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
