~ Chapter XV ~
Supper and What Came of It

Fíohra bathed, dressed and rested her aching muscles for a good hour or two before Maelé came to escort her to supper. Unaffected, as it seemed, by human curiosity, the maeleachlainn did not query its charge as to the events of her day—a fact for which Fíohra was grateful. Upon reflection, her wariness of the shadowspectre had risen once again, and she felt it would not be wise to mention her interaction with Scátha to any of the maeleachlainn. Mórdúil, perhaps…but not yet. Not until he's answered some more of my questions, she decided.

Her opportunity came sooner than she'd expected. Just as had been the case the previous night, her supper was set up beneath the great pillar—the Túráthú, as it was apparently called. The ranks of maeleachlainn, however, were absent; Maelé was the only servant present as Fíohra sat down.

"The master will be here shortly, child," Maelé announced. "Feel free to begin your meal," it added in an especially dry voice, recalling, it seemed, the events of the night before. Fíohra smiled as the maeleachlainn withdrew to the far end of the table, and began to eat.

"So! You learn quickly, I am told!"

The dragon's thunderous voice made Fíohra's jump in her seat. Her gaze snapped upwards, towards the wall of the forbidden pillar. Mórdúil hung vertically above her, clinging casually to the rough surface, his outstretched wings blending well into the bronze stone of the mountain. His mouth was open in a familiar toothy grin, pleased, Fíohra supposed, at his success in startling her.

"The maeleachlainn of the armory says that you managed a fair strike against it, little Fíohra," Mórdúil continued, slithering in an uncomfortably snake-ish way down the wall. But before he reached the ground he extended his wings and leapt into the air, easing his fall with a few powerful wingbeats until his great hooked foreclaws touched the stone floor. "My maeleachlainn do not bestow praise idly. I am proud of you," he said as he settled on his haunches before her. "You must have done well."

Fíohra was astonished. She had not imagined—though it made sense once she thought about it—that Mórdúil would be informed of her progress by her maeleachlainn tutors. But even more unexpected was the fact that he would be proud of her, and for such a little thing! It was unfathomable. Nevertheless, Fíohra felt something stir in her heart at his affirmation. "T-thank you, sir," she managed, standing.

Mórdúil made a dismissive motion with his snout. "Your father has taught you manners, I see. But you need not stand on such formality in my presence, little one." He chuckled. "It would soon wear you out."

Abashed, Fíohra sat again. When the dragon failed to continue, she resumed her meal.

"Maeleachlainn," Mórdúil said suddenly after a long pause, "has the Leabharlann been attended to recently?"

Maelé came forward. "It has, master."

With the fork halfway to her mouth, Fíohra looked from dragon to servant and back again, trying to discern what it was they were talking about. Mórdúil saw her look, nodded to Maelé and rested his head on his front claws. "When you have finished your meal, Fíohra, I have something to show you." Interest instantly sparked in Fíohra's mind. She thought of Scátha and the Túráthú and the dragon's secrecy, and before she could help it, her eyes flicked to the pillar.

It was a mistake. Mórdúil saw her look and growled, sending shivers up her spine. Too late—she tried to look down at the floor, at the food in front of her, anything. But it made no difference. Mórdúil raised his head and fixed her with a stare than sent her limbs quaking and her heart galloping in fear.

"No." The single syllable pierced Fíohra like a spear, and she lowered her head further. "I have said it once before: the Túráthú is forbidden to you. Do not even think to disobey me in this," he warned.

Fíohra nodded, unable to speak for terror. A long minute passed in accusatory silence, and she dared not raise her eyes.

"Child?" Mórdúil said at last. The gentleness in his tone took Fíohra by surprise. "Child, do not be afraid to look at me," he reassured her.

But Fíohra's head would not cooperate. The dragon's reaction had woken all her old fears, and she could not bear to meet his gaze. How do I know this creature wishes me well? she thought. What do I know about him at all? The tales from her village that told of ancient dragons and their treachery came to mind. How do I know that he may not slay me in some fit of anger? For one mistake? One wrong word, one impulsive glance? She studied the plate of food before her. Or how do I know that he's not fattening me up for a later meal? How…?

But her terrified musings were cut short by the most unexpected sensation. Something hard and leathery touched her chin, lifting it gently until her eyes met Mórdúil's once more. He had extended his bat-clawed wing and was using its bony tip to tilt her gaze towards him. "Forgive me, child," he said, the thunderous voice muted with remorse. "I am not angry with you. You must understand…I do not forbid the Túráthú to you simply to test your obedience. There are things within that you are not prepared to see."

For a moment, the doubts continued to claw at Fíohra's heart. But the expression in Mórdúil's eyes at last eased her fear. Whether she wished to or no, she believed him. Whatever lay beyond the stone walls of the Túráthú—that was what she had to dread. Not Mórdúil. Fíohra nodded in acceptance of his apology, her courage returning. Mórdúil's scale-clad face relaxed into a look that she took to mean relief.

"That is well, little one. I would not have you live in fear of me."

"I'm sorry," she murmured. "I didn't mean…"

But he would not let her finish. "Don't, child. To be curious is to be human. You have done nothing for which you need to apologize." A spark of amusement lit up the dragon's opalescent eyes and he settled his head on his claws once more. Tucking his wing back into its place at his side, Mórdúil chuckled. "Perhaps we should begin again. I have started this evening rather poorly, I'm afraid."

"Aye, let's." Fíohra swallowed the rest of the food on her plate and stood, mastering the last of the trembling in her limbs. "I'm ready, sir," she announced, wondering what exactly it was that the dragon had to show her.

"Mórdúil," he reminded her, raising the horned ridges above his eyes. "Are you finished already?"

She nodded, touching the handle of the fine silver knife she had used to cut her meat. "I'm…I'm not used to so much food," she said softly, remembering the scarcity of her father's hovel. Blinking back the homesick tears, she glanced up at the master of the mountain. "I'm full."

Mórdúil made a musing sound in his throat and considered the tiny human before him. "Very well," he agreed after a moment. With a hissing sigh, he rose to his feet and stretched his wings. "Then we should begin, yes?"

Fíohra frowned. "Oh…aye." She cast a puzzled glance towards Maelé, but the maeleachlainn might as well have been a true statue, for it gave no indication as to its master's intentions. Fíohra returned her gaze to the dragon. "Er…where are we going?"

A disconcerting smile broke across Mórdúil's face, and Fíohra could not help but take note of his many teeth. She swallowed. "Up," he said cryptically.

"What?"

"There is something I wish to show you in the Uppermost Hall." He thrust his snout in the direction of the roof. "It will be quickest for me to take you myself."

The implications of dragon's gesture began to dawn on Fíohra, and she fell back a step. "H-how?" she tried, praying that he did not have in mind what she thought he had in mind.

"Flying, of course."

"What?"

"Those little legs of yours would soon tire of the climb," Mórdúil said good-humoredly. "It is a three hour march from the floor to the roof of Drún, little one. I can take you there in minutes." He spread his wings as if to demonstrate.

Doing her best to calm her racing heart, Fíohra glanced in the direction her companion had indicated. The ceiling of the mountain was hidden in shadow, the central spire of the Túráthú lost in its dizzying darkness. The bowls of dragonfire embedded around the outer wall grew scarcer as the roof neared, until at last they petered out altogether. Strange shadows played at the fringe of the dragonfire-light, and Fíohra wondered what could possibly be up there worth seeing.

"Are you ready?" Mórdúil asked, pulling her attention back to the floor of the cavern. He moved closer to the table and settled to the ground, bringing his scaly back closer to Fíohra's reach.

Again, she swallowed. "You want me to…ride?"

"Yes. You will be hardly any burden at all, I assure you."

Fíohra grimaced. It was not Mórdúil's comfort she was concerned with; she worried more for her own safety. The ridges and spikes of his dragon's back did not look remotely reassuring. "Are…are you sure I won't fall?"

Mórdúil turned to look her in the eye, and she felt at once that he understood her fear. Making a strange, almost musical sound in his throat, he extended his foreleg so as to help her clamber up. When she made no move to comply, he bowed his head once and returned her gaze. "I give you my most solemn word that you will reach the Uppermost Hall and return safely."

Fíohra gritted her teeth; such a promise gave her no other option. "A'right," she said at last, taking a step forward. "Tell me what to do."

Mórdúil smiled. "Put your foot here," he moved his foreleg to show her, "and I will lift you to my back. Try to sit between my shoulders. You may hold on to my spikes if you feel the need," he added. Setting her mouth in a grim line, Fíohra complied. Placing her booted foot on top of his claw, she gripped the crook of his foreleg and felt herself moving upwards. As soon as Mórdúil's neck came in view, she pushed herself off his claw and threw one leg over the scaly shoulders, taking care not to sit on one of the blunted spikes that lined his spine. It was a tight fit, and uncomfortable, like straddling a boulder, but Fíohra felt reasonably secure. She leaned forward until she was parallel with the dragon's neck, hoping he could hear her.

"And what…what if I start to slip?" she couldn't keep from asking.

Mórdúil snorted. "I promise you will not fall. Now are you prepared?"

Fíohra frowned and sat up, gripping the spikes in front of her as hard as she could. Her stomach was churning wildly with fear, but she tried hard to quell it. She guessed that Mórdúil would not appreciate being covered in sick several thousand feet above the ground. I suppose there's nothing for it, she thought, steeling herself.

"Aye, I'm ready."