The light never changed, even as they moved past something which ought to cast shadows, like the gyrating trees with oddly-colored leaves. Non-butterflies and bees flitted around them like children playing ball. A small, furry creature with stripes and a bushy tail crept into the bushes beside the road at one point, but Ammatán warned them both against trying to coax the animal out.
Occasional rivers, ponds, and boglands appeared, just as in their world, but despite the similarities, each had an odd quality, like someone had drawn the land rather than created it. The flat light made each object less than realistic.
In the distance, a faint bright object grew into a single white beacon, a spire rising above the landscape. As they approached, it resolved into a shining tower.
His hip should have long since been aching by now, but he realized it didn’t hurt at all. Like his stutter, the ache had disappeared when he arrived in Faerie and hadn’t returned.
The tower grew into a silver needle, soaring high into the dim sky. Staring at the structure made Conall’s eyes ache, but still, he couldn’t tear his eyes from the graceful lines of the building. His mason’s training tried to analyze what stone the palace had been crafted from even as they got close enough to see the walls.
“Remember what I said, Conall? Lainn? Keep your eyes down and bow or kneel when you greet her. Say nothing unless asked a direct question. Answer with simple yes or no if you can. Do not eat or take anything offered, even if someone insists. Unless the Queen offers; she is above such petty trickery, and all understand a gift from her is a signal honor and proof of her regard. Touch no one. Do not turn your back on the Queen. Do not insult the Queen in any way imaginable. Do not leave until I tell you.”
“What shall we call her?”
“She is Queen Gréine, but if you must address her at all, it would be wiser to call her My Queen.”
Both nodded. The churning of Conall’s stomach had increased with each step and now became a full revolt within him.
The elegant arches they walked beneath attracted his eyes, and he tried to study the details as they passed, almost stumbling as he did so. Ammatán grabbed his arm and gave him a warning squeeze. Abashed, Conall nodded and kept his gaze to the path.
The palace seemed deserted. No one lingered in the hallway, and a heavy silence reigned in the courtyards. Through a maze of arches and doorways, they made their way to the center, the grand throne room.
The room appeared large enough to hold hundreds of dancers, yet none but them stood inside. Soaring, delicate arches met at the center of the ceiling, grander than any cathedral Conall had ever imagined, all crafted from white and silver stones. At the head of the echoingly empty graceful hall, two massive thrones sat. One made of black thorns, curling cruelly up and around the seat, and a second, larger throne made of wild green vines. This second throne writhed and twisted even as they watched, growing as they approached.
The thrones both stood empty.
Ammatán whispered, “Keep moving. Just because you can see no one there doesn’t mean She cannot see.”
Step by step, they got closer. The stone tiles of the floor glistened with a high polish, making Conall slip occasionally. They reflected everything like a still morning pond, making him dizzy and disoriented. The ceiling reflected as well, though the roof curved with arched supports. He imagined a thousand reflections of them all walking through countless abandoned halls, with the Queen watching each set of humans in a different world.
As they came near the thrones, his steps grew heavier, until it became difficult to raise his legs. Lainn looked as if she had similar issues, and soon he could move no farther. Ammatán looked back to see what kept him. He must have realized what had happened, for he stepped back to stand beside them. He addressed the empty thrones, bowing low with a dramatic flourish and a forced smile.
“We have arrived as you requested, my Queen.”
The silence grew denser, pushing upon Conall’s ears and eyes. His head pounded with pain, and when the voice came, it brought blessed relief.
The terrifying multi-toned voice echoed through the massive hall. “Step forward, human girl child.”
Afraid for his sister, Conall fought the urge to step in front of her, to shield her from the invisible Faerie Queen’s wrath. He remained rooted to his spot, however, unable to so much as move a muscle. Lainn stepped forward with halting steps, like a puppet on strings. She knelt with difficulty.
“You’re almost a pretty child, despite the stink of mortality. Turn for me.”
Like a toy, Lainn turned with her arms out stiff. Her still expression betrayed no emotion, but she kept her eyes to the floor.
“Now the boy.”
Conall’s legs moved of their own volition. He had no more power to stop them than he did to fly away into the Faerie sky. His body took three steps until he stood next to his sister. He bowed in a jerky attempt at grace. He also turned in a circle, his hand knocking Lainn’s ear as he turned. She couldn’t move out of the way, and he couldn’t pull his hand back. Neither of them said a thing.
“You have chosen lovely playthings, Ammatán. They are siblings? Even more precious. Will you keep them both? Perhaps you should breed them.”
“If it please you, my Queen.”
“Have they any magic?”
Conall held his breath. Had Ammatán discovered the brooch? What about Lainn’s druid training? It might be unwise for this formidable Faerie Queen to have control over such powers.
“The boy can carve stone, my Queen. The girl can sing.”
“Bah. Singing is nothing. Who cannot sing? The least courtier in my Court can sing more sweetly than any mortal could hope. But stone carving, that might be useful. Yes, useful indeed. You were wise to find me such a resource just as I needed it, Ammatán. This will increase your favor in my eyes. Send him after the next meal. I have a project for someone with such a talent.”
“As you command, my Queen.”
The pressure that held them vanished, and both humans fell into heaps on the ground. Conall heaved a sigh of relief. His muscles still wouldn’t obey him, but at least nothing else commanded them.
“She’s gone. You can stand now.”
Every muscle protested as he tried to stand. He slipped several times, and he ached as if he’d run all afternoon. Each bit of him ached. When he gained his balance, he helped Lainn.
As they left the throne room, Conall allowed himself to study the arch more closely, trailing a finger across the fine grain of a base. “What sort of stone is this constructed from? I’ve never touched anything like it. Smooth, light, yet sturdy enough to hold so much weight.”
Ammatán paused, taking a deep breath. “The stone itself is quarried from the land of Tír na nÓg.”
“Tír na nÓg? The land of the ever-living? Is that not where we are?”
Ammatán shook his head and pulled Conall by the arm, away from the stone. “Tír na nÓg is where we go after our time in Faerie. It’s the afterworld, where the gods and goddesses have gone. A human can travel there, but never back again. Only a few try, and all have died in the trying. I’ll not allow that to happen to you.”
The entreating look in the Fae’s eyes made Conall’s throat constrict. “What stone would I work with for the Queen’s project, then?”
“I cannot say. I can’t grasp what she has in mind. This palace is complete, as far as I can tell. I would have rather kept you to myself, but as the Queen commands, so must we obey. At least she has only called you and not Lainn.”
Conall didn’t think this exclusion to be a blessing, necessarily. He wanted to spend time with Ammatán, not work for the Queen. However, if his labors would be the wage he must pay for time with the Fae, so be it. He hoped he would be up to the task assigned to him. His own inadequacy haunted him on the journey back. What if he should fail? What if he insulted the Queen? Would he punish Lainn? Ammatán? Did their lives and sanity rely upon Conall’s imperfect knowledge of masonry? Every criticism
Sétna had ever spoken of his work crowded into his mind, jumbling together for attention.
The weight of his unknown task grew heavy across his young shoulders as they reached the roundhouse. Sawchaill chirped twice at them as they ate a silent meal. When they finished, Conall glanced at Ammatán. “She said after the next meal. Must I return alone? Do I go to the same place?”
The Fae drew him outside, while Sawchaill and Lainn remained inside. Now in some modicum of privacy, Ammatán drew him close. “I will walk you there but must leave you when she arrives. You must be strong, you must be obedient, and you must be smart. Can you do those for me?”
Being this close once again made Conall dizzy, but he forced his mind into some order. “I will do as she commands to the best of my abilities. What if she asks something I can’t do? How do I tell her?”
Ammatán touched one long finger to Conall’s jaw, tracing the line down to his chin. Conall shivered and closed his eyes. “Explain it’s beyond your powers. She understands power and believes mortals have none. She will have tools far superior to any I can provide. High quality bronze and bone, antler and stone. She might even have diamond dust for grinding surfaces. Ask for whatever you need, as long as you don’t mention iron. Never mention iron, not even once, understand? She might destroy you on the spot for such an insult.”
“Why would she even need my help? Can’t she create what she wants with magic?”
He shook his head, his finger moving to Conall’s lower lip. “She could create a glamor, that’s true. However, she’d need to work to maintain the illusion, and if this is to be a place of relaxation, such a construct would defeat that purpose. Only a mundane, physical construction would last beyond her conscious magical effort, and we no longer have such masons. We must draw upon human talents from time to time, and this time, she has chosen you.”
Conall nodded, wishing the Fae would caress him again. He put his hand on the Fae’s shoulder, drawing him closer. Slowly, their lips pressed together in a chaste kiss, and tingling spread from his lips to the bottom of his stomach. Ammatán pulled him into his arms, and they embraced with heated ferocity before a squawk from Sawchaill made them pull apart.
Ammatán took his hand, and they headed back toward the palace. “We must go. Promise me to be careful. I don’t wish to lose you.”
Chapter 12
Conall stared at the odd stone. While not the same substance as the palace archways, it still seemed smoother and finer than any of the limestone or granite he’d worked in the past. The Queen had called it marble, and he saw veins of gold, blue, and silver throughout the black stone. The sheen looked beautiful, but he needed to experiment to see how it worked with his techniques.
He chose a small piece to crack with his new tools, sitting down next to the low work table. At least she permitted him to wear a simple, utilitarian Maelblatha for this work. The blue robe would be utterly impractical for stonework.
The bronze and quartz chisels, diamond dust, and flint tools had also appeared, so he requested time to master these unfamiliar tools. The Queen granted him time to learn their properties but warned him her patience had finite limits.
She told him she wanted a retreat, a hideaway from Court where she might relax and be silent. The stone would be the framework, as she’d want gardens and animals to keep her company, but no Fae. An oasis of peace for her own.
The idea a Queen of Faerie might crave solitude almost made her seem human in Conall’s mind, though to say such a thing out loud would be a grave insult. Perhaps approachable or relatable would be better words.
The marble seemed softer than the granite and limestone he’d worked with in the past, and the slate he’d worked on once. The grain felt fine, and he’d be able to carve much greater detail into this new stone. With the bronze chisel, he tapped a small chunk of the stone, softer and harder, learning the limits of the medium. Then he chose the flint tool and used that for a while, along with the small quartz chisel. Once he formed the small chunk into a perfect cube, he used the diamond dust to wear the edges to a fine edge. Each flat surface shone in the light, and each edge remained almost sharp enough to cut his skin.
With a smile of delight, he then sanded near one edge of the cube to see how thin he might cut the marble without breaking it. Thinner and thinner he wore down near one edge, making an almost translucent piece. He held it up and discerned a faint light through the stone. Was this a magical trick of Faerie? Would it work in his world?
With his hands, he tried to break the thin piece. It took effort, and it flexed before it snapped. He ran a finger along the sharp edge, noting the uniform break.
He used the flint tool to flake the marble into thinner and thinner pieces, like the slate he’d used for a project last year. The slate flaked in long, flat pieces, but the marble had a less uniform tendency. It usually broke how he intended, but sometimes cracked in places he didn’t intend. It took a great deal of experimentation to discover the right angles, pressures, and percussions, until he decided he had a decent understanding of the marble’s properties.
Now that he might imagine what this new stone could do, he deemed himself ready to speak to the Queen about what she wanted and how he’d make that happen.
Conall stood, shaking the stone dust from his Maelblatha. He arranged his new tools and the practice pieces in a neat row, and addressed the surrounding air, as she’d instructed him.
“I am ready, my Queen.”
She hadn’t yet appeared to him. So far, he’d only heard her powerful voice from all around him. He counted himself blessed for this, as the voice remained plenty to inspire terror within every bone of his body. While he decided her appearance would be beyond beautiful, he doubted his own body’s ability to respond to such a creature with any semblance of courage or sense. The voice vibrated through the ground and into his bones. “You have assessed your abilities with this substance?”
He swallowed, wishing for some water for his parched throat. “I have. What would you like me to build?”
Conall must have imagined the hesitation. The Faerie Queen must know what she wanted. Still, he noticed a measurable space of time between his question and her response. “They built the palace long ago, before my time. While it is supremely beautiful, I would prefer a private retreat to reflect my own tastes. I prefer open spaces, delicate ornamentation, but a sense of seclusion and peace. Can you create such a thing with the stone I have provided?”
Conall considered his options and his tools. He might create a space with this delightful stone, with floral shapes and curving lines. Such a light, strong stone would make a skeletal arch above a bower. His mind wandered back to the beautifully planned chaos of the interlocking stones in the druid’s garden, the peaceful fountain in the oak grove. To create his vision, he’d also need living things, flowers, and vines, to complete the atmosphere of a secluded retreat. “May I recruit the help of someone with a talent for growing things?”
“Granted. I shall send someone when you need them. Begin now. I will allow you to return to Ammatán’s home periodically to rest. You will be provided with human food.”
The voice vanished, leaving him breathless with weak knees. He sat abruptly on the ground, his spine tingling from the impact. What had he gotten himself into? What if his creations displeased the Queen?
Could he complete this task? Would he even survive this task?
With a sense of fatalistic urgency, he searched the tools for a piece of the chalk he’d requested. He sketched out five designs on the black stone, each one reminiscent of curling vines and flowering trees. The first would be the simplest, clean lines and gentle curves. The last had fancy curling vines and braided details, something he thought he’d have in both the marble and in the living trees. It incorporated the planned chaotic beauty he had observed in the druid’s garden, back in the human realm, the organic shapes melding into each other with seamless crafting.
The nostalgia of his lost home almost made him crumble int
o tears, but he shoved them down and continued to draw.
He sat up and lifted his arms. His back cracked as he surveyed each of his samples. Would Ammatán help him choose the best one for the Queen? Or should he call for her again, and offer them for her approval?
“Your final design pleases me the most.”
The surprise and the power of the voice made him cringe and cower next to the stone, but the voice disappeared as soon as it had come.
She had the ability to watch him. If she didn’t watch him directly, she must have a creature keeping him under a watchful eye, ready to inform her of anything she needed to know. Valuable information.
After wiping the first four designs from the slab, he planned out the carvings he must complete. He determined how many blocks of the new stone he’d need, with a few extra in case of breakage or mistakes. A larger chisel would be useful, and more abrasive dust. In addition to the tools, he would need non-stone materials. Soft wood, a strong adhesive, and a fine cloth to finish the polishing to a brilliant sheen.
The sheer amount of work before him seemed daunting. Hundreds of hours just in carving the stones, much less sanding and polishing the stones, building the armature, and adding the living elements. Years of work lay before him, in just one being’s personal retreat.
For the retreat of a Faerie Queen, he had little choice in the matter. She had not asked his consent.
He tried to picture what she looked like. Did she stand tall, bigger than life, like a goddess? Or compact like Lainn? Did she have a curvy, voluptuous body like Aoife? What color was her hair? He realized he’d not seen any other Fae except for Ammatán. Did they all have snow-white skin and black hair? Ammatán stood tall with long, lean muscles. His fingernails and teeth looked pointed, giving him an almost feral appearance. His smile, however, warmed Conall’s heart, and he hoped he might be allowed to see him soon.
Always keeping in mind the Queen would see, he drew out the number of marble blocks he would need, and a reasonable draft of the other things he needed. When he finished, he leaned back on his heels and wiped the excess chalk on his Maelblatha, satisfied with his work.
Age of Saints: Druid's Brooch Series: #7 Page 15