“So you don’t have any magic at all?” she asked.
“I’m a druid. I suppose technically I have some magic, but I’m just learning. I don’t really know what it does or how to use it. So far all I can do is make pretty rocks.”
“Can I see?”
“Sure. I’ll need a regular rock to start with.”
“I’ll get one!” she squealed and thundered through the front door into the garden, completely ignoring Eilidh.
Munro stood and turned back to Eilidh with a smile. “She’s cute,” he said.
“Quinton, you mustn’t.”
“Mustn’t what? What’s wrong?” A shadow passed over his face, but he quickly brightened again when the girl returned.
She handed him a rock, which was small, flat, and half-covered in mud. “This felt like a good one.”
Munro sat cross-legged on the ground, and the faerie child did the same. They faced each other with serious expressions. Eilidh stepped forward, her mind spinning with warnings, but unable to speak.
Oron’s voice came from behind her. “Let’s just see what happens,” he said. When Eilidh started to protest, he shushed her. “Fluranach is a talented child. I’m curious to see what she makes of your druid. He certainly has no ill intention. I can see that much.”
Eilidh relaxed. She could see it too, but she couldn’t help but worry. Even though the azuri fae seemed to be more fertile than their kingdom counterparts, she couldn’t shake the deep-seated instinct to protect the girl. Fae children were so valuable to their race.
Munro was busy scraping mud off the rock, careless of where the bits fell. He polished the last of it off with the bottom edge of his shirt. “There we go. That works.” He turned the rock in his hand, looking at it from all angles.
“What’re you going to do?” the child asked.
“Patience, my little flower.” He frowned as he contemplated the rock. “Maybe it would help if you held my hand.”
“Okay,” she said, looking serious. She put her tiny hand in his large powerful one. “Ooh!” she exclaimed.
Eilidh stepped forward, but Oron stopped her with a touch of his hand on her shoulder. “Wait.”
A blue ribbon of light formed around Munro and Fluranach’s hands, flowing between them and into his other hand. He closed the fist that held the rock and shut his eyes. The pair sat like that for almost an hour, neither flagging, as though unaware of the passing time or that they were closely watched. When Munro opened his eyes, he opened his hand as well.
Eilidh and Oron stepped forward to peer into Munro’s palm. In it nestled a stone rose, petals so delicate they looked like paper. The flat grey had taken on the faintest blush. Fluranach’s large eyes grew wide with wonder. “It’s so pretty,” she said.
Munro handed it to her. “For you.”
She glanced up and saw her grandfather, and her eyes lit up.
“Look, Grandfather! Look! Isn’t it beautiful? My new friend Quinton Munro made it for me. He’s a druid, you know. He has special magic.” She turned and looked up at Munro, who had risen. “Where did you come from anyway?”
“Perth,” he said.
“I mean why are you in Grandfather’s house?”
Oron answered, “He is our honoured guest, Fluranach.”
She nodded, then asked, “May I keep it?”
Oron looked at the rose without touching it. “It is an object of power, Fluranach. It should be treated reverently. You may meditate with it during your third-hour contemplations.”
“Yes, Grandfather.”
“And you should thank your new friend for sharing his magic with you.” Oron smiled at Munro, giving his own subtle nod of thanks.
Fluranach grinned and took Munro’s hand, tugging it to encourage him to bend down. When he complied, she whispered in his ear, “Thank you.”
He leaned over and whispered back, “You’re very welcome.”
“Now off to your studies, child, before your elder sister discovers that you’ve wandered off when you should be practising your runes.”
She clambered off with a wave for Munro.
“When I was her age,” Munro said to Eilidh, “I was chasing frogs.”
Oron chuckled. “When I was
your
age, I was chasing frogs. Come. We have things to discuss.”
The three of them went outside to chat in a garden. The cold air bit, and Munro wished he’d brought more than just a jacket. He would have liked gloves, a scarf, maybe a woolly hat. Neither faerie seemed aware of the hard chill on the wind. He listened as Eilidh and Oron spoke. She hadn’t yet filled Munro in on what happened in the Otherworld, but he could piece some things together based on what the two of them said. Besides, they talked about royalty and politics, and although he was vaguely interested, it reminded him of the feeling he got when hearing about the latest South American coup or protests on some distant continent. Interesting, but only to a point.
What he really wanted to know was how Eilidh felt. Their bond let him sense some things, flashes of emotion from time to time, but it didn’t tell him what he wanted, and it never reassured him. In the past six months, she’d lived here, studying and working, and he came when his schedule would allow. They’d grown closer, but they also spent a lot of their time working. Oron was so eager to probe and test the bonding magic that it left him and Eilidh with little time to do normal things. Of course, how normal could they be?
One thing he’d noticed the last time they studied their bond was that he could sense her magic. He didn’t know how to put words to it beyond that it felt ancient. It spoke to a part of him he wasn’t aware of before. If he was honest, it scared him a little, seeming like an endless black ocean full of unknown perils, of monsters and storms. He hadn’t told her, because he wanted some time to chew on his thoughts.
Munro shook himself, focusing on Eilidh and Oron. He’d missed a bit of their conversation, but then realised they hadn’t gotten far. They were talking about someone called Queen Cadhla wanting Eilidh to act as an ambassador and Oron not wanting her to.
“Oron,” Eilidh said. “I can’t refuse.”
The older faerie replied with a snort. “Of course you can.”
“Why would I? Is the Higher Conclave not willing to speak with the kingdom?”
“Many are distrustful, especially those who have never been to the Halls of Mist. My children and grandchildren were born on this island.”
“Will there be no going home for any of you?”
“Home,” Oron said. “I can smell the Otherworld on you.” He did that thing Munro noticed faeries did a lot: sat without saying much. Munro couldn’t tell if they were thinking, or just sitting. He didn’t mind. His dad had been a quiet thinker too, and silence never bothered Munro. But it was cold out, and eventually he’d have to go get warm, or he’d freeze his arse off on this stone bench. “We had always believed the source of our power was in the Halls of Mist,” Oron finally said.
“Isn’t it?” Eilidh asked, surprised.
Instead of responding to her question, Oron went on, “If we submit, we would always be kept on a leash. Centuries of suspicion are not easily overcome. It certainly won’t happen quickly. The azuri conclave has wondered if there is any reason to subject ourselves to the queen’s will.”
“Why not be independent?” Munro interrupted. “If that’s what most of you want. Who needs the queen anyway? She sounds like a pain in the arse, making all these demands that you bend a knee.” Both faeries stopped and stared at him. “You told me yourself that you lot are pretty powerful. There’s loads of you here too. It’s not like she could
make
you do anything.”
“The kingdom should be healed, not cleaved even further. What you are suggesting is unthinkable.”
Munro could sense the tension in Eilidh’s voice with more than just his ears. “Doesn’t sound to me like you azuri could be any more
cleaved
than you already are. Look, they kicked you out. I’m not saying start a war. But you told me all the kingdoms join up at this Halls of Mist place, right?”
Oron nodded but didn’t speak. He seemed fascinated, but Munro couldn’t tell if it was in a “this is a good idea” sort of way, or more like, “wow, who knew humans could talk.”
“Build your own gateway,” Munro said. “Make an azuri kingdom. You seem like you’d make a decent enough king, Oron. Or you could be president or something. Let people vote on things rather than bowing and obeying and crap.”
The old faerie stood and smiled, not even acknowledging the suggestion. “This afternoon I’m going to examine the talisman you created for Fluranach. I’d like to observe another creation ritual, should you perform one.”
Eilidh spoke up, “Of course he will. Any time you wish.”
Oron glanced at her, his face unreadable, but then went on in a different vein, “Eilidh, we are half way through your first year of training. It’s time to consider your house.” Eilidh looked puzzled, but Oron said, “It will wait until your druid returns to his city, but it’s time to think about it.”
Munro glanced at Eilidh. He couldn’t help but wonder again what kind of plans she had. He supposed it wasn’t too bad, her being in Skye with him in Perth. It wasn’t the easiest drive, but he couldn’t ask her
not
to move here. It would mean spending a lot of time apart, but they needed to take their time, and cities made her uneasy, even a small and sedate city like Perth.
Oron said, “If I’m not mistaken, my granddaughter Alyssa has prepared a meal. I suggest you eat while the food is hot and before your druid freezes.” He nodded to them both and walked toward the house.
As soon as he was out of earshot, Munro said, “So what do you need to talk about?”
“There is much I need to tell you,” she said. “But not here. Let’s go into the human settlements.”
In all the trips he’d made to Skye, they’d spent their time in the company of faeries, never venturing outside the colony’s village. “Sure, we can head over to Portree after we eat. See what there is to see. Or we can go now. I can tell you have a lot on your mind.”
“We’ll eat, then go,” she said. “It would be rude to refuse the meal. You should have told me you were cold.”
Munro grinned and stood. “I thought you could read my mind.”
Eilidh wandered into one of the shops in Portree. She needed new clothes, and she didn’t like using illusions to hide the wear in the ones she had. Especially when she never knew what lessons Oron would have her do that would require her to drop all illusions and focus her mind on something else. Her visit to the queen made her realise how ragged her human clothing had become. When she’d lived in exile on the streets of Perth, she hadn’t worried about what she wore. Now she missed proper fae clothing and felt discontent with having to make do with rags. With a sigh, she chose a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and a baggy, hooded sweatshirt. She planned to steal the clothes, especially since she’d gotten better at making herself nearly invisible, or invisible enough to humans. It wasn’t so much that they couldn’t see her, as they didn’t
notice
her.
When she told Munro what she intended, he whispered, “Jesus, Eilidh. I’m a cop. I’m not letting you steal things.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll be in and out before they know something is missing. I’ve done it a hundred times.” Granted, it had never been this easy. Before, she’d relied on her speed and natural abilities. Now that she had a little training, it was simple to fool the human eye.
“Well, you aren’t doing it again.” His voice grew hard, and she realised he wasn’t playing. She felt his thoughts grow rigid.
She understood and felt suddenly guilty because of all the things she’d taken during her quarter century of exile. She’d lived on the streets of Perth, stealing and killing rabbits or sheep in the countryside to eat, sleeping in abandoned buildings or sometimes isolated corners of city parks. Gaining human employment wasn’t an option, and she didn’t entirely understand the monetary system humans used. In the fae kingdoms, they traded precious metals, gems, talismans and supplies. She suddenly wondered how the faeries here on Skye paid for things. Did they engage in commerce? It would be difficult to feed and clothe several hundred faeries without working out some kind of trade, but she didn’t know how they managed.
Humans counted hours, sold time, and exchanged paper to tally what was owed. It seemed a cruel, distrustful system. She would never have considered stealing from one of the fae, but when taking from humans what she needed to live, she hadn’t counted it as theft, only survival. But seeing the look in Munro’s eyes as he waited for her to promise she would not take anything without paying, shame burned within her.
“I don’t have money,” she said.
“I’ve got it,” he told her. She watched with fascination as Munro produced a piece of plastic, which he called “a credit card,” and took it to the merchant.
He came back with her new clothing in a plastic bag and handed it to her. As they walked outside, she said, “You show him your card, and he gives you items in exchange?”