“Fair enough. Will this take me home when it is time?”
Ammatán blinked over glistening black eyes. “Do you consider this your home, Conall?”
His throat caught. Had he upset Ammatán with his temerity? “Only if you want me to. You’re the host, and I’m merely your guest.”
Ammatán squeezed his hand, his skin hot and dry. “It’s your home for as long as you wish.”
The raft rose to half his height and drifted away from the roundhouse. Conall wished he might have stayed and wiped the glistening tears from Ammatán’s face, but he mustn’t keep the Queen waiting. With increasing speed, the raft moved along the path, zipping around the occasional bend around trees, bushes, and through the last glade. It drifted gently next to the workspace he’d been in the day before.
Had it only been a day? It had felt like a week since he’d been here last, but still, his sense of time had become useless.
Tales of Faerie always had issues with time. Some travelers came back twenty seasons when they’d only been gone a few nights. In some cases, the opposite held true. Others tales told of hundreds of seasons missing. It seemed no reliable correspondence between the mortal world and Faerie existed, or none Conall understood.
All the supplies he’d requested the day before lay arrayed before him, stacked in precise ranks. He let out a deep sigh and looked at his sketched plans. His first task should be to create the base blocks, those with the least amount of filigreed decoration. That way he could practice his carving skills on the larger curves and twists, gaining skill as he worked. Maybe Ammatán had suggestions for the more delicate artwork as he got closer to those tasks.
Conall wanted to move some of the blocks but grew wary of using his magic to do so. Yesterday had proved the Queen kept surveillance upon him. Would such a show of power be foolish? Or unnecessarily delaying his work?
He tested a small use of power. He tensed himself for contact with the Faerie earth, keeping in mind the madness that almost sucked his soul yesterday when he thrust his will through. This time the pull didn’t feel as disturbing, but he had farther to travel to find the brooch’s magic. It may be the brooch lay too far away to…no, there! He grasped it with a feather’s touch, drawing it to his body. Once he had the whisper of power, he used it to shift a chisel to one side while looking the other way.
Then he waited.
The Queen’s minion may not watch every minute but might notice later if someone had used magic. Conall worked on one block while he waited for any backlash from his magic use.
Conall finished the rough carving of the first block and started on the rough of the second before he tried another sliver of magic. He moved three tools on the bench, the scrape drowned by his chisel on the marble.
By incremental tests, he worked his way to larger and larger uses of magic, finally shifting his fourth block into place with half power, half muscle. Once he’d carved that block, he leaned back on his heels and wiped the stone dust from his face. Even in Faerie, he sweated and stank after so much work. He longed to take a cool dip in the pond at Ammatán’s home.
At the thought of Ammatán, Conall’s hand stopped just before he hammered the chisel. He recalled how the Fae’s snow-white skin looked against his own freckled chest, and sighed. His mouth stretched into a sensual smile, yearning to run his fingers through the Fae’s hair rather than work on the Queen’s creation. Perhaps, if he completed this project to her satisfaction, he’d be permitted to spend eternity with the Fae.
With renewed motivation, Conall bent to his task. Soon, he moved blocks around as needed with no heed to the consequences of his magic use.
With the eighth block, he’d finished the base. As per his design, these eight blocks would rise into delicate arches, merging into four and then one in the center. Each arch started simply at the base and then increased in delicate detail until the top formed a translucent, woven mat of marble, accentuated with vines and summer flowers.
Eight blocks had been a great day’s work, and he grew weary. He put his arms in the air, stretching his back until it cracked. Conall stretched his neck and then twisted his torso to relieve the bunched muscles. He looked around and noticed the raft had drifted back up into the air.
He spoke to the air, presuming his guardian listened. “Does this mean it’s time to go to Ammatán’s roundhouse?”
The rafted bobbed a few times and then moved right next to him. It nudged him several times until he laughed. “Right! Right. Time to go.”
Conall arranged his tools neatly on the workbench and cast a glance over the space, satisfied that all remained in order. Then he climbed onto the raft. He’d barely sat before it sped off, almost dislodging him from his perch. He gripped the edge as it wended through the path, dodging trees and bushes once again.
In a short time, the raft came to an abrupt stop at Ammatán’s roundhouse, almost making Conall flip off when it halted. With difficulty, he pried his fingers from the wood on the edge and staggered off. When Ammatán emerged from his home, he watched for a moment and then laughed.
“It’s not funny! That thing tried to kill me!”
Visibly trying to control his mirth, Ammatán put a hand on Conall’s shoulder to steady him and lead him inside. “I shall gentle the magic to ensure a reasonable speed, my dear. Will that make up for my laughter?”
“Barely.” Conall sat gratefully on the bench once inside, taking a long drink from the waterskin. “Also, can I bring this tomorrow? My throat is parched with stone dust. Some fruit or bread would be helpful since I’ll be there so long each day.”
Ammatán raised his eyebrows and handed him a yellow fruit. “Anything else you should require, my lord?”
Conall grinned. “If I think of anything, I’ll let you know.” He glanced around. “Where’s Lainn?”
“She went off after what she calls festiwings. I think she’s trying to learn their song.”
Conall smiled, remembering the bees in the oak grove. At least Lainn had found something to learn. “Are you hungry? I’m starved. Shall I make soup?”
The Fae nodded and turned to his raven, resting on his perch. “Sawchaill, do fetch Lainn.”
The raven cawed and shook his head.
Ammatán rolled his eyes. “Very well. If you would please invite the young human to return, I would be most grateful.”
The bird cocked his head and then flew away as Ammatán smiled. “That bird gets more obstreperous every day, but I’d be lost without him.”
“How long has he been your friend?”
The smile deepened, showing his teeth. “When I was a young Fae. They give every noble child a chance to impress a raven. Long ago, each raven had been fully sentient, able to talk and teach the child about magic and etiquette within the Fae court. However, their abilities have declined as the Fae faded from the human world.”
“Their abilities? What about their intellect?”
Ammatán shrugged. “Who can tell? Without the ability to speak with mouth or mind, we can only guess how much they understand. They speak their own language, but neither Fae nor humans understand it well. We get the essentials.”
Conall considered Ammatán’s pantry and decided fish would be a welcome respite. He’d noticed several dried pike and selected one. He grabbed several turnips, an onion, and some herbs for a soup. “Why would the Fae fading from my world make the ravens forget how to speak?”
With a shrug, Ammatán took a drink. “No one ever discovered why. Our greatest scholars studied it, crafting complex spells to discover the cause, as we love our ravens. We even stooped to asking human druids for their opinions, as much good as that did.” Ammatán shuddered as if repulsed by the idea.
Conall filled the bronze pot with water and set it on the hearth. "Did it happen all at once? Like a magic curse?”
Ammatán shook his head with a wistful glance at Sawchaill’s empty perch. “No, the ability to speak just faded away. Each generation became less vocal, less able to form
words.”
The raven swooped through the door and landed on his perch just as Lainn said, from the doorway, “What if they could write?”
Both Ammatán and Conall stared at her. The Fae asked, “What is ‘write’?”
“Writing is marks made to represent words. The monks do it.”
Conall chopped parsley and thyme as he asked, “How can that help? He has no fingers to hold a quill. Besides, I don’t know how to write. Do you?”
She shrugged, grabbing half of his remaining nuts. “No, but many humans do. Ammatán might find someone who knows, have him teach both the Fae and the ravens, and then they could communicate more fully. Ravens can scratch the words on a slate with their talons.”
Ammatán paced around the central hearth, his hands fluttering in agitation. “I don’t understand how marks can represent words. You cannot draw sound.”
Conall wiped away bits of herb and took one of Ammatán’s hands in his own to calm him. “No, she’s right. My father knew how to write. He’d known a monk who taught him some words.”
Ammatán’s face flashed a series of emotions, from incredulity to anger to stubbornness. “It can’t be that simple. The greatest powers of Fae didn’t discover a solution. How could one human child have such power?”
Lainn shook her head, taking Ammatán’s other hand. “I didn’t invent writing. I simply suggested it. This isn’t power; this is knowledge.”
He ripped both his hands from their grips and stalked outside, muttering to himself. They glanced at Sawchaill, but the raven slept, his beak tucked under one wing. Lainn walked to the bird and laid a gentle hand on his back, a pensive look in her eyes. “What if someone taught him to write, Conall?”
“He’s smart enough to argue with us. But neither of us can write.”
“I asked Gemmán once about writing, and he almost bit my head off. He said no self-respecting druid would commit the sacred mysteries to such a medium, exposing the risk of the uninitiated discovering them.”
Conall shrugged as he chopped turnips to add to the soup. “The point is moot, then. We can’t teach the raven what we don’t know ourselves.”
Lainn didn’t answer at first, caressing the soft black feathers. She looked up after a few moments. “We might train him to communicate better. Teach him set responses that meant set words. Just because we don’t know what drawings mean what sounds to the monks, doesn’t mean we can’t make up our own.”
He paced as Ammatán had just a few minutes before. “How would that work, Lainn? You mentioned you didn’t invent writing. Isn’t that exactly what you’re proposing now?”
“I don’t know, Conall! I don’t know. I think we should try, that’s all.”
Chapter 13
When Ammatán returned, he remained quiet. No amount of coaxing from Lainn would get him to speak. When Conall sat beside him and tried to hold his hand, he pulled away. Conall ladled soup into a bowl for him, but the Fae ate with the minimum of movement.
After a long time of awkward silence, Lainn took Sawchaill outside, leaving Ammatán and Conall alone. This time, when he fumbled for the Fae’s hand, Ammatán did not pull away. Instead, he squeezed Conall’s hand without looking up.
Using his free hand, Conall tried to move Ammatán’s face up to gaze into his eyes. When the Fae relented, his eyes glistened with suppressed emotion, and his jaw twitched as he clenched his teeth.
“Ammatán, what did I say to upset you? Whatever I said, I apologize.”
The Fae took a deep breath and swallowed several times. “You didn’t upset me, Conall. Lainn didn’t upset me, either, but her ideas did.”
“But she just suggested teaching the ravens to write. I don’t understand what’s so upsetting about her idea.”
With another sigh, Ammatán turned on the bench. Conall also turned and took both of Ammatán’s hands in his. “I must tell you of the Fae, Conall. Fae are slow to change. What Lainn proposed is an enormous shift in a long-standing belief, a paradigm the Fae accept as a final truth. Such things do not change so easily.”
“Do you think her idea is dangerous?”
The Fae shook his head and cast down his gaze. “I’m not certain. I must think about the implications. Her mind is quick as lightning. This makes sense for humans, as their lives are so ephemeral, but Fae are slower, more deliberate in their considerations and actions. As much as I hate to admit Fae have a failing, it is their entrenchment in their ancient ways.”
“Haven’t those ancient ways served you well in the past?”
“In some ways, yes. In some ways, no.”
Ammatán stared at the fire crackling in the hearth. When he turned back to look into Conall’s eyes, his flat black eyes glittered. “This is not something we can settle now. You’re finished with your work for the day, and the only rest I’ve offered you is conflict and philosophy. Can we not spend the rest of your time in a more pleasant activity?”
Conall gave him a shy smile and blushed. Ammatán cupped both his hands under Conall’s jaw and drew him in for an unutterably sweet, slow kiss. His lips tingled with the magic of the moment, and Conall wanted this kiss to last for days. The Fae’s tongue explored his mouth with mounting frenzy, and he responded in kind. Soon they clutched each other in frenetic need.
Ammatán stood, drawing Conall to his feet. Conall’s entire body vibrated with desire and anticipation. The Fae led the human to his sleeping alcove. While they stood next to the cot, the Fae ran his hands up under Conall’s Maelblatha, drawing it over his head with gentle movement. By the time Conall had worked free of the garment, Ammatán also stood naked, his white skin glowing in the dim light.
Bumps formed all over Conall’s skin, despite the warm comfort of the roundhouse, as Ammatán drew one fingertip down the center of his chest, circled first one nipple, and then the other. He bent to kiss the left nipple, making Conall catch his breath.
Ammatán nuzzled Conall’s neck, pushing until he lay on the cot, lying next to him propped on one elbow. The Fae gazed into Conall’s eyes with a half-smile on his lips. “What would you like me to do, my dear? What is your desire?”
Conall hadn’t stuttered since he’d arrive in Fae, but now his tongue tied with embarrassment and trepidation. “I…I don’t know what…I’ve never done this.”
Ammatán raised his brows. “Not even with a human woman? Don’t men couple any longer in your world?”
Conall blushed harder, certain his own inexperience would be repulsive to the Fae. “They do, but I haven’t. There was a girl…but I didn’t want her. She wanted me, but I wouldn’t—”
“Shh, it matters not. I shall teach you what I’ve learned, and we can find out new things together.”
* * *
When Conall woke, Ammatán still lay beside him, his arm curled around Conall’s waist. Tenderly, he caressed the Fae’s arm, the skin hairless and velvet soft. While he still slept, the Fae’s mouth curled in an endearing half-smile.
Every muscle in his body ached, and Conall felt certain he would regret the sometimes acrobatic and body-twisting antics of the night as he worked with the stones today. Still, he would not have changed a thing. Now he’d become Ammatán’s, and Ammatán had become his. He now glimpsed the love that his mother and father had shared, and realized without a doubt she hadn’t shared such a bond with Sétna.
Thoughts of his father brought him back to Adhna’s words and the notion that perhaps his father still lived somewhere. Would his mother leave Sétna if Conall brought Fíngin back to her? Would they become the family they’d once been?
Ammatán stretched with a sensual groan and a crack of his back. With a grin, Conall caressed his side, moving his hand around to the Fae’s buttocks. Ammatán, his eyes still closed, grinned and brought his arms down around Conall’s neck, pulling him in for a slow kiss. “Have you rested well, lover?”
Ammatán’s arms continued down Conall’s back, tickling him until he squirmed. “I’m uncertain we should call it rest, but I slept,
yes. Stop that! It tickles.”
His grin widening, Ammatán opened his eyes. “Are you certain you wish me to stop? You told me not to last night.” His hands had now moved to Conall’s groin area, waking another part of him.
Now Conall closed his own eyes and moaned, inviting Ammatán to do whatever he wanted.
When they were both panting and covered with sweat, Ammatán sat back. “For a human, you have a great deal of stamina, Conall. But I imagine you must need to eat and drink before your work, so I shall give you a respite.”
As Conall prepared for the day, groaning now and then as he bent to get dressed, he remembered his idea. “Ammatán? Did you say you knew my father?”
Ammatán straightened the cot, as their night had left it in considerable disarray. “I said I know of him, yes.”
“Do you think he might be alive still?”
Ammatán froze. Conall wished he’d asked the question when he could see the Fae’s face.
“I’m not certain, Conall.”
“But don’t you see what this means? If he’s still alive, I might find him! I might bring him back to mother.”
The Fae turned slowly, an inscrutable expression on his face. His black eyes appeared bottomless. “Your mother?”
“Yes, Ligach. She married this other man, Sétna, but she can’t love him. If I found Father and got them back together…”
Conall’s voice faded as he realized Ammatán’s expression had darkened. The scowl frightened Conall, a fear that sank to his stomach and his bowels.
In a flat, even voice, the Fae said, “Ligach isn’t…you shouldn’t try to find Fíngin, and you shouldn’t bring him back to Ligach.”
He shouldn’t try to find Fíngin. Which meant the Fae believed him to be alive somewhere. Otherwise, he’d say Conall couldn’t find Fíngin. Hope sprung within his heart.
“Promise me, Conall. Promise me you’ll not leave to search for him.” Ammatán’s voice remained flat with a hint of anger.
Conall nodded slowly. “I have a duty to your Queen, and I must finish that before I can entertain any further adventures.”
Age of Saints: Druid's Brooch Series: #7 Page 17