Page 124 of First Light
At first the passage from the dim light outside the cabin to the darkness inside was jarring, but within a few seconds, Carys’s eyes adjusted to the warm glow of the fire in the center of the room. There was a round stone fireplace with a large open hearth, slate grey and hung with pots, spoons, and clay bowls that dangled from hooks pressed into the mortar between the rocks.
Something that smelled delicious was bubbling from a pot hanging over the fire, and a woman with dark curling hair was bent over, stirring it.
“You’re cold.” The woman stood and turned, a warm smile resting on her face.
She was middle-aged and matronly, a homely apron covering her woven green dress. She wore a kind of bandanna in her hair that covered her ears and held back the dark curls that fell to the middle of her back. Her hands appeared rough and callused from work.
Hardly the powerful fae that Carys had been expecting, but that was likely the point.
“Can I get you a bowl of stew?” the woman asked. “I prepared it this morning.”
“No.” She didn’t even think of thanking her or taking food from a fae. “You are kind to offer it, but no.”
The woman’s dark eyes glittered. “You smell of the sun and redwood trees and green and growing things, human.”
“You know redwood trees?”
“Most nêrys ddraig smell of smoke and bronze and blood.” The woman turned back to the pot on the hearth. “You’re not what I expected.”
“You’re not what I expected either.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” The woman swung the arm holding the pot away from the fire and rested on the bench placed in front of the hearth. She motioned to the stool across from her. “Sit if you would like. Your feet are sore.”
Did this count as accepting hospitality? It probably didn’t matter because Carys felt her feet move to the stool, almost against her will. She was exhausted and afraid.
“Your friend took something of mine.”
Carys looked to the door, but she couldn’t seem to find it in the shadows of the cottage. “He borrowed a walking stick to help him on the path.”
“Hmm.” The woman pursed her full, rosy lips. “Perhaps he will explain that to Orick.”
Carys felt the same floating sensation in her head that she remembered from the pub in Scotland when she sat across from Dru and reached over to pinch her wrist to keep her mind clear. The sharp pain did the trick, and the floating sensation went away.
The woman caught the motion, and her dark eyebrows went up. “You don’t trust me, but you come to ask me for a favor.”
Carys sat across from the woman. “What can I call you?”
The fae woman smiled. “You may call me Crow Mother, which is the name I use on this mountain. Or you can call me Branwen, a name beloved by your people.”
“Is Branwen your name?”
“Of course it isn’t.” Branwen leaned forward. “But you knew that already. What can I call you?”
“Nêrys works.” Nêrys was a title, not her name. That was a safe option to give the fae.
“But your name is Carys, and you’re the Brightkin of Seren.”
Carys racked her brain, trying to figure out how to reply. “Seren was my sister.”
“Sheis. She’s only in the underworld, dear.” Branwen kicked out her feet. “It’s not that bad a place. No dragons though. I’m sure that’s driving you crazy. Drivinghercrazy.” The woman waved a hand. “I have difficulty telling the two of you apart, which is interesting.”
Was it?
Carys thought about how to proceed. “Have you met my dragon?” Questions seemed to be a safe bet as long as they were polite. It never paid to be rude to the fae. “Seren’s dragon?”
“Cadell of Eryri?” A smile curved the corner of her lips. “Son of Ffion the White? Brother of Emyr the Great? I know your dragon, Nêrys. Doyouknow him?”
Carys answered carefully. “I am getting to know him.”