sorcha had a needling suspicion her mother wanted her out of the house. Not because she didn’t want Sorcha there, but it was a small house and Lillian and Leona would need more space as they grew older. Sorcha understood where Nell was coming from, but she didn’t want to leave.

A knock at the door interrupted Nell’s song.

Sorcha ignored her mother’s exchange with their guest. Staring out the window, her reflection looked back at her, and she frowned at her unruly hair and attempted to calm the red frizz with her damp hands. Her hazel eyes stared back as a tight sensation squeezed her chest, her cheeks pale, and a wave of worry washed over her.

Outside the window, two women walked by laughing. Their faces displayed no worries, and their closeness made Sorcha miss Fiona. It was unfair that they couldn’t spend more time together. Meon prohibited free movement. The farms were outside Meon’s walls, and unless it was for business, Fiona could not enter.

Nell’s gasp pulled Sorcha from her worries, and she spun to see who’d caused such a reaction, but the front door blocked her view. Her mother’s head snapped to Sorcha, her eyes wide with surprise shifted to concern as she stepped back to let the guest enter, revealing Fiona’s mother, Callie O’Brien. She was a longtime friend of the family, having met them through trade long before Sorcha and Fiona were born. Nell and Callie had been inseparable growing up, both raised in the same clan.

It was love at first sight for Callie and Noah, and the day she turned twenty-one they married. The success of Noah’s farm made it possible for them to afford a wedding. But marrying Noah meant Callie had to move away from her clan. Despite the distance between them, their friendship held strong. Callie and Nell formed a business alliance where Noah sold grain at a discounted rate, and in return, Sorcha’s father provided Noah’s family with freshly baked bread and goods.

“Mornin’, Sorcha.” Callie’s accent was thick, like Fiona’s, and all those living outside Ríocht na Meon’s walls. Her voice was strained, and a sense of dread coiled in Sorcha’s gut.

“This day was inevitable,” Nell began.

A guttural “No” escaped Sorcha as the full weight of the situation crashed into her. It had finally happened. Someone was taking Fiona away.

“I’m sorry, my dear,” Callie continued. “They’ve offered us a large stipend, more than we could have ever imagined.”

The world spun, and Sorcha shuffled to her mother. Warm, muscular arms from years of weaving embraced her, yet failed to coax the stiffness from her body. Someone had finally proposed to Fiona, and her inability to pay the singil tax had made this future inevitable. Once she was married, their relationship would change, possibly even end, depending on her husband. The physical distance alone hindered their relationship, not to mention Fiona’s partner would become her number one priority.

If her betrothed promised a hefty stipend, Fiona wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to prevent her siblings from the same fate. The likelihood of marrying a stranger, or someone you didn’t want to marry, was high. Sorcha cursed the singil tax law. If someone couldn’t afford it, they were sold off, like cattle. Each full moon, the four high clans held separate celebrations in honor of the young men and women who’d reached their twenty-first year, hoping to find their partner in life. If they didn’t, it was possible someone would claim them. Sorcha hated full moons and clenched her fists knowing it was because of those celebrations she was losing Fiona.

Sorcha swallowed her anger. “Who?”

Callie’s eyes sparkled with pride and unease, aware of Sorcha’s pain. “King Torin. He’s taken notice of her for some time. He’d inquired about the cook making his meals, and after meeting Fiona, he invited her to dine.”

“She never said,” Sorcha whispered.

“Fiona kept it a secret from all of us. They sent her home in a royal carriage this morning, along with a note from Queen Mother Caitrín,” Callie said.

Sudden pain pricked Sorcha’s palms as her nails dug into her flesh. She pictured Fiona becoming King Torin’s, and panicked at the thought of her most important person, dying in childbirth. Her anger bubbled to the surface and to hide it she turned away. Callie’s soft, warm hand stopped her.

“She loves you, you know,” Callie said. “But she’ll be queen. Consider the beauty of her future. No more kitchen or farm work. She’s worked so hard and deserves this. I’ll visit the bakery to talk with your father. We’ll arrange a meeting for the two of you to speak.”

With a nod, Sorcha dragged her feet as she put distance between them, unable to listen anymore. Her world shifted too quickly. Moments ago, she’d been daydreaming about the castle, yet the thought of it now churned her stomach.

Unable to bear it any longer, Sorcha excused herself and rushed upstairs, fearing she’d lose her breakfast. Closing the washroom door, she pressed her back to the wall and slid to the floor. Fiona’s marriage was inevitable, so why were her hands shaking? Pushing herself up, she poured fresh water into the basin and splashed her face, then went to her room.

Sorcha stopped short at the sight of the lavender dress lying on her bed, one she’d recently finished sewing and had planned to give to Fiona for her birthday. The sight of the dress broke her. Throwing herself on the bed, Sorcha curled her legs to her chest. Silent tears poured from her eyes as she cradled the dress, as though it were Fiona in her arms.

The light shifted across the floor as Sorcha lay motionless in bed. It wasn’t until nightfall that she could muster the energy to light a candle. Dried tears covered her cheeks, and she grimaced as her stomach growled. Rolling to the other side of her bed, a cold bowl of soup rested on the bedside table. With a groan, she propped herself up and sluggishly rose from the bed to go downstairs and help with dinner. Spices and freshly baked bread wafted through the house, signaling her father had come home. They never baked at the house, since he’d bring leftovers from the bakery, and tonight her father made a special treat to lift her spirits. Meat pies with their flaky, buttery crust and savory, rich filling decorated the dining table.

Fergus cupped Sorcha’s cheek. “How are you?”

“Do you know who she’s going to marry?” Sorcha gritted her teeth, letting her frustration finally come through. Her father had tried to help her control her anger since she was young, and though he’d failed, he never judged or scolded her. He pulled her into a comforting embrace, and she pushed down her tears.

“I spoke with Callie,” he said. “You’ll have tomorrow free, no chores. Go to Triquetra Forest. Yes, I’m well aware you two are still sneaking off to the forest, but promise me you’ll be careful and don’t let the guards see you. Most importantly, this is good for Fiona.”

“I might not see her anymore. She’ll be queen. I can’t just walk into the castle, and only special guests are allowed entry to Gorias,” Sorcha said.

Her father’s knuckle gently pressed under her chin, raising her gaze from the floor, and he gave her a smile filled with sorrow. He said nothing before he joined the family at the kitchen table.

The Hayes family ate dinner and chatted as Sorcha’s entire world fell apart. Unable to eat, she pushed her food around with her bread, which had gone soggy and limp. Tof, her adopted older brother, fidgeted beside her, bouncing his leg as the twins giggled about absurd secrets.

Tof stared at her as he collected his thoughts.

“What?” she demanded.

“I just—nothing. Never mind,” he sputtered, and tucked his chin-length brown hair behind his ear, revealing his tanned skin.

“Stop being weird.” Sorcha hated how they’d been drifting apart these last couple of years, and she was clueless as to why. “Just spit it out.”

“It’s been a while since we’ve wandered the markets together. Can I come next time you’re looking for fabric?” he said.

“I’d love that.” Sorcha perked up. It’d been months since they’d ventured out together. Any time she’d invited him on errands, Tof excused himself, claiming he was too busy with his apprenticeship.

“We want to come too,” Lillian and Leona whined in unison, pale cheeks flushed.

“No.” Sorcha softened her voice. “Next time.” She wanted to spend time with Tof without her sisters’ constant chatter and interruptions.

As dinner ended, Sorcha excused herself to her room, unable to fake niceties any longer. She stood in her room, unable to move, and stared at the flower wreath Fiona made her and Fiona’s letters scattered across the table. Her breath caught at the sight of the tiny box resting on a pile of parchment. Inside were two Claddagh rings made of silver, expertly crafted. They were a matching pair, and Sorcha was going to give one to Fiona for her birthday along with the dress. After admiring them, she carefully placed the rings in the satchel for tomorrow.

Hearing Fiona’s soft voice in her head, Sorcha reread her letters, poring over her words. Her breath hitched as she spotted an envelope shoved under a stack of forgotten letters. Yanking it from the pile, she turned the envelope over, revealing the broken wax seal stamped with the royal crest. Her dresses sold instantly, never lasting on the display for more than a day. She knew what she needed to do.

Pushing past the dread building inside her, Sorcha found her mother and sisters compiling a package of meat, cheese, and bread in the kitchen. The front door closed as Tof silently slipped out without a word and went to his room behind the bakery. After he reached his sixteenth year, Fergus moved him from Lillian and Leona’s room to a private one. Unfortunately, their house only had three rooms, and it would be improper for him to share space with Sorcha, no matter if they were siblings.

Nell pointed at the plate of food. “I’ll put this aside for tomorrow.”

Sorcha embraced her mother and placed a gentle kiss on her cheek. “I wish there was a way to help. None of this is fair.”

Nell held her out at arm’s length. “You might not understand Fiona’s choices, but this is what she wants. It’s a good thing.”

“But it doesn’t feel good. I just wish we had enough money to pay her singil tax,” Sorcha said.

“It’s not just about the tax, my sweet. This is part of life. Growing up, marrying, falling in love, and starting a family.” Nell tucked her curls behind her ear.

Sorcha covered her face with her hands. “When is the wedding?”

“After Ostara.”

The spring equinox was two full moons away. “I guess we’ll have to make the most of our time. Maybe I can visit after Fiona moves to the castle?”

“Maybe,” Nell said with little confidence.

“The offer from Gorias, I’ve been thinking about it.” Sorcha’s brows pinched as indecision tore at her heart.

Nell smiled, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “The royal dress shop has been selling your dresses and tunics for years. Your work has gained attention and praise. Not wanting to leave home is a natural part of life, but you’re twenty-one. It’s time to leave. The money would pay for your sisters’ singil tax.” Hope radiated from her mother.

“I know,” Sorcha said, again covering her face in shame.

“This still doesn’t guarantee you’ll see Fiona.” Nell pushed Sorcha’s hands away, catching her eye. “And if you accept this position, it will be difficult to see us, or anyone outside Gorias. You’ll have to come to us because we can’t come to you. You’ll visit, won’t you?”

Determination filled Sorcha’s chest. She’d follow Fiona to Gorias, and they’d still be together. Somehow, she’d make it work.

Clasping Sorcha’s hands, her mother said, “Your father and Callie want to plan a celebration for you both. And what perfect timing, since Fiona’s birthday is almost here.”

“Yes.” A sliver of Sorcha’s worries floated away, and she squeezed her mother’s hands. “It must be overwhelming for her. Fiona’s entire world is about to change.”

“Callie and I will start planning. I can’t imagine what she’s going through. Having to say goodbye to her eldest daughter. She does so much for the family.” Nell hugged Sorcha and placed a soft kiss on her forehead. “I love you. Now go get some rest.”

“I love you. And thank you for everything,” Sorcha said.

A light pressure appeared at the back of her legs as her sisters’ slight arms wrapped around them. The twins and Sorcha’s mother embraced her as memories of their home flooded her mind. The premature birth of the twins which nearly cost Nell her life, the day Tof became a part of their clan, and the hours and hours Sorcha spent sewing with Fiona cuddled in her lap. The desire to be with Fiona overpowered her reluctance to leave home, and she was worth risking the unknown.

Coming soon!