~ Chapter VII ~
Maelé

Hesitant, Fíohra took a step forward. She looked to her guide, who nodded once. Gathering her courage, she took another and crossed the threshold. Expecting some sort of energy to wash over her, she was surprised to feel nothing of the kind. There was only the cheery light and the crackling of the torches. A short staircase stretched before her, and Fíohra could see a little of the room to which it led. Suddenly frightened of being left alone, she turned to the servant who waited outside. "Will you come with me?"

"I cannot enter of my own will," it explained again. "You must invite me."

Fíohra frowned, hoping there was not a magical formula for the invitation. She touched the door. "I…I invite you?"

The stone servant inclined its head. "Thank you, little one." It crossed the threshold in one stride and stood before Fíohra as the door shut of its own accord. With one hand the servant motioned for Fíohra to mount the stairs. "I will follow you."

Surprised and a little unnerved at the reversal of roles, Fíohra climbed the stairs. But concern over her sudden assignment of authority vanished as she stepped into the torchlight of her room. The breath was snatched from her lungs for the second time since she had entered the mountain, and it was with wonder again that her poverty-bred eyes took in the sight of the chamber before her.

A wealthy young woman would not have shared Fíohra's awe. But after growing up in the single room of Morogh's hovel, the stone chamber seemed a palace unto itself. The walls and ceilings were high and unadorned, but the stone floors were polished and spread with sumptuous carpets, the like of which Fíohra had never seen before. As thick as forest moss and as fine as a spider's web, the girl felt a sudden desire to throw her exhausted body to the mercy of their woven embrace. In the presence of the solemn servant, however, she felt a need to maintain some dignity. She continued to explore the room.

A stone screen separated the carpeted area from the place Fíohra assumed was the bedchamber, though she saw no bed. There was instead a thick pile of furs in a corner. A rough wooden wardrobe leaned against the screen, and it too was covered with words she could not understand. Fíohra gingerly ran a hand over the bronze drawerknobs, and she felt a shiver run up her arm. The wardrobe, like the door, had power in it. She pulled her hand away and continued.

A doorway in the corner led to a smaller room. Stepping inside, Fíohra coughed in surprise. The room was filled with steam and smelled faintly of rotten eggs. Backing up to escape the odor, Fíohra ran into the servant. It had followed her inside.

"Forgive me, child," it said. "You do not find this to your taste?"

Again, it took Fíohra a moment to realize her companion was asking a question. "What is it?" she said in answer, withdrawing reluctantly back into the cloud of steam.

"Your bath, little mortal."

"Why does it smell?"

"The hot water is brought from the depths below. It smells of sulphur. Pay it no mind and you will soon find that you are unable to smell it."

Fíohra waved the clouds away with one hand in an effort to see the source of both the steam and the stench. To her delight, the swirling mist parted to reveal a very wide, very still and very clear pool of water, its walls and floors lined with pale marble tiles. She could feel the heat on her face, and the prospect of washing soon banished her disgust with the sulphur-smell. Unable to spare their cooking fire long enough to heat the necessary quantity of water, Fíohra and her family had only ever bathed in the stream that ran along the edge of the village. At the memory, she shivered. That water was always icy cold. But now she had access to a real bath, a warm bath…

"Do you desire to sleep?" The servant's inquiry interrupted her pleasant musings, the first she had had since the arrival of the Creature's messenger at her father's doorstep. Fíohra frowned, but her companion continued. "It is now very early in the morning. My master has not required your presence until the sun sets this night, and it would be wise to rest if you can."

At the mention of the servant's mysterious master, Fíohra felt her stomach twist and her heart grow cold. Though his servants seemed kind, she still had no desire to meet the Creature that had torn her from her family and imprisoned her beneath the earth. Yet there appeared to be little choice left; she would meet him whether she wished it or not, just as she would remain in the mountain whether she wished it or not. At the moment, taking the stone servant's advice looked to be the best—and only—option.

"Aye, I'll sleep," she said at last, resigned. Following the servant's gesture, Fíohra returned to the bedchamber and threw herself on the furs. Forget dignity, she thought with tears in her eyes. I don't care anymore.

"You are wise, little one," said her inhuman companion, unperturbed with the girl's impropriety. "Is it your wish that I wake you and help you dress later this day?"

Fíohra rolled to stare at the ceiling. "Aye," she murmured.

"Very well, child. Then I will bid you a good night." The servant inclined its head, and Fíohra watched out of the corner of her eye as it moved towards the door. But, to her astonishment, it did not descend the stairs. Rather, it walked straight into the wall. Fíohra sat up, mouth open, eyes wide. The servant had disappeared—swallowed, it seemed, by the stone.

"Wait!" she cried without thinking. "Wait!"

An instant later there came a knock at the door. Leaping to her feet, Fíohra ran to the head of the stairs. The second knock reverberated through the wood and sent the girl's heart pounding. She bit her lip and hoped it was the servant knocking; the unknown alternative set her knees quaking.

"Enter…?" she said at last.

The door swung open without a sound. To Fíohra's great relief, it was the servant. Its expressionless face gave no hint as to its thoughts at her sudden call, but it entered dutifully and stood before the girl as if awaiting orders. When Fíohra said nothing, it bowed.

"What do you require, little one?"

"I…I want to know how you did that," Fíohra said in a rush, realizing too late how foolish she sounded.

But the servant did not mention her folly. "I am made of the rock of the mountain, child. To return to it is no hard thing."

"Then why didn't you come in that way?"

Raising the torch in its hand, it indicated the walls to either side of them. Fíohra looked and noticed the faint letters carved in the stone. "The room is entirely defended. I can exit through the walls, but entrance must be made by the door and the invitation of the occupant," the servant explained.

"Oh." There didn't seem to be much to say in response.

"I will leave you now, young one. Good night," it said again.

But once more, Fíohra stopped it. "Wait! What if I need you?"

"You have only to say 'come, maeleachlainn,' and I or one of my fellow maeleachlainn will come to assist you."

"But what if I want you?" Fíohra pressed.

It took a minute for the servant to make sense of the request. If an emotion could have been expressed in that stony face at the moment, it would likely have been surprise. "For what purpose could I serve you that any other could not?" it said at last.

Fíohra let her gaze fall to the floor. "I don't know." She stopped herself short of saying 'a familiar face,' as it seemed the graven faces of the serving creatures were fairly indistinguishable. Instead, she tried a new question. "What is your name?"

"Name?" It paused, as if the word was a curious one. "I am one of the maeleachlainn, little mortal. I am the servant of the master of the mountain."

Fíohra shook her head, understanding at last the title that had puzzled her from the beginning. Maeleachlainn was their name for all servants, and their address to one another. Apparently they had no names. "If I want to call you, and you specifically, what should I say?" Fíohra asked, unwilling to lose her strange companion to anonymity.

Again, it took the maeleachlainn a moment or two to process the novelty of her request. When it spoke, the words came slowly. "I think…if you should wish to summon me particularly…you may call for the maeleachlainn…Maelé."

"Maelé," Fíohra repeated carefully, fixing the name in her memory. "Thank you, Maelé."

Maelé bowed. "Now I will leave you, small one. Good night," it said a third time. "I will awaken you at the noon hour." With that assurance, Maelé walked into the wall and disappeared, leaving Fíohra alone in the silence and firelight of the warded room, with only her exhaustion and her growing fear for company.

Though the furs were the most comfortable thing Fíohra had ever felt, she could not sleep well. It was not only the light that bothered her, though the steady and disorienting glow from the torches made it difficult to keep her eyes shut. It was apprehension for the evening to come that consumed her thoughts and chased rest from her mind. Maelé had said that the master did not require her presence until sunset. She wondered how it was that he and his maeleachlainn determined the time, locked underground as they were.

Fíohra wondered too what sort of creature their master was—though she tried to think of that as little as possible. Her father had described the voice in the cave as enormous, and despite her attempts at subduing her imagination, Fíohra could not help but picture a great beast, ravening in tooth and claw and thirsty for blood. Her blood.

But she refused to let that image subdue her courage. Maelé had said she would be living in the mountain for a long time; in that case, it seemed unlikely that its master had ordered her for his supper. Willing away her foreboding, Fíohra stubbornly shut her eyes and cast herself into sleep.