Loga led the way to the fire in front of a hut with a high, arched door, then sat on the ground.
“This much is hospitality,” he said when Keegan and Breen joined him. “The rest is trade.”
“Understood.” Keegan gestured up to where Cróga circled. “He carries containers of what the daughter wishes to trade. May he land?”
“He may. And my people will bring the containers.”
When Cróga settled on the rocky point above, several scrambled up to untie the boxes hitched to his saddle. A boy stroked a hand over Cróga’s scales, his face alive with longing.
“Your grandson. I would gift him a short flight.”
The boy looked down, and longing became wild hope.
“Try to soften me up for the trade, will ya?”
“I know the futility of such attempts. And the trade isn’t mine.”
Loga pointed at the boy. “Short. Once. So,” Loga continued as the boy let out a whoop and scrambled up Cróga’s side. “First we drink, then we trade.”
Breen took the cup a woman handed her, and hoped for the best. “It’s very good.” And very, very strong, she thought.
Like apple brandy filtered through battery acid.
The door of the hut opened; the woman all but filled it.
Tall, with arms like tree trunks, she stood in rough trousers, rougher boots, and a belted tunic. She had the tawny eyes of a lioness and hair of oak brown braided to her waist. A warrior’s braid ran down the side of her wide face.
“Welcome, Taoiseach,” she said as Keegan rose. “Welcome, Daughter of the Fey.”
As she got to her feet, Breen didn’t think about the words; she felt them. Spoke them. “Greetings, Mother of the Trolls.”
Sul inclined her head. “Bring wares to trade, do ya?”
“Yes. And also offer in trade my small skills as a healer to any who have the need.”
Breen picked up one of the boxes now stacked beside her. “Would you try a sample, to judge?”
Sul stepped forward, peered into the box. “Sweets?”
When Sul took out a cookie, Breen saw the blistered burn on her arm. She started to reach out, froze at Sul’s sibilant hiss.
“No one from the world of man touches a troll without consent.”
“I’m sorry.”
“The fault’s mine.” Keegan spoke easily as he drank his ale. “She doesn’t know the traditions, and I failed to teach her. She is also of Talamh, daughter of a taoiseach, granddaughter of a taoiseach.”
“And granddaughter of one who seeks to destroy us.”
“Yet she leaves the safety of the world she knew to defend you.”
“I apologize for the offense.” Breen struggled not to rush the words out through a throat that wanted to snap shut. “I’ve come to trade for the stones and crystals you mine, so I can use them in magicks to fight Odran.”
Sul’s eyes narrowed, glittered. “Fear him, don’t ya?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Yet you wear the word for courage, don’t ya? You branded it on your wrist.” Sul pointed to Breen’s tattoo. “Do you wear it only, or do you have it?”
“I have more than I did, less than I hope to find.”
Pursing her lips, Sul nodded slowly. “This is a good answer.” She looked down at Loga. “A good answer.”
She studied the cookie in her hand, sniffed it. Took a testing bite. Smiled. “You make them?”
“I don’t have that talent. A friend. I help a little—and clean up the mess after. But he makes the sweets. There are pastries and tarts, frosted cakes.”
Sul took another bite, passed the rest to Loga. Then held out her injured arm. “You have consent.”
Breen skimmed her fingertips lightly over the burn. As Aisling had patiently taught her, she opened. Slowly, slowly.
She felt the pain, the heat. Infection.
And something else.
“Your light and your heart are strong.”
She could ease the pain. Slowly. Slowly. Diminish the heat. Softly, softly.
It burned, just for an instant, in her own arm. But the blisters soothed away, and the raw redness eased to pink.
“There’s a balm,” Breen began.
“We have some at the post. I haven’t had time to worry with it.”
“If you would send for it? And if I could have a moment with you, in private?”
“We’ll fetch it when we go to trade.” Sul turned, walked to the door. She gestured for Breen to follow.