~ Chapter X ~
Master of the Mountain
It came more quickly than Fíohra had expected. Though she knew hours had passed, it still felt like the afternoon when Maelé returned with her to her chambers to prepare for the evening. Wondering again how the stone servant knew of the sun's position while enclosed in the belly of the mountain, Fíohra nevertheless submitted to Maelé's comb a second time, as well as the summoning of a new tunic and vest. She donned the articles without a word, tossing the old ones to Maelé for 'disposal,' or whatever it was she planned to do with them. Within minutes she was ready—physically if not mentally. Continuing in her thoughtful silence, Fíohra followed Maelé to the stairs and descended.
The door Maelé exited brought the pair of them out onto the broad expanse of the cavern floor. But Fíohra was quite astonished as she saw that they were not alone. Quite far from them, at the base of the great pillar, a table had been set up on a carpet. A single chair sat next to the table. And standing around the table in ranks, a veritable army of stone servants awaited Fíohra's approach.
The girl could hardly believe her eyes until her guide led her closer; then there could be no doubt. Like Maelé, the maeleachlainn were dressed in coarse white linen robes. Their faces were expressionless, though each bowed its head at Fíohra's passing. Unsure of how to respond, she merely nodded back, eager to sit and escape the acknowledgment of the inhuman creatures. When she did reach the chair, a male maeleachlainn stepped forward from the ranks of is fellows and presented itself with a bow.
"Guest of my master, we of the maeleachlainn are here to serve you," it said. "Ask what you will of us and we will provide it. Our master will present himself presently." With another bow it stepped back, leaving Fíohra to contemplate the spread before her. Whether it was by magic or by the hands of the servants, the table had been laden with heavy silver dishes, each containing a delicacy of the kind Fíohra had never even dreamed. The porridge and current bread many hours behind her, Fíohra felt her stomach rumble. But she felt constrained to wait for the master of the mountain to make his appearance.
And so, for many minutes, the food before her went untasted. Nearly a quarter of an hour had passed before Fíohra thought to ask one of the servants what was wrong; but at the look of their set and silent faces, she lost her courage. Even Maelé had disappeared into the ranks of its fellow maeleachlainn. Fíohra bit her lip and studied the tracery on the empty plate before her.
Another quarter hour passed. The silence and strangeness of the mountain hall grew unbearable.
At long last, Fíohra threw her hands up and reached for the nearest platter.
"AH!" thundered an unmistakable voice. "What mortal impatience!"
Fíohra nearly dropped the ladle she had lifted.
The maeleachlainn bowed to the invisible speaker as he continued. "Are you the goat-slayer's daughter, little mortal?" the master asked.
Fíohra rose from her seat, trembling but determined to present a courageous front. Unable to discover the source of the booming voice, she nevertheless followed the servants' example and bowed. "Aye, sir." she said. "I am Morogh's youngest."
"Hmm." The cavern floor seemed to reverberate with the note of his musing. "Perhaps we shall take a closer look."
Fíohra felt her heart leap into her throat. No sooner had the words left the unseen lips than the wall opposite her exploded in a flurry of wings and scales. Pulse pounding in her ears, Fíohra had to lower her head against the sudden wind. When she raised it, the master of the mountain stood before her.
Or rather, he stood in the manner of dragons, resting on all fours. For as Fíohra saw at last the form of the Creature, she knew it could be nothing but a dragon. Nearly as long as the pillar was wide, he had landed with his wings extended, the translucent skin between the bat-like claws reaching towards the roof. His hide was scaled in bronze plates, each as thick as Fíohra's hand. But Fíohra took in the sight in a second, for once she looked at his face she found she could not look away. She stared stupidly as he came closer, transfixed by the almost-human expression of amusement in his eyes. When the dragon was within a dozen yards of the table, he stopped, folded his wings and settled on his haunches, watching Fíohra. When she said nothing, he spoke again.
"Well met, daughter of Morogh."
But she was quite beyond the power of words, at least for the moment. In all her imaginings, from the most terrible to the most bizarre, Fíohra had never dreamed that a dragon had brought her to the mountain. Observing her silence, the dragon extended its foreclaws and stretched, the sound of his scales against the stone unnaturally loud in the silence of the cavern. Then, settling his enormous armored head on the floor, he met Fíohra's eye and bared his teeth.
Fíohra took a step backwards.
A deep rumbling sound stirred in the belly of the dragon, growing louder and more resonant as it rose in his throat. At last, in what could only have been called ferocious mirth, the master of the mountain laughed. "Ah! You recoil, human child," he said at last, the laughter fading into a dragonish smile that was not at all reassuring. "Am I really so frightening, daughter of Morogh?" he asked.
She had to swallow several times before answering, and even then her voice was nowhere near as brave as she'd hoped. "Aye, sir," Fíohra said at last.
"You have not eaten," he observed in response.
"I…I thought I should wait," she stammered, wondering at once if she was supposed to have started.
"But not long enough?" he added, eyeing the ladle in her hand. Fíohra reddened.
"Y-you weren't…you hadn't come."
The booming chuckle echoed through the cavern again. "I was here long before my servant escorted you in, little one." The dragon extended a single claw and tapped the stone of the floor. The sound sent shivers crawling up Fíohra's skin. "Do you trust me, mortal?" he asked suddenly.
For a moment, Fíohra wondered if it would be right to lie. Nothing in her held any faith in the master of the mountain, but she quailed at the thought of saying so. The claws and jaws of the great beast were far too near. But then, for the same reasons, she also feared lying to him. Unsure of what to do, she chose a third option.
"I don't know, sir. I don't know you."
The dragon narrowed his eyes and withdrew his claw. "A wise answer, child."
Fíohra's stomach chose just that time to rumble loudly. She reddened and studied her toes, embarrassed and anxious. His response had not been as comforting as it sounded, for it reminded her of all the things of which she was ignorant. Truly, she knew nothing of her host or his intentions. The realization frightened her into silence.
The master of the mountain drew himself up and motioned with his chin for Fíohra to sit. "Eat, small one. You must not let me and my servants forget that you need food where we do not."
Hesitant, she obeyed, though she was unable to keep her attention on her food for long. The silent ranks of maeleachlainn and the unwavering stare of the great dragon thoroughly unnerved her. Her gaze kept drifting upwards, towards the unblinking eyes the size of dinner plates that watched her every bite. But at last, when her first hunger pains had been seen to, she laid down her fork and stood. It took every ounce of courage she had to open her mouth and speak.
"Sir, I would like to know what's going to happen to me now," Fíohra said, her heart pounding in her chest.
The dragon settled his head again on the floor so that he was level with Fíohra's gaze. "And well you should, daughter of Morogh," he replied. "But that is difficult to answer."
"Why?"
"Because there is much yet to be determined in your future, little mortal. But come," he said, moving his head to the side, "I see you have many more questions. They are bursting in your heart like dragonfire; we must let them out or watch them consume you. Ask without fear, small one. I will answer as best I can."
Fíohra sighed silently in relief. Whether he expected it of her or he could see it in her face, her questions had indeed burned in her mind and heart since the night before. Answers—any answers—would go far to assuage her fear of the unknown that surrounded her. Drawing in a deep breath, she began with the question in the forefront of her mind.
"Who are you?"
The dragon smiled toothily. "I am many things, mortal. I am something that is no longer. I am something that might yet be again. I am a servant and I am a master. I am a keeper of secrets and a watcher of words. I am a bright light brought into a dark place, and I burn with the flame that ignited the stars. I am the Guardian of the mountain."
Fíohra tried another question. "What's your name?"
"I have many names, daughter of Morogh. Some are more true and some are less true. Some have been lost; some will be forgotten; some have not yet been discovered, and some will never be known but by the One who gave them. I am called Drún, and that is a truer name than most. But I am also Cathoaireth'ail, just as I am Daire-Eanruig-is-Ail-Edannathair."
The creature watched the girl's face as he pronounced the least of his names. She stared in wonder, but it was clear she understood neither the power nor the meaning behind the words. He continued.
"Truest of my lesser names, I am Aodhfin'eth-is-Alsandair." The great eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Little mortal, I think you will one day know me best by that name. But for now, you may call me Mórdúil."
Fíohra mouthed the strange name, saying it to herself until she felt comfortable with its ancient weight. "Mórdúil," she repeated. The dragon nodded once and she looked up. "What are you, Mórdúil?"