Page 102 of First Light

Cadell and Duncan exchanged a look but said nothing.

They walked down the hill, following a cobbled path set into the forest floor, and down into a grotto where high stone walls rose on either side. The air was damp and green, moss covered the rocks, and the scent of growing things overwhelmed the dry air and dusty leaves of the winter forest.

Carys frowned. “What have you been hiding and from whom?”

“How happy do you think the local fae would be to know a human smith was working in the Shadowlands?” Duncan turned to the right. “Angus!”

A stone archway appeared over a crack in the rocks, and standing under it was a creature like nothing Carys had ever seen. He had the legs of a goat, the muscled body of a human, and was dressed in hairy animal skins from the hood that draped over his twisted grey hair to the end of his long arms. Sheepskins if Carys had to guess. They were covered in sticks and leaves, as if he’d been rolling around in the forest.

“Angus.” Duncan set down the crate. “I’ve brought you a guest. Carys, welcome to my very illegal forge.”

Angus stepped forward, his loping gait reminding Carys of a man on stilts. His face, despite his hair, wasn’t as old as she’d expected. He had a long, straight nose and deep brown eyes. His beard was wavy and stone grey, threaded with grass and flowers, and while his light brown skin was flecked with dirt, he smelled of fresh water and grass.

“Has Seren returned from the Annwn then?” the creature said. “Or is this her kin?”

“Her Brightkin,” Duncan said. “This is Carys. She came to me looking for Lachlan.”

“Ah.” Angus glanced at Duncan from the side. “The spoiled boy has made a mess, I think.” He leaned down and took a long sniff. “You have the smell of the sun and the shadow at once.” The creature cocked his head at an angle. “And you have magic.”

“She is nêrys ddraig,” Cadell said. “Like her twin.”

“Interesting.” Angus stared at Carys for a long minute, examining her face.

Unnerved by his silence, Carys held out the bouquet of flowers. “I brought these for you.”

“You’re a clever one.” Angus took the flowers and studied the bluebells and tansy. “You want a favor, Seren’s twin.”

“My friends call me Carys.”

“I am not your friend.” Angus looked up. “But I do find you interesting. You have the scent of Epona’s daughters in your blood.”

“I don’t know what that means.” Carys narrowed her eyes. “But you don’t have an accent.”

“I speak to all creatures in the language they understand,” Angus said. “I don’t need an accent.”

“Wait, what?” Duncan crossed his arms over his chest. “You speak Scots English like me.”

“He speaks Cymric.” Cadell smiled a little. “Don’t you, Angus?”

Angus waved a hand and hunched his back, dragging the hairy cape over his head. “Don’t ask me questions, dragon. What do you want?”

Cadell held out the pitcher of cream. “I couldn’t find silver or gold. Forgive me, but I was coming from the human’s house.”

“I don’t have a silver pitcher,” Duncan said.

“And I don’t want one. I’m not a dragon.” Angus took the pitcher of cream and lifted it to his lips, drinking it down so fast it dripped out the sides of his mouth and into his beard. “Milk from the earth. Clay from the soil.” His eyes lightened. “My thanks to you, dragon. I don’t need your gold or jewels.” He turned to Carys and motioned toward the arch. “Come see, Brightkin. You can ask me your questions and I’ll smell you a bit longer.”

She looked at Duncan. “Smell me?”

He shrugged. “It’s Angus.”

Duncan’s forgewas little more than a covered shack with open windows, a wood-shingled roof, and a massive pile of firewood sitting outside to feed the great billowing beast of a fire.

Throwing off his sheepskin cloak, Angus worked the bellows, shirtless and sweating, his hair bound back in a long braid and his beard sizzling as the sparks from the fire flew out.

“How does he not get burned?” Carys asked Cadell, who was sitting far closer to the fire than she was comfortable with.

Cadell turned to her, his face glowing and flushed from the flames. He looked as happy as a pig in mud. “The water follows him. I don’t think it’s even possible for an úruisg to be burned.”

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