Ríocht na Meon, Éire

A woman’s wailing screams caught the attention of everyone 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. They whispered about the druids as a general sense of fear momentarily washed over them.

“Free samples!” Fergus Hayes called out to those crammed in his shop. “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.

Displayed in a glass case, the aroma of buns and bread chased 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 that was still steaming, but her father’s warning voice stopped her.

Yanking back her hand, she wiped her sticky palms on her new 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 her from the customers, haphazardly shoving a few rolls and a fresh loaf of bread into a small basket for Fiona, who was sure to arrive with her father Noah today. Hayes Bakery was a regular stop on Noah’s delivery route, and as longtime friends, Sorcha and her family provided baskets of freshly baked goods for Noah’s large, ever-growing family.

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 Sorcha’s mother announced her pregnancy, she’d thrown a fit, though she was too old for such behavior. It had been the three of them—Sorcha, her mother, and her father—all her life, and she feared they’d love her little sister or brother more than her.

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 arranged in a neat, tight bun. Her icy blue eyes lit up when she spotted Sorcha. The two threw themselves at each other and embraced. The aroma from the farm clung to Fiona and Sorcha wrinkled her nose even as she turned to her father with pleading eyes.

“Can we go play, Pa? Please?”

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

Sorcha often played behind her father’s bakery while he worked and her mother rested at home. Her toys awaited her by the fence around the bakery. 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.

The storefront faced the road, allowing easy access for townsfolk and travelers. Small stalls and more shops lined the main road to the left of the bakery, selling wares and goods.

A string of carriages raced past, stirring up clouds of dust. Sorcha and Fiona gagged as their eyes watered, and they dropped their toys and hurried to the roadside where people gathered to watch the carriages race toward the keep.

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

A wall of First Order guards appeared on the cobblestone road 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 selling jewelry directly across the street.

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

The two girls had eyes of onyx, and their dark brown skin was riddled with cuts and thick with grime. One eyed the market frantically and noticed them staring. The girl’s eyes watered in fear, silently begging Sorcha for help. They were most likely orphans, runaways, or dearmad, the forgotten children of druids.

Rumors of the dearmad ran rampant through the Meon. When 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 made Sorcha’s eyes burn with unshed tears.

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

Some people fled the scene, rushing into the safety of their homes and shops. The First Order were on the hunt for a druid and held the rest of the townsfolk spellbound, freezing them in place and making it impossible to turn away. The girl with cropped hair fought the shopkeeper’s grasp, kicking and screaming. Then a guard threw her over his shoulder, while another guard shoved the other girl with long locs to the ground, wrenched her arm behind her back, and pressed her face into the road.

Her cries of pain made Sorcha’s tears spill over.

The dearmad girl 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. With a battle cry that made Sorcha’s blood run cold, the girl with the cropped hair pushed with inhuman strength to knock the guard down. His head hit the cobblestones with a nauseating thump.

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 everyone, but it enraged Sorcha. Anger simmered in her chest and the fleeting desire to throw rocks at them blurred her vision. A single rock would land her in the stocks for the day—or, worse, lead her to receive 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 gazes away as the young girl crawled past the dead guard to reach her sister’s limp body, 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. Imogen didn’t move from beside the dead guard, his blood now pooling around the two bodies.

Even if she was a dearmad, she should have been too young to display any magic. 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 her suspicion. The surviving guards put a safe distance between them and the dearmad, her touch having caused the guards’ deaths.

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 crying child. He stole a glance at the dead guard, at the sallow face with veins of black spiderwebbing down his neck and disappearing beneath his armor, weaving inky knots. His 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 d-didn’t mean t-t-to do i-it,” she finally stuttered, wiping snot from her face.

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

“Sea, sir,” she cried.

Her sorrow was palpable, and Sorcha turned away, shielding Fiona from the view.

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

Sorcha panicked. “What hurts?”

“Everything. Make it stop.” Fiona whimpered.

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

Sorcha

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. Sorcha stitched small purple flowers along the hem of an unfinished skirt. Her expert copying of the flowers around them seemed to mesmerize Fiona, and warmth crept throughout Sorcha’s body, though when Fiona raised her gaze, she attentively watched her sew, then tilted her face up. She looked forlorn.

Sorcha gazed into her crystal blue eyes. “What are you staring at so intently?”

“I wish I could create as you do.”

Incredulous, Sorcha inspected her sewing. “This? This is 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, even as Sorcha took Fiona’s hand and squeezed it gently.

“I’ll always have time to make you flowers. Always.”

The thunder of hoofbeats and rattle of carriage wheels broke Sorcha from the memory. Filigreed 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 and he lacked an heir.

Sorcha couldn’t comprehend the desire to marry a king whose wives kept dying during childbirth. Perhaps the young women he considered had no choice. It was their duty to the kingdom afterall.

The kingdom of Meon was made up of three enormous, concentric rings, one inside the other like the rings on an archery target, each representing a distinct stratum of the clan’s populace, which were easily seen from high up. Sorcha’s family lived within the largest outer ring, between those who lived in poverty and the inner two rings. 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 those who lived in the middle ring Gorias, elevated both physically and symbolically. The innermost ring held the keep, Pálás na Meon, which dominated the skyline with its majestic presence and shining opulence, protected by its soaring stone walls. Its grand towers stretched skyward, crowned with gilded spires glinting in the setting sun, a testament to the wealth and power of its inhabitants.

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. Her house was on a direct route to the capital, Gorias, where Pálás na Meon remained hidden. The lords and ladies vanished far up the hill toward the inner rings to partake in the luxuries awaiting them in the keep.

From her kitchen window, Sorcha 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 courtesy of the law requiring all unmarried people to register for the singil tax and pay a fee to remain unmarried.

If it weren’t for her needlecraft allowing her to pay the tax, she’d probably be married within the year. Countless other people had little choice.

At the kitchen table behind Sorcha, her mother Nell was hunched over, mending winter socks. She 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 singiltax.”

“Bless you,” Nell said. “I don’t know what we’d do without you—or them. 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.” Guilt gnawed 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 can’t take the abuse any longer.”

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

“Please, Mother. Don’t make me leave.”

“Think of the life you could create there. If you’re worried about knowing people, you’ll need not worry. You’ll work with other seamstresses, make friends, and . . . perhaps even meet someone?” Nell hinted at her love life.

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

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

“I just think—” Nell started.

“No, please, Mother. I won’t leave my family or Fiona."

Nell dropped the conversation and continued her mending while she hummed old lullabies about the ancient deities. Sorcha rolled her eyes at her mother’s misplaced faith. Sorcha believed the deities were either 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 her there, but because it was a small house and Lillian and Leona would need more space as they grew older. Sorcha understood where her mother was coming from, but she didn’t want to leave.

A knock at the door interrupted Nell’s song. Sorcha stared out the window, her reflection looking back at her, hazel eyes bright. She frowned at her unruly hair and attempted to calm the red frizz with her damp hands. A tight sensation squeezed her chest; her cheeks paled, and a wave of worry washed over her.

Outside the window, two women walked by, laughing. Their faces displayed only joy, and their closeness made her miss Fiona. It was unfair that they couldn’t spend more time together. Meon prohibited free movement. The farms were outside the kingdom’s walls, and unless it was for business, Fiona could not enter.

Nell’s gasp pulled Sorcha from her unease. She spun to see who’d caused such a reaction, but the front door blocked her view. Nell's head snapped to Sorcha, her eyes wide with surprise that shifted to concern as she stepped back to let the guest enter.

Fiona’s mother, Callie O’Brien, walked inside. 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 had been love at first sight for Callie and Noah, and the day Callie turned twenty-one, they had married. The success of Noah’s farm made it possible for them to afford a wedding. Marrying Noah meant Callie had to move away from her clan, and away from Nell. Despite the distance between them, their friendship held strong. They formed a business alliance where Noah sold grain at a discounted rate. In return, Sorcha’s father Fergus 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 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 toward her mother. Warm, muscular arms from years of weaving embraced her, yet failed to ease 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 partner, who would become her number one priority. The physical distance alone already hindered their relationship.

If her betrothed promised a hefty stipend, she wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to save 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 singiltax 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 years and hoped to find their partner in life. If they didn’t, it was possible someone would claim them.

She hated full moons. Clenching her fists, she knew it was because of those celebrations she was losing Fiona. She 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 inquired about the cook making his meals, and after meeting Fiona, he invited her to dine with him.”

“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 wife 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. She’ll be queen. Consider the beauty of her future. No more kitchen or farm labor. Fiona's worked so hard and deserves this. I’ll visit the bakery to talk with your father, and 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 life had shifted too quickly. Moments ago, she’d been daydreaming about the palace, yet the thought of it now churned her stomach.

Unable to bear it, she 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, she curled her legs to her chest. Silent tears poured from her eyes as she cradled the dress as though it was Fiona in her arms.

The light shifted across the floor as she 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 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 returned. They never baked at home since he’d bring leftovers from the bakery, and tonight he made a special treat to lift her spirits: meat pies with a flaky, buttery crust and a savory, rich filling.

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 show. 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. Tá, I know you two are still sneaking off to the forest, but promise me you’ll be careful. Don’t let the guards see you. But you have to remember that this is good for Fiona.”

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

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 her life fractured. Unable to eat, she pushed her food around with 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 asked.

“I’d love that.” Sorcha perked up. It had been months since they ventured out together. Any time she had invited Tof on an errand, he'd 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 him without her sisters’ constant chatter and interruptions.

After dinner, Sorcha excused herself to her room, unable to fake niceties any longer. She stood by the closed door, unable to move, and stared at the flower wreath Fiona had made her with 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. A matching pair, one of which Sorcha planned to give 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 crest of Gorias.

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, since they didn't share blood.

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

She 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 singiltax,” she 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 keep?”

“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.

Her mother 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 turning twenty-one, and the money would pay for your sisters’ singiltaxes.” Hope radiated from her.

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

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

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

Clasping her to her chest, Nell said, “Your father and Callie want to plan a celebration for you both—and what perfect timing, since her birthday is almost here.”

A sliver of her doubt floated away, and she squeezed her mother’s hands. “It must be overwhelming for Fiona.”

“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.” She hugged Sorcha and placed a soft kiss on her forehead. “I love you. Now go get some rest.”

“Thank you for everything,” Sorcha said.

A light pressure appeared at the back of her legs as her sisters’ skinny arms wrapped around them. The twins and Nell embraced her as memories of their home flooded her mind: the premature birth of the twins which nearly cost 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 Sorcha’s reluctance to leave home. Fiona was worth risking the unknown.

Fiona

On the outskirts of the western province of Muir Ceantar, the evening light streamed into the O’Brien farmhouse in shades of pink and orange, reminiscent of the spawning salmon who relied on the river carving through her family’s land.

Fiona’s father maintained a successful farm, never having a failed crop and always surviving extreme droughts. When all the other farms struggled, the O’Brien’s fields yielded enough to provide for the palace, but they struggled to save money for her brothers’ and sisters’ singil taxes.

The neighboring farmers whispered about luck or suspected arcane magic, but those were dangerous and false lies. One farmer had even called upon the First Order to investigate the O’Briens as potential druids. However, without proof, the guards disregarded the claims against one of Meon’s finest providers of meat and grain.

Sitting on the floor in the main room, she watched her mother in the cramped kitchen and struggled to imagine the luxurious rooms reserved for the queen in the palace. The main front room of the farmhouse was large, with an open hearth at one end providing heat and light. The fire pit for cooking was on the other side. Dried herbs hung from string on the exposed wooden beams across the ceiling , and the floor was dirty since her brothers never took off their boots. A few simple tapestries and handwoven cloths covered the timber walls. Despite the house’s small size, it had been enough compared to the unfree’s dangerously constructed hovels outside Meon’s outer walls.

Scooting closer to the hearth, she shivered at the thought of the unfree, those banished from Meon for breaking the law or simply because they couldn’t afford life within the walls.

Laughter filled the house as Fiona’s mother Callie prepared dinner at the hearth, the evening fire warming Fiona's chilled hands and cheeks. She wished Sorcha was here, for her hands were never cold. A spark in the hearth captivated her, and she stared into the fire, missing her friend.

The younger children, sprawled on the floor around her, played a simple card game. One of the youngest, Kayleigh, remained sound asleep in Fiona’s lap. Callie grumbled while chopping carrots, huffing and puffing for fifteen minutes in an attempt to passively convince one of her many children to help with dinner. Fiona had made dinner the last five nights, and she needed a break. She didn’t think her legs could move even if she commanded them.

Her absence would affect the household and Callie in ways she’d yet to consider. Once the engagement ended and she moved into the keep, her mother would become the sole cook and caretaker, unless her second eldest daughter, Éire, stepped up to take over Fiona’s responsibilities.

Fiona struggled to envision herself in the keep. She’d soon live in luxury and bear children to love and cherish as she did her siblings. She only hoped her fate would differ from the two previous queens.

Needing a distraction from her thoughts, she sang a song of ancient magic and the creatures within Triquetra Forest to her six siblings. They stopped their game and listened to the story, mesmerized by her voice.

Many in the clans feared the old deities and believed uttering their names could call them down upon the land. Thus, they were banned by the royal Clan Byrne. She prayed to them every night before bed, even if none answered her calls.

Fiona glanced at her mother, eyebrows raised in a silent question. Callie had yet to mention her meeting with Sorcha. Fiona had failed to find the courage to tell her about the engagement, and shame washed over her as she finished the final line of the song. She knew Sorcha would have used her powers of persuasion on her and talked her out of marrying the king.

“Sea, I told her,” Callie said, as if hearing Fiona’s thoughts, or at least guessing at them. “We’ve arranged for the two of you to meet tomorrow.” Her throat bobbed as she swallowed her nerves and retrieved something from her apron pocket: an envelope with an unbroken royal seal of red wax, the Byrne crest squashed in the center. The crest depicted a shield with a diagonally crossing ribbon bending from the bottom right to the bottom left with a guard’s helmet above the shield. Above the ribbon were two outwardly facing palms and a third palm under the ribbon. “I received a letter from Her Majesty, the Queen Mother. You are to stop working in the keep as a cook and start your training as queen. You’ll leave as soon as you are able.”

After untangling from her siblings, Fiona plucked the envelope from her mother’s pale hands with a confidence she couldn’t explain. The seal stared up at her as she cracked it open and scanned the contents of the letter, surprised the summons to the keep were more urgent than her mother let on.

“What will it be like to be queen?” she asked, pulling her mother aside from the children’s prying ears. “I remember the previous one, but she was only queen for a few months. What truly happened?”

“Don’t worry yourself about palace gossip. She died during childbirth.” There was a shift in Callie’s voice, belying her answer. “You are strong and healthy. Barely ill a day in your life.”

“How many queens have died during childbirth?” Fiona asked, wondering if the old deities had cursed the royal line.

“Queens aren’t immune to the dangers of childbirth.” Callie frowned. “But as queen, you’ll have the best medicine men at your disposal.”

Queenhood fulfilled her dreams of escaping servitude, but a queen’s true mission was to have heirs—perhaps two or three, as a precaution. Fiona had raised her siblings since she was a young girl, but for some inexplicable reason, she couldn’t fathom giving birth to her own children.

With a sigh of frustration, she excused herself and threw on her cloak . Leaving the house, she walked to the fruit trees lining a nearby path and leaned against the nearest tree.

She instantly relaxed, surrounded by the busy sounds of nature. Her eyes fluttered closed as the never-ending exhaustion weighed her down, wind whistling through bare branches. There were no other sounds this far outside Meon’s walls, and she feared the bustling noise of Gorias replacing the silence she was used to.

Like those outside Gorias, she desired to be queen, though she hesitated to leave Sorcha or embrace motherhood immediately. She’d soon celebrate her twenty-second year. Each full moon ceremony had been unsuccessful in the eyes of her people, never landing her an offer in marriage. In her desperation, she’d briefly considered encouraging Tof, but she’d dared not ask, knowing he couldn’t afford a wedding and he definitely couldn’t afford a stipend for her siblings.

Marrying a wealthy person had always been the plan. So, she’d trekked to the nearest province each full moon and both dreaded and hoped to find someone to accept her.

Her eyes shot open as she thought of Sorcha and finally focused on what she’d been avoiding. Fiona was clueless about how she’d let Sorcha go.

Trying to remember the last time they were together, she sighed. It had been an unbearable week without visiting Sorcha. However, compared to the months—or possibly years—they would be apart, one week was nothing. Fiona would be alone in the keep, without Sorcha, her family, or a familiar face. Visiting the queen was a privilege exclusive to Gorias residents, and the future queen visiting a farm or the clans in the provinces was laughable. The queen’s world revolved around the heirs and the king.

Those she loved would be out of reach.

Maybe having a child as soon as she became queen was for the best, her days filled with raising and loving her children. The previous royal clan ended after Queen Aoife died during childbirth, taking her son with her to the Otherworld. Luckily her husband, Prince Cormac, had an elder brother to take over after he went mad with grief and left the palace to assume command of the First Order and live in Ravenstone Fortress.

Dying in childbirth wouldn’t be Fiona’s fate, for her mother was right. She was healthy and came from a line of women known for their large and healthy families. The desire to learn more about past queens urged Fiona to seek her mother.

Back in the kitchen, she snuck up on Callie; her mother squeaked, making the other children in the room laugh.

Fiona grabbed a knife from the counter to help chop vegetables. “Tell me everything.”

Callie conceded with a resigned sigh.

“Story time!” Kayleigh roused from her spot on the floor beside the hearth.

The children stirred at the prospect, for their mother was a renowned storyteller who kept ancient tales and secrets alive, passed down through the generations, though most of those stories had been banned centuries ago.

“Prince Cormac met Princess Aoife when he was a boy before his mother married King MacGealiach,” Callie said. “Despite their intense love and inseparability, the king declared their affair forbidden, for he was an overprotective father in every sense. Young and willful, Princess Aoife continued to see Prince Cormac in secret. After the king died, power was transferred to his new wife, the woman you know today as Queen Mother Caitrín. She ruled over the clans of Meon until the princess reached her twenty-fifth year. Without the king standing in their way, Princess Aoife married Prince Cormac and the two lived a blissfully happy year together.”

Though this story wasn’t new, Meon on the whole feigned ignorance concerning the MacGealiach Clan and their history. No servant spoke of the former reigning clan, and the first time Fiona inquired about them, the lead cook threatened her position.

“I still find it difficult to believe that the current commander of the First Order is the former king of Meon,” Fiona said.

“He never became king. Never rose to power. Not officially. That’s where our tale becomes a tragedy. Prince Cormac was once a good man, and I believe he deeply cared for his wife and the people of Ríocht na Meon. Princess Aoife lived a sheltered life, and her body was weak and unable to handle the pregnancy. She went into early labor. Everyone waited with bated breath and feared the worst. I remember the day so clearly. The bell tower chimed once that night, informing the people of the child’s death.”

A shadow hid Callie’s expression, and her hands ceased their kneading, as though she was stuck in the memory. Fiona rested a comforting hand on her mother’s shoulder, jolting her back to the present. Callie smiled at Fiona, wan and thin, but continued her story.

“Prince Cormac went mad with grief. He lost his beloved wife and child on the same dreadful night. Everything changed, for all of us,” Callie said in a hushed voice as her children listened, enraptured. “He fled the palace in a grief-stricken rage and hid in Ravenstone Fortress, never to return to Pálás na Meon. Queen Mother Caitrín secured her position as regent, while she prepared her eldest son, King Torin, to take over. You see, the MacGealiach line had ended, leaving Queen Mother’s children to take the throne. Without a ruling clan, the chieftains vied for an opportunity to rule, as would the other two royal clans of Éire. War would have ravaged our lands.”

She gaped at their flawed system. “What about Princess Saoirse? Is she truly missing? Can someone not find her to rule instead?”

King Torin and Prince Cormac’s missing sister was popular gossip, even years after she’d gone missing. Fiona had too many questions, and as the reality of it all hit, the weight of her duty crushed her. The clans of Meon relied on her to produce an heir and stave off war.

Her mother gave a sad sigh. “There are rumors of Queen Mother Caitrín’s sole daughter. Either she is no longer alive, or she disappeared to another land, where she is leading a blissful, clandestine existence.”

“Why did she run away?” Unable to comprehend, Fiona questioned anyone who relinquished a life of grandeur and luxury for one of uncertainty.

“I can only assume she didn’t want to be queen. She disappeared soon after Princess Aoife’s passing.” Her mother’s lilting voice grounded her. “You are the future of these lands, Fiona. After Prince Cormac relinquished his title and vowed to never marry again, there are no alternatives.”

A shiver ran down her spine. There was something her mother wasn’t telling her, and she either couldn’t be honest in front of the younger ones or feared she wouldn’t take the news well. Regardless, the look in her mother’s pale eyes told her she’d soon understand.

Kayleigh snuggled close to the back of Fiona's legs, hugging them tight, and she braced herself on the counter so as not to fall. She turned and knelt before the sweet girl she’d all but raised as her own daughter, placing a kiss on her head. Breathing in her comforting scent, she closed her eyes and shut out the fear. She’d made sacrifices before, and if marrying the king meant keeping war out of her precious Kayleigh’s life, so be it.

Fiona searched her pocket for Queen Mother Caitrín’s letter and reread it. “I should leave tomorrow,” she said with conviction.