Several layers of a booming, feminine voice echoed through Conall’s bones, from the earth below him and within his mind. “I have a task for you, courtier. You will attend upon me at once.”
As abruptly as the pressure came, it disappeared. Conall breathed once again, and he took in several ragged, deep breaths, coughing as the dust tickled his savagely dry throat. Lainn coughed beside him, the whites of her eyes tinged with panic.
Ammatán glanced at them both with wild eyes. “You must both stay. Into the roundhouse. I must leave. Now!”
With no further explanation, Ammatán transformed into a large bird and flew away. The black and white feathers mimicked his Fae coloring, and the bird looked much larger than Sawchaill. The bird vanished into the dim Faerie light.
Lainn tugged on his arm. “He said to go inside, Conall. Come on! You can’t think that voice is one to disobey, can you?”
He shook his head to clear the cobwebs and let his sister take him to safety.
Chapter 11
Conall hadn’t gotten used to the lack of any measure of time in this place. No sunrise, no sunset, no darkness, no storm, no stars. Nothing to mark the hours, the days, or the weeks. He only grasped that Ammatán left for a while. In the meantime, they ate, rested, and explored the roundhouse.
The Fae’s home stood larger even than Sétna’s luxurious roundhouse. Six alcoves radiated off from the central hearth and main room. No dust from the thatch floated in the air. Instead, the sweet aroma of wildflowers and honey permeated the room. Flowers bloomed in the ceiling, vines wrapped around each wooden support, and Conall realized each support remained a living tree, entwined with a central trunk. The entire roundhouse shifted and rustled in spite of a lack of breeze, as if breathing.
One alcove held food and tools for cooking, though most of the food didn’t require actual heating. Like Adhna, Ammatán preferred fruits, vegetables, nuts, and mushrooms. Foods to gather or forage, rather than bake, cook or boil. No bread, no meat, no milk nor cheese sat in his larder. While Conall did spy a small pot of honey, he suspected this was the product of trade with the mortal realm rather than a product of any industry from the Fae himself.
Ammatán’s sleeping alcove contained rich, brightly-dyed fabrics, but Conall didn’t pry further into the Fae’s personal space. He didn’t know if Fae had a sense of privacy as humans did, but it seemed common courtesy.
Lainn helped him make a small meal of nuts and fruit, offering several choice items to Sawchaill, who accepted each morsel with dainty dignity. The raven preferred to take items from Lainn’s hand. Conall experienced a brief flash of resentment at his sister’s talent with animals but squashed it. He could work the stone and had his father’s brooch, both considerable talents. Why should he envy her abilities as well?
With a smile, he grabbed three Brid’s apples and juggled them, making Lainn giggle. Sawchaill didn’t seem to grasp the demonstration. He cocked his head back and forth several times as if trying to get a better look at the spinning fruit. The bird squawked, settled on his perch, and turned up his beak at the performance.
With a chuckle, Conall bit into an apple, offering Lainn another. “Why don’t you sing us a song, Lainn? Something to soothe both us and our raven companion until Ammatán returns?”
At the mention of their host, the memory of the terrible voice returned, stealing the warmth from the day. The light dimmed, and his terror returned. He closed his eyes and concentrated on his breath, forcing himself to take each one with measured concentration. When he opened his eyes again, the world had contracted, as if pushing on him with a gray force, pressuring his vision into a narrow focus. Then, as rapidly as the panic arrived, it fled once again. He sat at the large wooden table and raised his eyebrows at his sister. “Well?”
With a glance at the raven, she sighed and rolled her eyes. “Fine. How about the story of the birth of Cú Chulainn?”
Lainn must have remembered the hero had always been Conall’s favorite. He sat back, crossing his arms and closing his eyes. Conall had heard the tale many times, but had never heard his sister relate the details, not since she’d gotten training at the oak grove. He wondered if she’d memorized this tale for her first or second year, or if she’d known it already.
His sister settled down with her back against the roundhouse wall, a mug of cool, sweet water at her side. Conall settled, his hand on Sawchaill’s silk-feathered back as they both listened to the tale of the hero Cú Chulainn, who had been born Setanta.
“Many moons ago, in the dawn of the age of man, a chief named Conchobhair mac Nessa lived and ruled in Ulster. While he inherited his chiefdom through unusual means, he became a mighty chief out of legend, with many great deeds to his name, but this is not his story.
“Conchobhair mac Nessa had a daughter named Deichtire who also served as his charioteer. On the wintry eve of her wedding, a mayfly few into her cup of wine. She drank the mayfly and fell into a deep sleep; a sleep full of dreams and portents.
“Within this dream, Lugh of the Long Hand told her she must come with him, along with her fifty handmaidens. They transformed into a flock of shining white, exotic birds and burst forth from their chambers. The wedding guests exclaimed with alarm and wonder at this, but when they discovered Deichtire and her ladies had disappeared, searched for them for a full year.
“All the chiefdom had given up hope of finding their lost daughter. However, the following year, to the very day, the same flock of white birds reappeared in the skies. These birds descended upon the land and ate every blade of grass and every winter berry.
“In fury and determination, the men of the chiefdom, with Conchobhair in the lead, went on the hunt, chasing the bare hint of the exotic flock of birds. In and out of the clouds this flock flew, flirting with their hunters through the short day and long night. Nine flocks of silver birds winked white against the black winter sky, each led by two, and the whole mass led by three. Across the land, they followed, from Sliabh Fuaid to Fir Rois.
“This mass of birds drew the Ulstermen to a lonely cottage on the edge of the land, in a glade of spring flowers, seemingly apart from the snow-clad hills surrounding it.
“The cottage appeared poor and crumbling, with barely enough room for three people, and yet the hunters found no other shelter. The host came out and invited them inside with grace and a smile. One hunter, Bricriu of the Bitter Tongue, declared the place too poor and small, yet he entered anyhow.
“When he approached the cottage, a well-lit house stood in its place. Within this large home, their host welcomed him. He asked if Bricriu searched for anyone.
“‘Indeed I do! We search for Deichtire, the daughter of our chief. Is she here?’
“The man grinned and opened his hands. Fifty maidens appeared before him, each more beautiful than the last. He spied his chief’s daughter among them but held his tongue. He decided he might receive a reward from his chief if he could take credit for finding Deichtire, so he’d bide his time until that became possible. ‘I must have a token of this wonder to bring to my chief.’
“With narrowed eyes, the host offered a fine cloak of purple and gold fringe – a truly regal gift. Bricriu took this cloak and brought it to Conchobhair. ‘Our host offers this gift to his guests. We can go inside to rest this night.’
“The hunters piled into the building, all fitting comfortably inside no matter the exterior appearance. Despite their comfort, they got little rest. Their host greeted them, but excused himself. He attended upon his wife, who was in labor. The screams of the woman vied with the screams of a mare, also giving birth in the stable. Throughout the darkness, female screams ripped at the hunters’ ears, almost driving them mad with the sound.
“When the morning dawned, each hunter woke and stretched, unable to understand why they could see the winter clouds above them. The cottage, modest or large, had disappeared. Icy hills had replaced the spring glade.
“Conchobhair rose and found Deichtire and her fifty maidens, a
newborn babe, and the mare with her two newborn colts.
“Each of his hunters wanted the honor of raising this child of mystical birth, but Conchobhair bade them all wait until their return home. Once there, the druid passed judgment on the fate of the child.
“‘Let he learn the craft of ruling from Conchobhair, the craft of speaking from Sencha, the craft of war from Fergus, and the craft of learning from Amergin. Until then, Dechtire and her husband shall raise him as their own.’
“And so they named the child Setanta, child of all men and of none.”
Just as Conall stood to get more food, Ammatán flung the door wide. The Fae’s eyes were white-rimmed, and darted around the roundhouse with nervous energy. His hair appeared ashen and mussed. “You are both safe. Good.”
With quick movements, he entered and shut the door securely behind him. He stood with his hand on the door for several moments before he turned to them, taking a deep breath. “I’m not certain when or by whom, but your presence has been reported to the Queen. I’ve delayed her demand to see you, but I must prepare you.”
Conall’s stomach became a cold lump, and his hunger disappeared. He sat with his back against the wall, finding solace in the unyielding, reassuring object. Conall glanced at his sister, but she didn’t seem worried. He envied her serenity.
Ammatán sat down, crossing his legs and placing his fingertips to his temples. He screwed his eyes shut for a minute before opening them and blinking. He turned to Conall with a sad smile. “Your arrival has already come to the Queen’s attention. This discovery had been inevitable, but I’d hoped to have more time. Still, we have a few hours before you are due.”
Lainn snorted. “Hours? How can you count hours here?”
Conall waved her into silence. “What do we need to do?”
“Good lad. First, we must clean you. To be presented to the Queen in any less than your best would be a prime insult. Luckily for us, she does not currently have formal Court, so needn’t be in full regalia. Sawchaill? Will you fetch something appropriate for each of our guests?”
The bird cawed and fluttered his wings, but didn’t fly away.
“Don’t ask me! You’re far more familiar with Court fashions than I am. Shoo!”
With another squawk, the raven batted Ammatán with his wings and darted off into the distance. Only once the sound of his wings had faded did Ammatán speak again. “Now, into the pond, both of you. You’d best strip off those clothes. We should have done this when you arrived, but I sensed you required food and rest first. Now we need clean! Come now, up!”
Conall rose and hesitated, not wanting to be naked in front of a stranger, and stranger than most. Lainn had no such compunctions and peeled off her boy’s clothing, revealing her nude curves. Grime hid within each crease in her skin, making her freckles dim in the low light. Her hair hung in bedraggled warrior braids. She removed each of the small pieces of twine from the braids and pulled them out until her auburn hair looked like a mass of dead winter vines, crackling out to a bramble patch.
She put her hands on her hips and glared at him. “Well, Conall? What are you waiting for, doom? I’m not the only one going in the pond, I’ll have you know.”
Abashed at his own shyness in the face of her boldness, he pulled his Maelblatha over his head, hearing the rotten fabric rip despite his care. He eyed the discarded pile of clothing with both distaste and wistfulness. Each piece of the mortal world he pulled away from himself severed another link to that world. Would he ever return to everything he held dear? Or had they become trapped forever in this bizarre, darkly singing countryside? Lainn had such a free spirit, she would make a home wherever she wandered. He didn’t think he would adapt so easily.
Still, needs must win over wants. He pulled out the twine and simple beads in his own braids and removed them, one by one, until his own hair resembled that of his sister’s, though his dead winter vines grew black while hers grew copper. He scratched his scalp vigorously once all beads and braids had been removed, closing his eyes in sheer pleasure at the sensation. Lainn smiled and did the same before they both stepped into the still pond.
The water soothed warmer than he’d imagined. The river at home stayed cool throughout the summer. This had a low fire simmering underneath. Not hot, but sinfully sybaritic. He sighed as he submerged, raking his fingers through his tangled hair. They caught, and he yelped trying to get them clear.
Despite his earlier agitation, Ammatán laughed and went into the roundhouse. He came back with a large comb made of bone. “Come, sit in front of me. I’ll tame that tangled mess. Then you can do the same for your sister.”
With his skin stung from the warm water and more nervous energy, Conall sat in front of the Fae. With gentle fingers, the Fae began at the ends of his hair, brushing each section until smooth, working his way up to the scalp. Then he worked on another section.
Conall closed his eyes, surprised at how luxurious such care felt. Ammatán’s hands brushed his shoulders now and then, making his skin pebble. For a moment, he wished Lainn elsewhere. Ashamed at such an uncharitable thought, he glanced at his sister. He’d gotten so used to seeing her in boy’s garb and hair, to see her diving under the surface like a selkie gave him a shift in perspective, almost as if he had lost his sister at one point, only to regain her now as a grown woman. Her curves had increased over the winter season, and he averted his eyes as she burst through the surface, sluicing the water from her still-tangled hair.
Ammatán stopped grooming him, and Conall wished he hadn’t. The Fae placed a hand on his shoulder. “May I rebraid your hair, Conall?”
With a gulp and a nod, Conall let out a long breath, waiting for every stray brush of the Fae’s hand. Did he imagine it, or did the Fae sit closer now? He could feel Ammatán’s skin against his back, stirring sensations within him he’d only felt in dreams before. The center of his being tingled, as if he’d leapt into a river, the sheer joy of anticipation an incredible build-up and release.
When Ammatán finished the last braid, Conall had to wait before he could stand. Embarrassed, he waited until the Fae had walked back into the roundhouse before he motioned Lainn over. “Sit where I did, and I’ll do your hair and braids.”
She sat in front of him, and he worked as Ammatán had, smoothing the bottoms out first. Her hair curled as his did, but more thickly. He took much longer to smooth out her curls, matted and tangled. When he’d finished, they both left the pond to find Ammatán.
He stood inside the roundhouse, considering four sets of clothing. Sawchaill sat on his perch, preening one wing with viscous energy, while Ammatán cocked his head at the first set. This had varying shades of brilliant blue, from aqua to near purple. Each diagonal stripe leapt from the cloth.
The second set was comprised of abstract splotches of red, mostly deep and sanguine. This robe could have been the dropcloth beneath a grisly murder.
The third was pure white, with feathers and sparkling bits that shone even in the shade of the roundhouse, while the fourth showed no color at all. It blended in with the table beneath it so well, Conall almost hadn’t noticed the fabric, except where the translucent substance draped past the edge.
With a grunt, Ammatán picked up the red one, holding it up to Lainn’s neck. He eyed it from several angles and glanced back at Sawchaill. The bird fluttered and shook his head. “You’re right. The color clashes horribly with her bright hair. I think the fourth one for her.”
“I prefer to dress as a boy.”
Ammatán shook his head. “Impossible before the Queen, Lainn. One cannot hide their true nature from her, and any attempt to do so may trigger her uncertain temper. Now, the blue…the blue works wonders. Come, try it on and go out into the light.”
When Conall saw the brilliant blue stripes against his sister’s red hair, she looked far lovelier than even Aoife, a true goddess in human form. She took his breath away.
She picked at the sleeve’s edge with her mouth curled up. “Close you
r mouth, Conall. You understand I hate this.”
“You look lovely, Lainn. Truly, you do.”
She blushed and cast her gaze down, the picture of the modest maiden.
Ammatán turned to him. “Now for you, my lovely human. The red would look striking against your dark hair.”
He put his hands up, shaking them. “No, no, I would look like a murder victim.”
With a low chuckle, Ammatán held up the scarlet garment. “At least try it on? For me?”
With a roll of his eyes, he drew the robe up and secured it in front. It seemed wrong not wearing a traditional Maelblatha, and the open front exposed him far too easily.
“No, like this. This side ties all the way around.” Ammatán untied the belt and reached around him. His skin prickled again as he felt the Fae’s touch against his chest. His breath came shallow, and he stood stock still, not trusting himself to move.
When he’d tied the robe, Ammatán stood, but still so close. Their faces spaced only a handspan apart, so near he could smell the Fae’s sweet breath. His flat black eyes glistened in the light, and Conall’s shortness of breath worsened.
The Fae stepped away, his white skin shaded gray. Is that how he blushed? Conall’s mind grew fuzzy as Ammatán examined him in the new clothing. “That should do fine. What do you think, Lainn?”
His sister narrowed her eyes and asked, “You hate this as much as I hate mine, don’t you, Conall?”
He nodded, mute.
“Good. Then they’re perfect. Ammatán, you said we needed to prepare. We’re clean and clothed. What else will we need to do?”
* * *
With Ammatán’s final instructions in mind, Conall followed his host down the first path to the Faerie Queen’s Court.
In his childhood, he’d imagined such a journey with four matched white horses drawing a fancy chariot. In reality, they marched across the bizarre and ever-changing Faerie countryside.
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