Age of Secrets: Druid's Brooch Series: #8

by Christy Nicholas

  Bran barked, and the blue light disappeared. The hound growled, his hackles raised, and he bared his teeth at the Fae. Fingin, now free from the beguiling light, shook his head to dispel the fog that held his mind. He stopped stepping forward.

  The Fae frowned and snapped again, but though the blue light reappeared, it no longer held the compulsion it had before. Fingin maintained his position and crossed his arms. Bran growled again.

  “How are you breaking my magic? You are a mere mortal. You should have no such ability!”

  Fingin glared at the creature who would have enslaved them both. “I don’t know. But I’m glad we can.”

  This time, the brown Fae growled back, stepping forward with menace and anger clear on his bark face. Fingin’s blood ran to ice, but Bran returned his menace threefold.

  With a great roar, the Fae shoved both hands forward, and a massive force slammed into Fingin’s chest, throwing him back. He skidded along the silver gravel path, the wind knocked from him. Bran suffered similarly, his yip turning into a mournful whine.

  He struggled to regain his feet, but the Fae moved too fast for him. Without touching him at all, the Fae pummeled him with unseen blows, connecting to his face, his chest, his legs, and his arms. With no way to fight back, Fingin curled into a ball.

  Bran’s barks grew more frantic, and he snarled at the Fae, but couldn’t get close, either. The same force that knocked into Fingin kept the hound from attacking their assailant.

  Through his agony, Fingin croaked, “Bran, leave him! He is too strong.”

  An eternity later, the Fae tired of his sport. Soon, all fell quiet once again.

  Every part of him ached. His muscles and skin blistered as if he’d come too close to a hearth fire. He tried to move, but his body screamed in protest. He forced one hand to lie on Bran’s flank, checking to see if his hound breathed. When the warm body shifted, drawing breath in and out, Fingin sighed in relief. This Fae had already angered him beyond belief, but if he’d harmed Bran—

  He wanted to crawl off the path and shelter amongst the trees, in case some other murderous Fae traveled this way to accost them, but his body wouldn’t obey him. Even if it did, he mustn’t move Bran in case he hurt the wolfhound more.

  With careful motions, he extracted his waterskin from his pack and dribbled some in Bran’s mouth, then his own. He had no stomach for food but offered some dried fish to Bran.

  “I’m not hungry. I hurt.”

  With a painful swallow, he nodded. “So do I, friend. So do I.”

  * * *

  Brigit’s charm once again helped them to heal. The magic worked better here in Faerie, with the charm burning so hot, it turned his skin red. The fabric it hung upon turned ice cold. Fingin made Bran wear it to ensure they both got the healing magic, but it seemed to make little difference. Both healed well enough within three meals.

  Fingin judged this to be a day’s time in the mortal world, judging from when his stomach rumbled for food. To judge by Bran’s stomach would be useless, as the dog usually wanted more food. Except for when Fae creatures beat them into quivering piles of pain.

  Since the angry Fae had headed toward the yellow glow, Fingin decided they should continue in the opposite direction, toward the green mist. When Bran felt up to traveling again, they resumed their journey.

  This time, however, their travel remained more cautious. They examined every movement in the trees, every butterfly or rodent-like creature that made noise as they passed. He wanted no more chance encounters like the last one, despite his obvious inability to prevent such an eventuality.

  Six meals later, they saw something large within the green mist. A building of some sort, perhaps a ringfort.

  Fingin had seen a ringfort once, tall upon a hill. The local chief and his warriors lived there, but Fingin had never been inside. His grandmother had told him sometimes a hundred people lived in them, but he had a hard time imagining such populations in one place. They must live on top of each other. And how did they feed so many people? The ringforts guarded the surrounding land, which included farmland, but it still didn’t seem feasible.

  As they grew closer, the shape resolved into thin, soaring towers, connected by gossamer walkways. The green mist faded to the surrounding hills, revealing the shimmering pearl-like walls radiating with its own light, a beacon of burnished beauty.

  Fingin stopped walking, taking in the structure’s wonder. Bran glanced up, puzzled. “Why did you stop?”

  Unable to tear his gaze from the palace, Fingin smiled. “Do you see that? Look how beautiful it is.”

  Bran glanced at the structure and back to Fingin. “It’s shiny, like fish. Do you think it’s made of fish?”

  His eyes wide, Fingin stared at the dog. He burst out in laughter. He bent to hug the hound, and Bran jumped around him, licking his face. “I don’t think it’s made of fish, Bran. In fact,” he bent to take the dog’s head in his head, his tone serious, “I should warn you now. Eat nothing they give you. All the tales tell of how people become trapped in Faerie forever if they eat the food. Do you understand me?”

  “But what if I’m hungry?”

  Fingin reached into his pack and pulled out two pieces of dried fish. He wished he had something other than dried fish, but nothing else remained from their provisions. At least it lasted a long time. “Here, eat this. I’ll eat some, too. That way, we won’t enter with empty stomachs. Remember.”

  Thus fortified, they resumed their journey. As the towers loomed closer, their shine became ominous, shadows dancing in the corners. Webs of gossamer silk flickered in and out of sight, disappearing whenever Fingin tried to focus upon them.

  A step behind him made him whirl. Bran woofed as a tall, thin Fae walked by, ignoring them. The creature had white skin with a similar pearlescent sheen to the palace walls, with bright orange fur on his head and all the way down his spine, like a horse’s mane. Fingin wanted to ask him about the castle, but he also didn’t want another beating.

  When he’d passed, another creature approached, a shorter Fae with squat legs, almost like a toadstool. His greenish-gray skin had a mottled texture. He stood half Fingin’s height. This one harrumphed as he approached, evidently disgruntled by his own thoughts.

  He halted when he came to Bran, who cocked his head at the Fae.

  “What’s this? What’s this? A mortal hound, here? Well, that’s a different thing, indeed. And a lovely human you have, dear hound. Wherever did you find him?”

  The toadstool Fae held out his gray-green hand to Fingin, as one might to a strange dog. He resisted the urge to sniff the hand. Instead, he smiled. “Greetings to you, honored Fae. We are strangers here. Might we beg your help?”

  “What? We? Oh, the human can speak! You’ve taught him well, mortal hound.”

  Fingin didn’t know whether he should laugh or get angry. Either way, he might insult the tiny Fae.

  Bran cocked his head. “I understand you. I understood the other Fae, too. Before, I only understood my friend.”

  The toadstool Fae glanced between hound and human a few times before he burst out into laughter. The wheezy mirth took over his entire body. A third Fae passed them as the laughter continued, a woman with ebony skin and pure white furry stripes. She glared at the shorter Fae as she passed, but ignored both Bran and Fingin.

  He stared as she passed, fascinated by her grace. She wore no clothing but the fur.

  “Now, now, let’s see. You must be new here, mortal hound. What shall I call you?”

  “My name is Bran.”

  “Did I ask your name? No, I most definitely did not. I asked what I should call you. Not the same thing in the slightest!”

  Fingin furrowed his brow, confused by the statement. Bran shook his head. “Call me Bran.”

  “Very well, if that’s the way you wish it. And what have you named your human?”

  Fingin’s anger grew stronger than his amusement. He clenched his jaw, so tight his teeth ached, and Bran answ
ered for him.

  “He’s called Fingin. He is a true friend.”

  All of Fingin’s annoyance melted away, and he smiled at Bran.

  The Fae nodded in Fingin’s direction in vague approval. “I’m called Grimnaugh, and I have charge of the Silver Path. I understand someone has destroyed several pieces of the Path. Do you know anything of this?”

  After remembering the dust when he had crumpled the gravel into silver dust, Fingin surreptitiously wiped his hands. He’d opened his mouth to confess when Bran said, “They sparkled like fish scales. I bit into a few to see if they were tasty. They weren’t.”

  Fingin clenched his jaw to keep from laughing. Or crying. He hadn’t decided which.

  “Hmm. Well, for a newcomer, curiosity is natural enough. I shall allow it to pass this time. Be aware, however, that in Faerie, everything belongs to the Queens. As servants of the Queen, we are charged with the care of all things. We take our responsibilities seriously.”

  The Fae glanced up at Fingin, considering his face. Fingin stared back, studying the details of the Fae’s enormous spotted nose, his flat head, and his squat toes.

  “He is a tall one. Have you brought him as a gift for the Queen?”

  Fingin let out a deep sigh. “I am here for myself, Grimnaugh. My loyal friend, Bran, is my companion. I come in search for my grandmother. Someone told me she’s in Faerie, but I don’t know where to start my search. I saw the castle and thought it might be a good place to enquire.”

  Grimnaugh stared at him as if he’d sprouted a second head, but he maintained his pleasant smile. He’d lost his stutter. His stutter hadn’t appeared with the cruel Fae, but maybe that had been sheer nerves and not his normal habit. He thanked Brigit for the small favor, or Faerie, or whatever might be responsible.

  The Fae continued to stare until Bran spoke up. “It’s true! This is his quest. I’m just helping. He feeds me fish.”

  “Well, well. I suppose I should help you. No, don’t fear, I won’t ask payment. It’s part of my duty, being in charge of the Silver Path. Since you’ve trod upon it, you fall within my domain. Your grandmother, eh? And who is she?”

  “My grandmother would be much older than me, with silver streaks in her black hair. She has black eyes, and stands about this tall.” He held his hand to his neck, measuring her height. “Her name is Cliodhna.”

  Grimnaugh puffed his chest and glowered. “You’re having some weak jest at me, human?”

  Fingin took a step away from the sudden menace in the Fae’s face, cognizant of the previous Fae’s actions. “What? No, this isn’t a jest. Why do you think so?”

  Bran didn’t growl this time, but he moved to Fingin’s side. The fur on his back rose.

  “Can you be unaware that Cliodhna is the name of our beloved Queen?”

  * * *

  Fingin sat on the Silver Path, possibilities and impossibilities warring within his mind. “This must be some sort of strange coincidence. My grandmother can’t be the Faerie Queen.”

  Grimnaugh had lost his anger and placed a finger on his lips in contemplation. “Indeed, indeed. She must have lived so long in your world. Once, the Queen went to visit her sister Queen in the north, but… no, no, she wouldn’t have. Might our Queen be…human?”

  Fingin remembered her power over the weather. Fingin doubted the truth of Grimnaugh’s supposition. In a dull voice, Fingin said, “Or Fae masquerading as human.”

  With several nervous glances around them, Grimnaugh let out a sigh. “We must find out. Come along. I’ll take you in.”

  Another Fae walked by, this one a tall, older human-seeming male with ink-black hair and a long beard. Fingin felt comforted by this Fae’s appearance, rather than the stranger creatures he’d thus encountered. Rather than walking by, he stopped and squinted his eyes at Fingin. “Grimnaugh, what have you done here? Why have you obtained this human?”

  “I did no obtaining, Adhna. I discovered them on the Silver Path. The hound claimed the human is on a quest. I’m helping him on his quest.”

  “Oh, a quest? I love a good quest. I want to help. Human child, you wouldn’t possess any mortal food in that pack, would you? I have a particular love of cheese. Do you have any cheese? Hmm?”

  In a daze, Fingin shook his head. “No cheese, no. I have dried fish, but not much left of that. I wouldn’t recommend it. It’s old and nasty. I’m sorry.”

  “Ah, fair enough, then. I’ll provide the food instead.” He rummaged in his own pack and pulled out a round yellow fruit.

  Fingin hesitated. Adhna noticed his reticence and rolled his eyes. “Don’t believe all the tales, human. I hereby declare that you… oh, what’s your name?”

  “Fingin.”

  “Right! That you, Fingin, are under no obligation for my food, drink, or hospitality until you leave this realm. Will that suffice?”

  Startled, Fingin nodded and took the fruit. He didn’t know if that negated any debt, but he had no other ideas. As he sank his teeth into the sweet flesh, the burst of tart-sweet flavor almost overwhelmed him. Sticky juices dripped down his chin. He hastened to mop them with his fingers and then sucked the last bit of juice from each one.

  Adhna turned to the other Fae. “Come, Grimnaugh, share your wealth. What is this burning quest the human must complete?”

  In a bland voice, the toadstool Fae replied, “He’s searching for his kin. Her name is Cliodhna.”

  Adhna’s face turned ashen, paler than the white fur of the striped Fae. He sat on the verge next to the path and gazed at Grimnaugh. “Truly?”

  “So it seems. We must go to the palace to discover the truth.”

  Adhna shook his head, visibly agitated. “Oh, you mustn’t do that, not without preparation! Come, all of you. My home isn’t far. We must make certain this young human is presentable before confronting the Queen with such a claim.”

  The shorter Fae remained obdurate. “I disagree. To keep this information from her would be more dangerous.”

  “You don’t know her like I do, Grimnaugh. You must admit that.”

  Grimnaugh clenched his fists. “Oh, that’s how it is, is it, beekeeper?”

  With a roll of his eyes, Adhna groaned. “I’m not Bodach. This isn’t a power play. But we must clean him up, at the least. We shan’t tarry long, but the fewer insults he offers to her presence, the better.”

  With a grumble, Grimnaugh followed Adhna, Fingin, and Bran to the taller Fae’s home.

  The small roundhouse stood next to a clear pond, and the buzzing of bees filled the glade with song. Even without a sun, Fingin believed this place to be brighter than the Silver Path. He smiled as he disrobed, and Adhna led him to the water.

  “Wash well, human child. Scrub all your parts. I’ll find you something much more appropriate to wear. An audience with the Queen must be perfect. You, too, hound. Into the water! No, it’s not deep. You won’t drown in this place. Go on, play if you like!”

  Bran bounded into the water, splattering them with warm waves. Fingin laughed and held his hands out, but the water washed over him anyhow. He ducked under the surface and scrubbed at his hair. He rubbed his chin, wondering at the scant beard he’d begun. It remained thin and meager, not like Adhna’s long growth. Still, he scrubbed at it, reveling in the opportunity to wash the remnants of sea salt from his itchy skin.

  While he washed, Grimnaugh and Adhna conducted an intense discussion on the shore, but Fingin didn’t hear their words. Since the Fae heard Bran’s voice, he daren’t ask the dog to listen for him.

  Should he trust these two Fae? They seemed innocuous enough, and had offered to help. But if he’d learned anything from tales of the Fae, one didn’t accept a gift from them without caution. Every gift had a reciprocal price. However true that may be, he realized the wisdom of looking his best before appearing before any Faerie Queen, whether or not she might be his grandmother. He’d do his best to balance his obligations to these helpful Fae. To turn down their help might insult them, and then he’d be in
worse straits than now.

  He didn’t wish a second or a third Fae beating. One had been plenty, despite Brigit’s healing charm.

  When he emerged from the pond, dripping wet and sparkling clean, Adhna laid out a clean blue léine for him to wear. The simple tunic came to his knees, and he tied it with a provided leather braided belt. He tucked Brigit’s charm beneath the fabric and tied his bedraggled pack to the belt. He should wash that as well, but he didn’t want to wear wet leather to this important meeting. Better grubby than soaked.

  Adhna examined him, frowning at the pack, but saying nothing. He also stared at the place beneath his léine where the charm lay hidden with a knowing half-smile. “Well enough. Let’s attend the court and satisfy Grimnaugh’s concerns.”

  The Silver Path sparkled again when they crunched toward the glittering castle. The corner shadows grew as they approached until the darkness overtook the bright. Fingin’s neck strained, trying to see the detail in the arches they walked underneath.

  The coolness of the air surrounded him, and the height of the ceiling made him feel tiny, insignificant, even worthless. The way he felt when his father had beaten at him, a filthy insect on the back of a mangy dog. He shrank into himself, unwilling to let any vulnerable part of himself become exposed.

  Adhna grabbed his shoulders and yanked him straight. “Stand tall, human. She won’t appreciate groveling. However, never speak against her or argue. Don’t turn your back on her. Eat nothing. Drink nothing. That goes for you as well, Bran.”

  Fingin swallowed his growing fear.

  The darkness increased as they walked through several hallways, each one turning and twisting upon itself. The maze seemed eternal, impossible, and several times, Fingin felt certain they must have just traveled in a circle, but the delicate, exquisite curvilinear carvings on the way never repeated. He wanted to stop and examine the details, but they moved too fast for such dalliance.

  A light shone at the end of their tunnel, growing into painful brightness. When they arrived at the audience hall, he had to shade his eyes.