Badbh opened her arms to the human girl. “Welcome, young one.” Her voice carried like mist across the damp grass.
The girl stopped, startled by the greeting. She stared wide-eyed at Badbh, her mouth hanging slightly open.
“Come, come,” Badbh motioned her forward.
“You want me here?” The girl took a few uncertain steps closer.
Badbh’s smile grew wider. “What reason would I have to turn away your company?”
The girl looked around the empty garden, and even glanced behind her. She looked befuddled. Badbh wondered if she might have escaped from some nearby prison or asylum. Perhaps it was only chance that brought this youngling to the Black Pool.
But then the girl turned back to face Badbh with a new confidence. She stood tall on the pavement and lifted her chin to speak.
“I am Tara,” she announced.
Badbh winced at the misappropriation of the ancient name. It did not fit her. But Badbh would draw her out.
“You are welcome, Tara,” the goddess replied. “What brings you to the Black Pool?”
An excited smile flashed across the girl’s features. Badbh watched as Tara took a quick breath and worked to get control of her emotions.
“I am a witch, come to Ireland from America.”
Badbh nodded at the strange and pompous introduction. She had no idea where this America was, but it was obvious the human believed it to be of some importance. Badbh decided she did not care for the lazy twang of the girl’s speech, but she was curious about this word, Ireland. A bastardization of Éireann? Much had changed since Badbh had gone to ground.
She studied the girl, this Tara witch, looking for any hint of power in her. There was none.
“I see,” Badbh said at last.
Tara the Witch from America took a bold step closer. “I have come to the Black Pool to embrace the spirit of Ireland. I wish to make the acquaintance of the resident powers here, to make sure I don’t cause any offense with my own magickal work in your territory.”
Badbh smiled at the girl’s words, spoken with a naïveté that bordered on arrogance. “Anything else?”
“I, uh,” the girl stammered and fidgeted with her clothing. Badbh inclined her head and encouraged her to continue. She was looking forward to what might spring next from her young lips.
“I think I want to help you,” Tara said.
“Is that so?” Badbh replied with a warm smile. “And how do you propose to do that?”
“I was thinking you would tell me.” Tara shifted her weight from one foot to the other, and then back again. She took another step forward. “I know this place is more than just a body of water where the Vikings founded Dubh Linn. You must know how it’s grown into the city of Dublin.”
Tara gestured in a wide circle. Badbh was beginning to lose patience with the human child.
Tara took another step forward. “I know that this is the site of your sacred cauldron. You’re the keeper of the cauldron of death and rebirth,” the girl said with quickening breath. “You’re one of the sisters of The Morrigan. All of the faerie souls of Ireland must return to you, to spring forth again from your enchanted waters.”
Badbh narrowed her eyes. Faerie. She turned the word over in her mind and decided she didn’t care for it.
Tara gestured at the grass. “Of course, it’s all filled in now . . .”
“Tuatha de Danann,” Badbh said, more to get the gritty feel of the other word out of her head than to correct Tara the Witch from America. “Vanir.”
“Vanir,” Tara repeated. “Sally keeps talking about the Vanir. And their cousins, the Æsir.”
Badbh’s eyes grew wide with rage. “You will not speak to me of the Æsir!” she hissed. Tara fell back a few paces.
“If not for their blood-thirst and their mad desire to posses Vanaheim, none of this would be here!” Badbh swept her arms wide toward the castle grounds and the city beyond.
“I’m really sorry.” The girl’s voice trembled.
Badbh shook her head. “It is I who must apologize. To you for my outburst, and to my people for not standing my ground and for allowing this to happen.”
The goddess sat down in the grass and covered her face with her hands.
“Are you crying?” Tara asked as she took a few steps closer. She paused at the edge of the grass.
Badbh looked up at the gray blanket of clouds. The girl was tantalizingly close.
“I am alone here,” Badbh whispered.
“No!” Tara stumbled over the edge of the grass. A prickly shiver of electricity raced up Badbh’s spine. She frowned. The self-proclaimed witch had no real power. She didn’t belong.
“You’re not alone,” Tara tried to reassure her. “The faeries—the Tuatha de Danann. They’re all over the city. They’re practically tearing the place apart.”
“I know this,” Badbh responded without the pretense of patience. “They come within range of this castle, as the humans call it,” she looked at the surrounding buildings with unveiled disdain. “But they will not come to the Black Pool. They will not come to my cauldron to be reborn.”
Tara maintained a respectful distance and sat down in the grass. She glanced around the grounds of Dublin Castle. “An awful lot has happened. It’s been centuries since the Vikings, and even that was long after your time.”
“I am aware of this.” Badbh sighed in irritation.
Tara fell silent, and Badbh could see the gears turning in the girl’s mind.
“Hang on a second,” Tara interrupted the sound of gentle rainfall. “Faeries don’t like iron, do they?”
Badbh gave her a hard look. Tara shrugged. “Vanir, I mean. Tuatha de Danann.”
“It is off-putting to my kind,” Badbh replied. “But not impossible to cross. My people would find a way around it.”
“Okay, so it’s not the iron.” Tara looked away again as she lost herself in thought. “Or maybe, not just the iron.”
Badbh dug her clawed hands into the thick, wet grass that hid her cauldron below. She felt the waters roiling beneath her, calling for the Tuatha de Danann to be renewed in Badbh’s well. A single, smoky tear trickled down Badbh’s aged cheek.
“I’ve got it!” Tara exclaimed.
Badbh bristled at the outburst. “What is it that you have?”
“Okay, I may not have the timing exactly right . . .” She climbed to her feet and turned slowly on her heel as she regarded the castle grounds. “This really did used to be a castle.”
The girl walked toward the edge of the grass, and for a desperate second Badbh thought she might step back onto the pavement and leave the garden altogether. But Tara paused, then turned back to face the goddess.
“Prisoners were held inside the castle. There was a lot of religious persecution.” Tara made a sour face. “It got pretty bloody.”
“I am familiar with the concept,” Badbh commented.
“Right, but here they, uh, they executed people.” Tara balled her hands into loose fists. “They chopped off the heads of the traitors, or the people they thought were traitors. And they mounted their heads on the castle gates. You know, like on pikes?”
Tara looked to Badbh for permission to continue. Badbh nodded.
“That could be it,” Tara said. “The pain and fear of all the people who were held here, and then that would come out in their blood as it dripped out of their heads and ran down the bars of the gate . . .” Tara shuddered.
Badbh rose to her feet. “Sacrificial blood.” Could the blood of terrified humans have mixed with the iron’s repellant force to keep her kin from the Black Pool, and to keep her prisoner all these centuries?
“It makes for some of the strongest magick.” Badbh said.
Tara held up her hands. “That’s really not anything I know about. I steer completely clear of any and all dark magick.”
“It is not a matter of darkness and light,” Badbh interrupted. “But this blood, you say, was given unwillingly?”
“Yeah,” Tara replied with a hint of relief. “I’m thinking the blood did a number on the iron . . .”
Badbh raised a hand for Tara to be silent, but the girl kept talking.
“Maybe there’s a way to counteract that? Because I doubt there was any deliberate spell anyone used back then—or maybe they did! People were pretty superstitious in those days. Would they have been worried about fae—, the Tuatha de Danann getting into the castle?” Tara prattled on without pausing for breath. “I guess it could be, if like the queen or someone—because wasn’t it Elizabeth I of England at that time ordering all the persecutions and stuff? I mean, if someone was worried about her safety, because I could understand why the local sprites might want to harass her, since the English were technically an occupying force at that time—”
“One of many in Vanaheim’s long memory,” Badbh offered, but Tara’s history lesson continued.
“So maybe someone did put some sort of spell out there when they were piking all the heads, so that when the blood touched the iron, it made it impossible for the f—, sorry, for the Vanir or whoever to get in.” Tara paused and looked at Badbh.
“You must have been really lonely in here all by yourself,” the girl offered.
You have no comprehension of loneliness, Badbh thought.
“Now, a willing sacrifice—” Badbh began, but Tara launched again into her own commentary.
“Because it’s really a matter of intention, right? I mean, that’s what I always focus on when I do my magick. Intention has to be at the heart of it, because otherwise, what’s the point? You know?” Tara actually winked at Badbh. “If we could do something that was really intentional, then we could probably undo whatever hex or whatever is holding all of your people back.”
Tara smiled. “And then you wouldn’t be lonely any more. The Tuatha de Danann could come back to the Black Pool. It would be a big reunion.”
“You offered to lend your assistance,” Badbh suggested.
“Yeah!” Tara nearly leapt in the air. “Anything to do real magick in Ireland.”
Anything. Badbh smiled. She walked toward Tara, her arms open.
12
Freya was at the head of the pack as they raced down O’Connell Street toward the bridge.
“Once we reach the gates,” Freya called out, “everyone just stay back.” She glanced sideways at her brother who was keeping pace with her. “That includes you, too.”
“Like that’s going to happen.”
They dodged cars and pedestrians that had neither traffic lights nor garda to direct them.
“Freyr, please,” she panted. “Don’t make this worse than it already is.”
“I know what the stakes are.”
Freya hoped that was true. If Loki was right, they had the means to drive Badbh back underground. But if he was wrong, and if this particular sister of The Morrigan succeeded in calling the Tuatha de Danann to the Black Pool to be renewed, Freya didn’t want to think about what might come next.
Heimdall pushed his way forward between the twins. “Sorry to intrude. But you know I have to ensure there’s no kind of conspiring going on.”
Freyr sighed angrily. “You’d think you’d know by now we’re the last ones you have to worry about.”
“You’re as dear to me as my blustering brother back there.” Heimdall hooked a thumb behind him in Thor’s direction, where the god of thunder could be heard above the traffic noise giving Niall an angry but sage lecture about honoring his own ancestry and embracing his natural talents.
“But you haven’t exactly been forthcoming with the salient details of our situation,” Heimdall said.
Freya turned to Heimdall as they approached the bridge. “I hope you’re beginning to understand why . . .”
Her voice trailed off as they arrived at the head of the bridge. The crossing was uncharacteristically empty of both pedestrians and vehicles.
A two-headed, purple water dragon raged in the river below.
“Well,” Freyr announced with a deflated sigh. “This is unexpected.”
Thor stepped up beside his cousin. He watched the dragon as it spewed water into the air with one head and belched out a fireball with the other, turning the water fountain into a thick cloud of steam.
He tapped his foot on the pavement, where some clever urchin had spray-painted “TROLL BELOW” in bright orange letters.
“More like a water dragon newling,” Thor snorted.
“A newling?” Heimdall asked. “Are you sure?”
The two-headed dragon performed the same water-fountain-steam trick, then slapped its long, scaled tail hard against the water and sent a violent wave up the river to harass the few boats still moored beneath the city’s many bridges.
Thor gestured toward the creature. “See? It’s playing.”
Thor marched forward and began to cross the bridge. The dragon swung one of its massive heads up to face him.
“Thor!” Heimdall yelled. “Get back!”
Thor turned to his brother and laughed. “What’s it going to do? Get me wet?”
Wearing a wide grin, he rested his hands on the bridge’s stone railing and watched as the playful dragon puffed out one set of cheeks and prepared to blow on him.
“Harmless fun! It’s actually kind of cute.” Thor chuckled and gestured toward the dragon, which was rearing back its head to better target Thor.
Freyr sprinted forward and tackled Thor to the pavement just as the dragon released a thick tongue of fire over the top of the railing.
Freyr scrambled to his feet. “Just going to get you wet, eh?”
Thor looked at the blackened stone in disbelief, then followed Freyr off the bridge. The dragon slapped its tail against the water in delight and made a rattling crooning sound like a drunken foghorn.
Heimdall grabbed Thor by the front of the shirt. Even though Heimdall was shorter and more slender, Thor didn’t fight his brother’s authority.
“That’s the last time you do that, you understand?” Heimdall yelled into Thor’s beard. “You do not go charging into unknown territory or sketchy situations without a plan. Not on my watch.”
“Yeah, okay.” Thor shrugged out of his brother’s grip. “But to be fair, pretty much every situation here is sketchy.”
Heimdall gritted his teeth. “That’s kind of my point.”
“Oh.” Thor straightened the fabric of his shirt and turned to Freya. “You got any idea how to handle a two-headed water dragon newling that likes to spit fire at anyone trying to cross the bridge?”
“Well, there are other bridges,” Freyr replied.
Freya opened her mouth to counter her brother’s wisecrack, but then cocked her head to one side. “That’s not the worst plan.”
She looked west toward the Ha’Penny and Millennium Bridges, but the water dragon’s sinewy body roiled beneath the Liffey’s surface as far as she could see.
“Newling or not, that thing is huge,” she said.
“Down the river then.” Freyr stepped off the curb and crossed the street heading east.
“Try the Butt Bridge,” Niall slid between Sally and Loki as they followed Freyr.
“Perfect,” Thor hissed at the back of the pack. He grabbed Phelan by the elbow to keep the pooka from lagging behind or possibly trying to escape again. “Because of a baby dragon with heartburn, we have to divert in the opposite direction of where we need to go and use a river crossing named after someone’s backside.”
“The bridge is named for Isaac Butt, who was the leader of Ireland’s Home Rule movement,” Niall corrected him. “The original was a steel swivel bridge that opened in 1879—the same year that Isaac Butt passed.”
Still holding onto Phelan, Thor grabbed Niall by the shoulder and spun him around. “I don’t need a bleeding history lesson about the many fascinating bridges of infernal Dublin right now. All right?”
Niall swallowed hard, then gestured toward Sally. “I was just, I mean, she was saying earlier how she w
anted to know more about the city, to understand the nuances of the energy that might be at work—”
With an angry huff, Thor released Phelan and pushed past Niall and Sally to catch up to Freyr, Freya, and Heimdall at the front of the pack.
Phelan patted Niall on the shoulder. “I thought it an admirable explanation.”
Niall turned away from the pooka. “Don’t patronize me, goblin.”
“You well know I’m not a goblin!” Phelan protested as he followed behind. “It’s a racial stereotype, and it’s entirely undeserved. Even the word pooka inspires a certain connotational fear that engenders bias. My people prefer the term Shapeshifting Tuatha, or more generally Native Éireann.”
“I appreciate the thought, Niall.” Sally quickened her pace to catch up to the others. “Maybe another time?”
“Because faeries are people, too, you know?” Phelan continued. “We don’t harbor any fantasies about securing home rule for ourselves or anything unrealistic like that. The humans are here to stay. We’ve come to accept that. But that doesn’t mean we don’t deserve the same rights, and even the same representation in government—if you get my meaning—as the rest of you.”
“Can someone get that pooka to shut up?” Thor growled.
“I hear the native peoples of the Americas were able to secure some measure of compensation and accommodation for themselves,” Phelan continued. “Paltry though those concessions may yet be. But the Tuatha have been waiting ever so much longer, and we feel—rather, those of us in the Coexistence Movement feel—that there is a peaceable and permanent solution to be found that will benefit everyone. Humans and faeries alike, if you’ll pardon the vernacular. Some of my kind object strongly to such a term, but I say own it! Take a traditional slur, a term of ridicule and derision, and elevate it. Wear it as a badge of honor. Don’t be ashamed of who you are—”
Sally looked back at Phelan in disbelief. “There’s a faerie Coexistence Movement?”
Loki turned to the pooka. “Your sentiments are well expressed and deserve a thorough hearing. Perhaps after we rectify this situation with Badbh and prevent her from raising an army of reborn Vanir warriors?”
The Black Pool (Valhalla Book 3) Page 15
