~ Chapter XI ~
The Edannathair
The creature of many names rose so suddenly, Fíohra had to steady herself on the edge of the table to keep from pitching backwards. Throwing wide his coppery wings, Mórdúil raised his head and opened his mouth. But instead of words—instead of an answer—a brilliant flame burst from his dagger-lined maw. It flared red, then white, before settling to a piercing gold, brighter and hotter than Fíohra had ever seen or felt before. Though the flames were far above her head, she could feel her face blister and her hair begin to singe with the intensity of the heat. Fíohra threw her arm up to shield her eyes. But in a second the air was dim and cool again.
She lowered her arm as Mórdúil answered. "The ancient people named me edannathair, the fire-snake." His voice fell and indignation edged his tone. "They knew not what I was—what I am. Of the cursed serpent-kind I have no part, save this form. But no matter," Mórdúil said with a shake of his head, speaking normally again. "I am what I am and cannot change. To your kind I am an edannathair."
Fíohra nodded, feeling her eyebrows for signs of loss. Thankfully they remained, though she was certain some parts of her face had been burnt by the dragonfire. "And what do you want of me, Mórdúil of the edannathair?"she asked. The named tingled on her tongue and she marveled at its power, though she could not understand it.
The dragon lowered his head to the floor once more. "You know that your father unlawfully took the life of one of my lesser creatures, do you not?" Remembering the goat, Fíohra nodded. Tears started in her eyes at the thought of Morogh, but she mastered them and waited for Mórdúil to continue. "He shed blood. There must be recompense."
Fíohra's fists balled at her sides. "It was for Padra and me!" she cried, forgetting herself in her desire to defend Morogh. "He didn't know…"
Mórdúil cut her off with a hiss. "I know, small one. I know. He told me the same. You are fortunate, to have the love of such a father," he remarked dryly.
The tears leaked through Fíohra's safeguards and she dropped her gaze. "Then why did you take me from him?" she demanded.
The dragon did not answer immediately and she raised her head. He looked to be deep in thought, the horned ridges above his great opalescent eyes furrowed in a very human manner. When at last Mórdúil answered, his voice was low enough to shake the ground. "It was a life for a life, as is required."
"Then I'm worth no more than a dumb beast?" she cried, indignant.
Mórdúil met her angered gaze steadily and spoke. His tone was very grave. "No, child. But you must learn for yourself why I chose Morogh's daughter as recompense."
"Why? Why won't you just tell me?"
Mórdúil's eyes narrowed. "Because you must learn. Do not ask again," he warned in a voice that brooked no argument. Fíohra let her head hang—ashamed, though still curious. But she obeyed and said nothing more. After a moment, the dragon shifted to a more comfortable position and spoke again, his voice considerably lighter. "You must have other questions, small one. Ask on."
Fíohra bit her lip, suddenly weary of standing. Unsure of her strength, she decided not to pull over the heavy chair. Instead, after a nod of approval from Mórdúil, she sat on the ground. "What are the words on my door? And what do they protect me from?" she thought to ask when she was settled.
"The words that guard the walls of this mountain are echoes of the Words that birthed the worlds. The One who spoke them has chosen them as vessels of power."
"What do you mean?"
"As you might understand it, they simply tell the truth. What is, is written; and what is written, is."
"I don't understand," Fíohra said, furrowing her brow.
Mórdúil sighed. "I forget that your people no longer know of these things. I'm sorry I cannot explain it any better than that."
"Can you tell me what I'm supposed to be protected from?" she tried instead.
"Again, I cannot. There are many secrets hidden in the halls of Drún, and many dangers. Some best remain shrouded in secrecy, for they are less harmful when fear of them does not possess you. Others…well, others must be encountered before I try to explain them to you."
Fíohra's hand fell to the dagger that lay on her hip. "Is that why I have this?" she asked.
Mórdúil nodded. "Your wardrobe is a clever creation. It knows many of the dangers of this place, and it will do its best to protect you. That weapon was a wise choice. Wear it always."
The girl's ran her fingers over the sheath and felt the letters of the strange Language. The familiar shiver that told her she was in contact with a powerful thing ran along her arm, leaving goosebumps.
"Do you know how to wield such a weapon?" Mórdúil asked. Fíohra shook her head. "Then you shall learn." With a gesture and a word she could not understand, Mórdúil summoned a male maeleachlainn from the ranks of its fellows. It presented itself before the human and the dragon with a bow. "Maeleachlainn," its master began, "I place this mortal under your instruction. You will teach her the use of sword, dagger and bow. Begin on the morrow."
Without a word the servant bowed again and took its place among the other maeleachlainn. Summoning a second servant, the dragon gave further instructions for Fíohra's education—much to her astonishment.
"And maeleachlainn, you shall teach the human child the care of your carraiglas. Teach her to ride. You also will begin tomorrow."
Fíohra looked up at the master of the mountain. "And if…when…I have learned these things, will you then tell me the danger I face?"
Mórdúil gave her a long look, his pearled eyes never blinking. "I think," he said at last, "I think you may find your answer before you have mastered these skills. My maeleachlainn will watch over you, but be on your guard nonetheless."
A second shiver passed through Fíohra, leaving a bad taste in her mouth. She knew the taste; it was the taste of fear. Though the presence of the stone servants was a little reassuring, Fíohra was not comforted. The great dragon above her seemed to show an interest in her wellbeing, but she still could not rest easy in his company. As she had told Mórdúil so frankly, she did not trust him. And now another fear rested on her mind, all the more powerful for the fact that it was unknown. Something—or many somethings—prowled the shadows of the great mountain, something the dragon refused to tell her about. And Fíohra did not like the idea of learning by experience.
But her foreboding was pushed aside at the thought of another question. "Mórdúil, who built this place?" she asked.
"It is very ancient," the dragon answered, surveying the stone walls around him. "It was carved from the heart of the mountain when the land was very young."
"But who built it?" Fíohra pressed.
Mórdúil chuckled, the sound sending echoes out into the darkness above. "You are impatient, little mortal! If I answered your question immediately, do you think you would understand better?" Abashed, she shrugged and Mórdúil chuckled again. "It was carved by the Mighty Ones who came across the upper sea from their distant Realms."
Not quite the answer she had expected, Fíohra frowned and decided not to ask for more, as the dragon seemed fond of cryptic replies. She thought of a new question. "Mórdúil, how old are you? How did you come here?"
The dragonish grin faded to thoughtfulness—or so Fíohra thought. It was difficult to read the expressions on his scaly face, if they even were comparable to human expressions. "Child, I am not sure there is understanding enough in that small head of yours to comprehend the span of years for which I have been alive. Even I have lost count. I have lived in the belly of Drün for nearly as long."
"Do you ever leave?"
He paused a moment before replying. "That is not a choice that has been left with me, little one."
"Oh." Fíohra wanted him to explain, but something in his tone—she did not know if it was sadness or sternness—prevented her from asking further. The conversation lapsed into silence for several minutes before either spoke again. "Mórdúil?" Fíohra said at last.
"Yes, child?"
"What…will I do here?"
"You will learn the art of weaponry from my maeleachlainn. You will bond with a carraiglas and learn to ride." Raising his head a little, he gestured with his snout towards the surrounding cavern. "You have the mountain to explore. Do not fear to wander—only remember to be on your guard. And when you wish to sup, I will be here to talk with you. I will teach you things long forgotten by your people and tell you stories of the ancient times." He paused. "Is that a life you would care to live?"
Fíohra did not know what to say. On the one hand, Mórdúil's words wrapped around her and lit a fire of excitement in her mind that she had not anticipated. Unable to escape her curiosity—even in the midst of her fear—Fíohra found that she did wish to explore, to see the mountain, to hear the stories a dragon alone could tell. But a second part of her recoiled from the isolation of it all. Eternally bound beneath the rocky slopes of Drün…no touch of sun or breath of wind…with only this ancient creature and his servants of stone for company…
Excepting her father and sister, Fíohra had never cared much for the people of her village, but now she found she missed them. Even the sour, wrinkled face of Old Eithné would bring her more comfort than Mórdúil's, or even Maelé's.
More comfort, of course, but less excitement.
Fíohra sighed. It was a conundrum, though she knew there was little choice left to her in the matter. Rather than enjoy the monotonous security of Baláirdh Drún, she would stay and face the adventure of the mountain—the adventure that nevertheless walked hand-in-hand with danger. Like it or not, that was the path that fortune had set her on, Fíohra realized with a grimace. She would have to make the best of it.
"I…suppose it is," she answered the dragon at last.
"That is a wise answer, little mortal," Mórdúil replied, rising. Fíohra rose as well, unable to restrain a yawn. "But it is growing late. I see you are tired."
"How do you know what time it is?" she managed to ask between a second yawn.
The dragon chuckled and extended one of his wings to point to the bowls of fire imbedded in the cavern wall. "I have made it so that the dragonfire increases and diminishes at the rising and setting of the sun," he explained. Fíohra followed his wing with her eyes and nodded; though so gradual she had not noticed it, the golden light shed from the dragonfire torches had indeed grown dimmer.
"Why don't the torches in my room do that?" she wondered, not realizing she had spoken out loud.
Mórdúil lowered his wing and surveyed the ranks of stone servants. "Maeleachlainn," he called. Maelé stepped forward. "You have lodged the mortal in the Westward Chamber, yes?"
Maelé bowed. "I have, master."
"Then make her lamps likewise," he ordered. Maelé bowed again and stepped forward to Fíohra's side.
"Oh…thank you," she said, a little embarrassed. But neither master nor maeleachlainn reproached her. Maelé placed a hand on Fíohra's shoulder.
"Come, small one," it said.
"A moment, maeleachlainn," the dragon ordered. The two paused, and Mórdúil fixed Fíohra with a dreadful look. "I had nearly forgotten. You are free to wander through the chambers of the Outer Hall and explore them as you wish. But you may not enter the Túráthú, under any circumstances." With his snout he gestured to the dark door in great central pillar. He looked again at Fíohra and narrowed his eyes. "There shall be terrible consequences if you disobey me in this."
Fíohra nodded vigorously, terrified by the sudden severity in the dragon's voice. "I promise," she began, looking down. But then, for just a second, her curiosity rebelled. What's in there that he doesn't want me to see? she wondered, raising her head in defiance. But the look in the dragon's eye banished the rebellious thoughts in an instant. "I won't," she finished hurriedly, ashamed of herself.
For a long moment the dragon studied the girl below him, considering. Then his face cleared and the severity relaxed again into amusement. "Your oath is true, little one. Now return to your rooms; my maeleachlainn will fetch you early in the morning to begin your studies." Fíohra bowed and began to back away, Maelé at her side. "Ah! A moment," Mórdúil called after them, as if he had forgotten something else. "I am growing old, little mortal. You must forgive me."
"Why?" Fíohra wondered.
"I have neglected you ask your name."
"Oh!" Fíohra had not realized until that moment that neither the stone servants nor their master had spoken her name yet. "Fíohra," she managed, pushing the name past the tears that leaked onto her cheeks at the memory of her family. Padraigin had been the last one to say it as she tried to save her sister from the maeleachlainn the night before.
"Hmm. Fíohra," Mórdúil said softly, as if tasting the name. "It is a good name. Your father called you well, little one."
She looked down to disguise her emotions. "It…it was my mother's name."
"Ah." Mórdúil straightened. Then, quite to Fíohra's surprise, he extended one foreleg and lowered his head in what could only be described as the courtliest bow she had ever seen. "Good night, then. May your rest be deep and your dreams blessed…Fíohra, daughter of Morogh."