Chapter 23
Seeds of Doubt
Sorcha held Eirin close, her fingertips pushing into the fabric of his shirt. When she finally stepped away they exchanged goodbyes and Sorcha closed the door behind him. Once the latch clicked she sank into her chair again. Letting out a heavy sigh, her thoughts began to swim.
Frustration crashing over her, she gripped the armrest of her chair. “Why does it all feel so familiar?” The elusive name hovering just out of reach.
Meadowrun.
The name struck her like a blow. The dark growths, the dying flowers…
She palmed her forehead. It was a place she’d just been, yet in the dream she couldn’t remember it.
Letting the thoughts wash over her before reaching for her journal.
Flipping to a blank page, she began writing down every detail she could remember, the meadow, the brook, the wisps, and the terrifying chase.
She underlined “Meadowrun” twice, the ink digging into the paper; she wanted to remember the place.
Time slipped by unnoticed until her stomach grumbled loudly.
She sighed, placing the journal aside as she rose to her feet.
Wandering into the kitchen, her stomach twisted with hunger, only to find the cabinets bare.
Of course, she thought with a wry smile.
She hadn’t been home long enough to restock anything, too consumed by patrols, reports, and everything else.
Her gaze landed on the food Eirin had brought over, a gesture that had helped more than she’d admitted.
Letting out a slightly frustrated grunt, Sorcha grabbed a crumpled set of clothes from the floor, tied her hair into a messy pile atop her head, slung her bag over shoulder, and picked up a basket before heading out to the market.
The market was alive with its usual bustle.
The scent of cinnamon and clove wrapped around her as she grabbed a loaf of Barmbrack, its golden crust still warm.
She moved quickly, gathering apples, squash, and late season berries and other earthy vegetables.
Her stomach growled once again, reminding her to visit the tavern for lunch.
The tavern was quiet at this hour, only a few locals scattered around, sharing muted conversations over teas and ales. Sorcha found a seat by a window and ordered the stew. Settled back and listened to the quiet hum of conversations around her, but one in particular caught her attention.
Sorcha kept her gaze down, tearing at the crust of her bread, but her ears sharpened at the mention of the Hollow.
“The hunters can’t find clean meat,” one man muttered. “The ones they do kill bleed black and smell foul.”
“Yeah,” the first man said, shaking his head, “you can’t get a word in edgewise with druids. They just repeat the same thing: ‘we’re looking into it.’ Looking into what exactly? Why can’t they just tell us if it’s a polluted stream, illness or something else?”
“We can speculate all we want but we’re here now and we will report it to the Lumora Circle. Maybe someone here in the city can make the Elders and council listen.”
“Let’s hope so,” the first man muttered. “It’s hard when everyone back home is struggling.”
Sorcha kept the men’s conversation in the back of her mind as she ate, their words sitting uneasily with her.
Is that why she and Riona been sent out there in the first place?
It was supposed to be a routine patrol, a simple task to “keep an eye on things.” Commander Nethran had been casual about it, almost too casual.
He’d given no indication that the area was of particular concern, yet as she reflected on what they’d encountered he didn’t seem surprised.
She couldn’t help but think that her patrol wasn’t about prevention; it was about observation.
Had she been sent just to see how bad things had gotten?
The realization left a bitter taste in her mouth. If the Circle knew more than they were letting on, then the people in the towns surrounding the Hollow—Fearnmhar, Fionn na Mist, and Clochar na Mist—needed their help.
Sorcha’s fingers brushed against the edge of the table, her runes tingling faintly beneath her skin. Her appetite faded as she pushed her plate aside, her mind a mess of questions.
She reached her home just as the last light of day faded into night.
Inside she sat in her chair, opened her journal, and began putting her thoughts on paper.
The sickness in the Hollow, the Wolves of the Wild Hunt, the kelpie, and, of course, Kyron.
What was it about him that kept pulling her attention, no matter how hard she tried to push it away?
She closed the journal and turned her attention to the dress hanging in her wardrobe, a stunning emerald gown embroidered with delicate flowers.
Beaded adornments glimmered like dew on the fabric, and the thought of wearing it stirred a mix of excitement and unease.
She hadn’t allowed herself a moment of joy in so long, and the idea of celebrating felt odd.
But as her fingers brushed over the fabric, she resolved to let herself enjoy the festival, even if just for one night.