“Aye,” she agrees. “You said that the last time you visited. I stayed up half the night listening to that one’s stories.” She tilts her head toward Keiran, who looks surprised to be remembered. “He’s aged well, hasn’t he?”
“I like to think so.” It slips out before I can stop myself and I wince, praying I don’t sound like a love-struck idiot.
She laughs, but there isn’t much humor in it. “I’m surprised you look so well. I thought such a harbinger would reflect the state of the lands he wanders. What do you want?”
Thank the Goddess Armel steps forward to speak. Everything about me seems to set Atla on edge.
“Please,” Armel says with a charming smile. “Is there room in the hall?”
“There might be,” she says slowly.
“Would your elders allow us to offer tribute in exchange for such hospitality?” Cybel asks.
Atla’s eyes light up and she wets her lips, holding herself tighter to contain her eagerness. “I suppose they might. What hospitality would you be expecting?”
“Supper, if it wouldn’t be a burden,” Keiran says. “And two rooms for tonight alone. We’re used to cramped quarters.”
She looks back at me. Her gaze is cool when she asks, “Your poet stayed with you last time. Will it be the same arrangement?”
“How do you remember that?” Keiran asks, too surprised to censor himself. “The last time we passed through here was—”
“A little over a century ago,” the woman finishes for him. “I know. I was a girl then. You lot tend to make an impression, especially to those who wish to avoid war. Now, if you’ll follow me, I can walk you there.”
“Thank you,” I blurt out. She nods and turns to leave, so I have to say the rest quickly. “For helping us now. And for remembering us from back then.”
Her steps slow and the basket lowers. “It’s hard to forget the Horned King and his Wild Hunt,” she says. “Harder when the stories woven about you were repeated night after night, until they became our own. To think, the seidhr has returned to us after all this time.” She glances over her shoulder toward Keiran, the first sign of slight interest she’s shown at all. “I would guess you’ve gathered more tales in your absence, poet?”
He nods. “I have a few.”
“Well then, you’d better come along so you can tell them tonight.”
As she sets off down the road, I nudge Keiran’s shoulder with mine and whisper, “Glad she likes one of us.”
He rolls his eyes
and nudges me back. “For my stories, seidhr. That’s all.”
I doubt it. Keiran has always stood out from us. His kindness, his humanity itself, makes him the heart of our Hunt. Those listening to stories about us may remember the plots, but more than anything, they remember the man reciting them. Keiran’s the reason fae like Atla remember us at all.
We follow her down the dirty road, past worn cottages. The livestock and poultry we can see are well cared for, but too few in number for a settlement of this size. The mead hall stands in the center of the village, with a few rundown shops surrounding it. The shops are closed, so resupplying will have to wait until morning. At least Keiran will get his way. We dismount from the horses with a chorus of soft groans and complaints. Drest, stretching in contorted poses to ease the pain in his hips, hands his reins over to Armel. He’ll find the stables and hopefully we can get the grooming finished before any chance for supper has passed.
It’s a surprise when two young girls come out of the mead hall and hold out their hands. Atla rests a hand on the oldest’s shoulder. “My daughters,” she explains. “They’re avid riders and can remove your tack faster than most.”
“Then their help is very welcome,” Cybel states and hands over his reins to the younger girl. She accepts it with a gap-toothed smile and reaches shyly for Armel’s. He hands it off, but not before he performs a trick that makes a coin appear near her ear. He hands it to her, and another to her sister, who takes the other three horses. Together, the girls lead them off into the rapidly darkening shadows. We follow Atla inside, where light and warmth and the delicious scent of roasting meat awaits us.
Almost the entire village appears to be here, yet the hall remains spacious. The haze of smoke from the cooking fires hangs in the peak of the ceiling, slowly drifting out through the openings. Benches and tables stand on the outer edges, separate from the central space by the hewn pillars holding up the roof. Several people greet Atla as she walks toward the main fire. They give us wary glances as we pass, but no one rises or makes any disparaging remarks. We may not be completely welcome here, but at least we aren’t actively opposed.
“Awfully quiet,” I mutter to Cybel.
“Agreed.” He scans the space, taking in the faces of the villagers and assessing them for any sign of a threat. Moments like this I remember who trained Keiran to be ever vigilant.
Drest slows his pace, allowing Keiran and Armel to take the lead, and hangs back with us. “Where are all the youth?” he asks quietly.
Until he says it, I don’t realize that’s the missing piece. The hall is filled with Sluagh, some working to put away the day’s wool work, others tending the fires and the cooking. Children run about freely, playing with dogs or each other as they dart around the pillars. The adults are either well into middle age or well beyond. That central group, the young adults like me and Keiran, aren’t present. I tuck that realization away until I can talk about it with Keiran.
The night proceeds normally despite this oddity and the tension brought on by our visit. We’re grudgingly introduced to the other villagers by Atla and do our best to remember names and faces. We fail miserably, but no one minds once we make our offer of tribute to the elders. After that, we’re treated a little better. We’re provided food and drink. Keiran offers to tell stories while everyone eats, but they urge him to sit down instead. He’ll start his recitations after he’s had his meal. I scoot over on the bench to make room for him and relax when his leg presses against mine, warm and solid.
It’s a simple dinner of stewed mutton, but we’re allowed to share the closing treat of roasted apples. Keiran steals the last chunk of apple from my plate, licking the caramelized honey off his fingers with a grunt of contentment that makes my pulse skip.