As soon as we made the decision to venture towards the cabin, the floor moved too quickly without either of us taking a single step. Past the wooden fence and the quaint vegetable garden, and in front of a door with a wreath made of hawthorn—to ward away evil spirits.
I lifted my hand to knock, but the door opened before my fist made contact with the wood.
I always found myself at a loss when confronted with elder Fae, as most Sídhe were immortal or at least long-lived, and chose their own appearances. Even the ancient ones did not choose grey hair and wrinkles, unless they had a good reason to.
Her hair was the grey of shale, to her ankles, and her eyes were wide and endlessly dark. The elderly Fae was Sídhe, though I could not say which kind. She regarded us with an abstract amusement as she lifted a pipe to her pinched lips and sucked down a lungful of sweet smoke.
“Lost, are ye?” Her accent was thick enough to tell me just how far we were from the Night Court. “The Court of Teeth lives on, even if the Spring Court is determined to put them to bed. It seems you have run afoul of the Hag.”
“We have her fingers,” I told her, though I didn’t know why.
She nodded, as if she had expected the answer. Waving away smoke, she gestured to her doorway. “Come in, come in, “ She urged. “You’ll let the warmth out.”
Cormac and I exchanged glances, but followed her inside.
Every surface of the cottage was covered in a pile of books or papers, and on top of that, a discarded plate or bowl filled with rotting food. A cauldron sat in the hearth, empty.
The elderly Fae noted my interest in the fat black pot. “He can’t have it back.” She warned. “I’m using it.”
“The pot?” Cormac arched a brow.
“Just so.” She nodded. “The Dadga said Balor wouldn’t look for it here, thinks he won’t dare show his face here. Too afraid of his dear old wife.”
My muscles locked.
She caught my apprehension. “The Tuatha Dé Danann family trees will trip you up.” She told me. “Roots too thick, broken ground. Blood for sap.”
Cormac exhaled a frustrated puff of air from his nose and looked for somewhere to sit. “You don’t plan on eating us, do you?”
“You take me for a hag?” She shot him a crooked smirk.
Cormac made a non-committed noise of assent, but the old woman seemed pleased.
“You may call me Cethlenn.” She bowed, extending an arm in a flurry. “The Dagda sent you, or rather, his staff brought you here. Carrying such magic is brave and stupid, for many cannot use it.”
Cormac sucked his lips between his teeth and turned to me, hiding his expression from the old woman. His eyes were wide. “Balor’s wife.” He mouthed.
Cethlenn shifted and sniffed indignantly. “I just told you that, didn’t I?”
“Are you going to kill us?” I asked the question, though I felt no threat from the woman. Not that that couldn’t change in a single moment.
“HA!” She threw her head back and barked a laugh, as if I had said the funniest thing ever.
Cormac and I exchanged weary glances.
“You’ll need more than those fingers if you wish to defeat Balor.” She jerked a chin to the bag made of Cormac’s shirt. “Iron is good on its own, but only if the vessel has been in the Aos Sí for a long time.”
“We are going to Lugh.” I met her gaze in challenge. “To ask for a weapon.”
“Only Balor’s blood can defeat the giant.” She looked down her nose at me, studying my face. I could not tell if she found me worthy or not. “Do you plan to ask Lugh to defeat his grandfather, again?”
“We’re going to ask for a weapon from Lugh the Craftsman,” Cormac repeated my declaration.
Silence filled the cottage, save for the crack of the fire.
Cethlenn lifted her pipe to her lips.
“When the five creeds meet over the divide of war, only then will the lake know peace,” She said gravely, nodding to herself.
