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.
The hall teemed with beings, Fae creatures of all shapes, sizes, and colors. Some so tall they almost touched the arching ceiling, a ceiling almost translucent, showing nonexistent clouds rolling across a fantasy sky. Others stood no taller than Fingin’s knee, and a few even smaller. Some appeared to be tree trunks or stone carvings, but they moved as he passed, betraying their true nature.
An aisle formed as they approached the center dais. As the Fae pulled away from their progress, the figure upon a chair made from a living tree came into view. The chair had several tiny wrens flitting between the branches, and one rested on a large apple.
Long black hair cascaded around her shoulders and down her back. Her skin shone like marble in the striking light, and her black eyes glittered with interest and shock.
Though she appeared much younger than he’d ever seen her, Fingin didn’t doubt he stood before his grandmother. She appeared precisely as she had in his dream when he slept in Brigit’s home, what seemed so long ago.
Beside her, almost an afterthought, sat a familiar form. The bullying Fae who had first greeted him stared from the smaller throne. His eyes fixed upon some imaginary point above their heads as if they
