Page 95
Emerald.
Oath.
I think of ink staining my fingers months ago. Of the journal entry I wrote in a fit of frustration and fierce longing. Of binding myself to the Emerald Isle. Of swearing that I’d one day do something that mattered. That I wouldn’t be another man who watched Ireland bleed and not do anything about it.
I had called it a vow. But what a fitting name.
The Emerald Oath.
When Mannie speaks again, he doesn’t look at any of us.
He recites the words carved in stone.
In whispering woods where shadows play, a life unfolds with grief’s first day.
Some souls in solemn vigil bend, their knees to ground, their wills to mend.
Nineteen moons shall orbit bright, ‘round the sun’s commanding light. Death will come within a day, the sacrifice will cause dismay.
In secret, treachery begins to rise, charting out her fate’s surprise.
Along the path, she’ll find one soul, its love, a weight, a heavy toll.
In every beat, their souls combined, a tapestry by stars designed.
Once contact graces trio’s sight, inner strength unchains with might. Called by powers, true and bold, she journeys forth to claim her hold. Upon the sacred ground, she’ll stand, with fate’s dark price in trembling hand.
When he finishes, the kitchen feels altered.
Alex swallows. “That’s… not vague at all,” he mutters.
Mannie almost smiles.
“There’s only one foe I believe Ériu would have warned Amergin about when she spoke of treachery. A great darkness that predates even the Milesian sails. A hunger that doesn’t conquer by force alone.”
He looks toward Maeve briefly, then back to the table.
“I know what became of Amergin. I have watched what his line built. The laws he shaped. The restraint he practiced. Looking back, it’s clear to me now—he must have known. He must have understood what lingered beneath the surface of the land and hoped to lead in a way that would keep it at bay.”
Alex shifts, impatience edged with pain. “Keep what at bay?”
Mannie’s expression stills.
“The Fomorians.”
The word settles like ash across the table. No one moves.
“These are not myths born of frightened men. They are real. Dark beings that rise from beneath sea and stone. From places where light doesn’t settle. They are blight. Drought. Rot. Hunger given shape.”
“They learned long ago that they cannot create power of their own. That is their curse. They have no sovereign magic of their own, and cannot sustain life, but long ago discovered a flaw within our magic. They learned they could steal it.”
We all lean in a little further at that.
“They drain magic from soil. From sacred ground. From objects bound to divine essence. From people whose blood still carries what the Gods once gifted them.”
His eyes cut briefly to me before dropping back to the table. It passes too quickly for anyone else to catch, but I feel exposed all the same.
Marked.
