Chapter 11 #2
She’s a short unseelie faery that reminds me of the hag, but less unnerving. Her nails are clipped a short, practical length. The simple black frock she wears is pristine, each stitch the same length and every seam cleanly pressed. I think she’s a hob, but I figure it would be rude to ask.
The hob regards me with a disgruntled frown.
“I see you’ve brought someone with you. Your things, madam.
” She holds out her hands with joints as loud as cracking twigs.
Her dull brown hair is tied back in a bun, exposing her large, pointed ears.
They’re not elegant like Desmond’s. No, more like wood ear fungus than flesh.
I look at Desmond for a prompt. Do I insist that I carry my own things? Hand them over and reduce my only defenses to my fists?
“Refusing would be an insult,” he says. “Even if Nog operates with a paucity of enthusiasm.”
Nog harrumphs. I reluctantly hand over my pack, bow sling, and scabbard. “There’s a lot of delicate things in—”
“Don’t insult me, human,” she growls before trudging off on bare, hairy feet.
“She’s. . .” I struggle to think of a comment. “Pleasant.”
“Indeed.” He strides into the foyer, his shoulders relaxing. “Did you really think we were camping in a cave?”
“This is still a cave,” I retort. But to be honest, the snug grandeur of this foyer can barely be spoken of in the same sentence as “cave.” No, this is far closer to what I’ve always thought a castle might look like.
Metal candelabras as tall as I am stand on either side of the doorway, their dozen candles bathing the room in warm light. A walnut bookshelf boasts so many books that there isn’t an inch to spare, and a hearth crackles with a low fire.
My footfalls are silent on the elk pelts crisscrossing the floor. Tapestries embroidered with metallic thread hang from the stone brick walls, and words are painted in blood-red between two of them.
They who betray shall be hanged.
What a heartwarming welcome.
Bioluminescent mushrooms speckle pots lined against the walls. Desmond nods at them. “Don’t eat those. Maeve grows them for poisons.”
“Dez? You back?” a man hollers from a room past the archway.
Desmond smiles as another fae strolls into the foyer.
He’s a few inches shorter than Desmond, and his black hair is perfectly styled into a quiff that shows his pointed ears.
He’s clean-shaven, but judging from the impeccable complexion of his olive-toned skin, he doesn’t grow much facial hair, anyway.
I think Evie would swoon at the sight of him.
His tunic is a blue so dark that it would look black when shadowed. It hugs his lean frame and is cinched by a belt holding numerous small satchels. Embroidered patches adorn the upper arms of the tunic, rows of tiny four-point stars, and a few illustrated larger ones.
The fae male claps Desmond on the back with a genial grin. The two of them make an odd pair: this fae who doesn’t have a scruff or hair out of place, and Desmond, with wild brown curls and a shadow of afternoon stubble.
“And who is this?” the fae asks. He shakes my hand with so much enthusiasm that my whole arm waves, which is impressive considering how slippery his leather glove is. “I think I’m getting the hang of this human hand-shaking ritual, don’t you? It’s a rather handy skill.”
Desmond reacts with a raised brow. “My brief respite from your puns will be sorely missed.” To me, he says, “It doesn’t matter if you ignore him. He’s persistent.”
“I’m Cyn.” I examine him for weapons when he finally lets go. A single dagger is strapped to his belt.
“Finnian, son of Alain. At your service.” He bows to me. “Bold name.” His gaze flicks to the crescent tattoo, then to the one on Desmond’s wrist.
“She’s joining the crew,” Desmond answers.
“Ah. To help us with our little problem?” Mischief and mirth dance in Finnian’s umber eyes.
“We’ll see.” Desmond studies me as if I’m a puzzle he intends to solve. “If she’s not strong enough now, I’ll get her there.”
I snort. “You might as well tell me what your ‘little’ problem is.”
Desmond smirks. “We’ll discuss it after I evaluate you.”
My heart skips a beat. I wonder what he’ll ask me to do to prove my worth here, and the anticipatory thrill inside me is impossible to quiet. “Evaluate me how?”
He’s infuriatingly silent as he leads me into the hall. We pass several doors that Desmond disregards, and I notice they have brass knobs instead of iron. Then we enter an enormous kitchen.
The ceiling is painted with an intricate damask pattern, and two wax candle chandeliers light the room.
Violet gemstones hang off of the chandeliers’ green metal arms like a grapevine.
Pots, pans, and serving trays dangle from racks hung around it.
Yet what stuns me into breaking my stride are the dark walnut cabinets that cover two of the walls, enough storage to feed Nettlerock through the winter.
A delicious, herby scent wafts from a pot over the hearth. Beside it is a clay wood-fired oven, and the aroma of freshly baked bread lingers.
An orc sits on the butcher’s block counter, swinging her legs as she munches on an apple. Her outfit is the same color as Finnian’s, but the tunic is longer and sewn to fit her boxy curves. Only a few stars decorate her upper sleeve. “Who’re you?” she asks.
“Cyn,” I answer, then hold my fist to my heart. It’s an orcish gesture for respect that I learned from Seb, often used as a greeting.
She mirrors the gesture. “Maeve.” Her hair is tawny, and her skin is paler than most orcs, a light pear-green with freckles across her cheeks. What strikes me the most are her lavender eyes. “There’s cake in the icebox,” she says. “Eat some. A strong breeze would be enough to knock you over.”
Orcs favor robustness amongst themselves.
It could be discerned as gluttony, but it really has to do with bulkier frames being advantageous in brawling.
Every few decades, there’s a dispute between their clans in the west. The rumors that travel to Nettlerock say they’ll drink and sing with their enemies on full moons, only to wage battle again in the morning.
“I baked it myself. Baking is a lot like mixing poisons,” she says. “And explosives.”