Ana stood almost as tall as Rose and had the same ginger tresses spilling from atop her head. The Sithling woman had worn a helmet shaped like a hawk’s head when Effie had first met her beneath the streets of Edinburgh, and a thick brown coat that had hid her slender frame. She wore now a blue morning coat and grey trousers. The attire and unkempt hair made her appear like an overly large brownie.
Her gaze danced about Conall, and her lips pulled back into an open grin. “Where I am from, human companions wear masks and use—how do you say?—monikers so they are not easily known by proper society,” she said in a slight French accent. “How should we call you?”
Jaelyn snorted. “Mr. Underfoot,” she said. She folded her arms across her chest and raised an eyebrow at his wounded arm. The brownie was the last of Rose’s companions.
Conall’s cheeks colored. “I am fine with my own name and face,” he said, “and as far as I’m concerned, I am among proper society.” He bowed to Ana. She nodded with a look of approval.
“Welcome to our untidy moot,” said Rose. She stepped forward and took Effie’s hands into her own. Her eyes narrowed at Effie’s temple.
“It is nothing,” said Effie. “We have news of Aberdeen, but I am well.”
“That is good,” said Rose. “We have sore need for your counsel, Effie. Our host swirls about like mites caught in the wind, and goes nowhere.”
“My counsel? But where is Caledon?” Effie studied her friends. Her gut twinged in discomfort at their heavy stares.
“None know,” Rose replied. Worry broke across her face. “None have seen or heard from the steward, or from Gaelyph, Warden of the Hunt, in days.”
17
The fey host camped in a grassy dell at the base of the Storr. A pair of bonfires warmed the clearing as the sun dipped toward the giant pinnacles that towered above them like trees of stone. Cooking pots swung on spits over the crackling flames, and Effie smelled a mix of onion, turnip, and tea wafting from them. Scanning the faces of the host as she approached, it surprised her how many she recognized.
A dozen Sithlings watched her with interest. She nodded to a couple she knew from her time in Glasgow. Their dress and appearance revealed nothing of their fey blood. Like her, only their auras gave any hint of their heritage.
Not so were the pixies that buzzed around the dell or the hogboons that sat on stumps around the fires. The former’s colorful wings left a trail of flashing light as they zipped to and fro. The latter’s plump forms were the size of children, yet the sharpness to their eyes and weathered lines on their faces declared their race.
A pair of brownies mended a canvas tent, one of several that dotted the grassy dell. The needles they wielded appeared as daggers in their hands. Like their brethren hogboons, they had sharp eyes and dressed in coats and trousers. Yet their cheeks held a gaunt line that made their faces more angular.
Effie spied more high-collared coats near a pair of tents and frowned. The gnomes of the Order of Freiwald appeared to be standing guard. Thick, round noses protruded above their collars, and almost all wore beards that fell to near their waists. Their bell-barreled blunderbusses hung on straps over their shoulders, but they stood in silence, peering off into the distance, away from the light of the fires.
“Jane Porter and that man that moons after her,” said Jaelyn, catching her gaze. “The Order is not sae trusting of their human blood.”
“They’ve been confined and watched since our arrival. As has young Clara,” said Rose. She nodded at the second tent. “Effie, with the lass the Germans may have it right. She has changed in just these many days.”
Effie’s frown deepened into a scowl. “But they cannot be kept in pens like prisoners,” she said. Caledon would not have allowed that to happen. Her gut twinged again at the thought of his absence, but she would not let dark tidings overtake her. The steward was most likely attending to some unknown affair, perhaps even in Elphame. Such an absence was not unheard of.
“They are not to be trusted,” said Freiherr Jörg.
Before Effie could respond further, a Sithling man stepped in front of her. He had light eyes and a freckled complexion under a mop of brown hair. He stopped and bowed. “I beg your pardon, Green Lady, but you must allow me to welcome you.”
Effie’s jaw clenched tight, but she managed to relax the ire that had painted her face over the gnome’s proclamation. “Call me Effie, please,” she said as calmly as she could muster.
His eyes lit up. “I wish to thank you for what you have done, if you will allow me. In Glasgow, I joined your host marching against the lords, and I wish to offer myself again, if you have any need of my service.”
Effie recalled the man dancing along her procession. He’d answered her call to make a public demonstration against Lord Granville. She nodded to him. “Thank you. Your offer is more than I could hope for, but it will be for the steward to decide our course of action, once he returns.”
Jaelyn snorted. “Och, can ye go nowhere without gathering a flock of ducklings to squawk at yer heels? Come, let us break bread afore the sun flees too far over the hills.”
Effie blushed, but the man laughed. She caught a whiff of the cooking pots, and her stomach reminded her she had not eaten in some time. Placing a hand over her grumbling belly, she said, “I will see Jane first and remove the poor lass from captivity.”
Jaelyn folded her arms across her chest. “Ye’ll be wanting ta’ see the Rocksoother, and he won’t speak in front of her.”
“I will see to Jane and her moon boy,” said Conall. “A prison it will be for three, if that’s what it takes for friends to be become allies.” He nodded to those gathered and strode for the tents. Effie watched him go and knew he wasn’t far wrong. The host assembled within the dell stood little chance against the Barrow Witch if they did not learn to act as one.
“Do all know of the thunderstone and its properties?” she asked, turning to Rose.
“Word has spread on its own,” the woman replied. “We waited for Caledon to debate the matter.”
Effie’s foot tapped. She planted her hands on her hips. Concern for the steward had allowed the Seily Court to waste precious time. Time they did not have. Her gaze flicked between Jaelyn and Freiherr Jörg. Their biases had blinded them as well, stealing from them desperately needed support.
“We cannot wait any longer,” she said. “If I am to see the Rocksoother, let us all hear from him together.”
“Oui,” said Ana. She mimicked Effie’s pose and gave a curt nod.
Effie leaned closer to the bonfire. Blinding rays of sunlight pierced her vision from the ridgeline above, but the night chill had already closed over the dell. It turned her flesh to ice. The stone she sat on seemed made of frost, and her coat did little to stave off the damp that seeped up from it. At least she had Gareth to warm her toes. The hound curled at her feet with his tail anxiously tucked beneath him. He’d charged out of Jane’s tent as soon as Conall had opened the flap and greeted her with a chorus of whines and yowls.
She sipped from a bowl of piping-hot broth as quietly as she could. Jaelyn had shoved the broth under her nose while the host gathered closer. Its oniony scent had proved too tempting to wait on decorum. But no eyes were on her at the moment, anyway. The attention of the host was fixed on the Rocksoother. The gnome had a wrinkled face that scrunched in a permanent grimace, as if he’d been forced to devour a plate of rank cheese. Wisps of grey hair patterned his head. His beard tangled in knots and fell nearly to the ground.