Page 76 of Beyond the Faerie Gate

Rhoswyn

Walking around the temple is strange. I’m used to human churches, designed to intimidate the villagers with their tall spires, screeching gargoyles, and blank-faced judgemental statues.

The open, circular courtyards Kitarni leads us through are the opposite of what I’m expecting. The creeping vines of Siabethan nightshade cover almost everything I see. It gives the place a colourful, wild look that’s accentuated by the scattered cushions and plush furs which are tucked into just about every corner. The overall impression is one of open invitation. As if the temple has been constructed to lure passers-by to slow down, sit, and relax amongst the sounds of water gurgling down the sides of stone fountains.

The Reverend went to great lengths to keep his congregation constrained to speaking only in hushed tones. It helped that his church echoed, magnifying the noise of anything or anyone who dared to break the worshipful silence. In contrast, the priests here seem to have taken every measure to eradicate silence completely. In the few places where the temple isn’t simply open to the sky, chimes have been hung from the ceiling. Their tinkling sounds add to the noise of the fountains to form a peaceful, unceasing background noise.

The ground in the centre of each round courtyard has been carved out, creating bowl-shaped amphitheatres. In the centre of these communal spaces, priests and priestesses sit cross-legged or kneel below the rest of their congregation, guiding small groups of fae sitting on the steps above them through meditations or reading from carefully handled scrolls. They’re so focused on what they’re doing that they don’t look up as Drystan, Kitarni, and I walk past on our way to find the rest of my Guard.

“You look confused, Nicnevin,” Kitarni observes.

I shake my head. “Why is the temple floor shaped like that?”

The dryad smiles. “Tell me, does support come from above or below?”

It’s an odd question and it catches me off guard. “From below, I suppose?”

“And would you feel more comfortable questioning someone, or approaching them for advice, if they were above you?”

I picture Reverend Michael in his pulpit and shake my head. The very thought of questioning someone lording over everyone like that is nerve-racking. Whereas, being above them…

“I see your point,” I concede. “But don’t you and the other priests feel uncomfortable being looked down on?”

Kitarni snorts. “Is the temple for the benefit of the clergy or the people?”

Without waiting for my answer, she pushes open a side door and leads us down another airy corridor. The door at the end opens to reveal a communal dining room. Everyone looks up as the door swings open, their eyes latching on to Kitarni and then me, standing slightly behind her. The noise of benches scraping back is deafening. A sudden silence replaces it as every single fae present abandons what they’re doing and drops into a deep bow.

It’s a grand gesture of respect, yet I can’t focus on any of them. My attention is fixated on the two males at the far end of the room. The only two people who haven’t risen to their feet. Jaro stares right back at me as he anchors my púca to his seat with a single, large hand on his shoulder.

Thank the Goddess. I’m not sure what I’d do if my Guard started standing and bowing whenever I walked into a room. Probably blush even more than I already do—if that’s even possible.

My púca—who’s hunched over in his seat like he wants to bow, even if he can’t stand up to do it—doesn’t look at me. Instead, he keeps his eyes glued to his plate.

The only way I know he’s noticed my presence at all is because the two velvety cat ears on the top of his head swivel to follow me as I walk between tables towards them.

Someone has given him clothes, though they’ve got more holes in them than any garment I’ve seen before. He wears no shirt, just a knee-length hooded coat, with slashes cut across the back. It’s sleeveless and the main panels of the garment are held together with loose crisscrossing laces beneath his arms and across his chest that expose even more of his skin.

The jacket alone shows off what must be hundreds of tattoos. A raven-like bird covers his left shoulder, its beak curving up along his neck and ending just beneath his ear. A snake wraps around his forearm, and the head of what looks almost like a panther peaks out around his abdomen.

I remember Jaro telling me that púcaí with two animals were more powerful than those with only one. He never mentioned anything about a púca with three.

Between the incredibly detailed art of his animals are hundreds of illustrations of knives. Different sizes, shapes… the only thing they have in common is that they’re bladed. Though knives dominate, there are exceptions. Over his heart is a lute, while a harp covers his ribs, and his collarbone is obscured by a fiddle.

His trousers have been similarly ripped, and I catch a glimpse of another knife inked onto his thigh before he moves, cutting short my examination.

The púca shrugs off Jaro’s hand and pushes to his feet, and then, just as swiftly, drops to his knees before me.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

There’s a collective intake of breath from the fae around us, but I can’t focus on them. I’m still trying to process his words.

Goddess, his voice is rough and scratchy, almost abrasive on my ears.

There’s no way that’s natural.

He’s still not looking at me, and it’s beginning to really get under my skin.

I sink to my knees before him, my wings brushing against the floor as I peer up into his face. The silence in the room becomes anticipatory as everyone watches the two of us, but I ignore everyone else as I stare at him. For a second, his bright green eyes meet mine, rounding comically in total shock before he averts them again.

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