by Kevin Hearne
It turns out that Owen had informed Brighid about Midhir’s death a couple of days ago, and, after a brief investigation, her initial suspicions had actually pointed at Manannan as the possible culprit. Discovering that it was Fand—and that she and the Fae had nursed their grievances in secret for so long—caused Brighid to wonder how she could have missed all this. And when she speculates aloud that her rivalry—no, her obsession—with the Morrigan blinded her to other problems and allowed them to fester unnoticed, I almost drop Scáthmhaide and applaud. A frank confession that the dark patches sometimes fall on her, too, is a welcome surprise, and I allow myself to hope that she will follow through and become a better leader. I know something of dark patches myself now. I feel a blossoming of respect for her, where formerly I had thought her petty and shortsighted. I think that others feel it as well—an almost palpable lifting of the mood a few notches above wailing and gnashing of teeth reminds us that we all used to be happy and maybe we would be again.
Atticus sabotages his own mood when he asks a random question: “By the way, Brighid, what happened to that manticore chained up in Midhir’s hall?”
Brighid draws her brows together and says, “Yes, I remember Owen warning me about the manticore, but I didn’t see one there or find any evidence that one had been held captive, aside from the mud pit.”
“No chains?”
“No.”
Atticus’s eyes say, “Oh, shit,” but his mouth says, “All right, good to know.”
“Come see me at Court in a few days, Siodhachan. I have other matters to discuss with you, but they can wait”—she pauses, and her voice drops until it’s almost inaudible—“until after we have buried the dead. Go and be safe in Gaia’s care.”
“You as well, Brighid.”
Owen decides to stay and help with all the dirty work and says he’ll meet us at the cabin when he’s finished. We’re about to bid farewell, when the air visibly ripples behind Brighid. I have seen that too often during my training to mistake it for anything but a Druid in camouflage. And I cannot imagine a reason for anyone to be in camouflage now unless they wished someone here ill. Adjusting my hands on Scáthmhaide to a two-handed grip, I leave Atticus and pad around Brighid, swinging hard at the leading edge of the disturbance once it gets in range. A startled squawk and a dull thud greet my ears as my arms tingle with the force of contact, and this is followed closely by another impact, as the recipient of my attention hits the ground and then appears at the feet of Brighid.
The body is a naked and bloody Fand, clutching Moralltach in her right hand. I had hit her on the head and knocked her unconscious. Had I not acted, she would have surely struck at Brighid’s unprotected neck. The Queen of the Faeries had shifted away, bided her time, and then shifted back in an attempt to assassinate Brighid in an unguarded moment.
I take a deep breath as it dawns on me that I just saved Brighid’s life.
The goddess in question turns upon hearing the noise and sees Fand lying there—everyone does. But reminders of what Fand has cost her quickly flash behind Brighid’s eyes, and she drops her helmet and draws her sword to do to Fand what Fand would have done to her.
Brighid swings down upon Fand’s head, Flidais cries, “No!” and the clang of metal on metal rings out as Brighid’s sword is halted by the blade of Fragarach.
Brighid’s eyes flash blue and turn upon my love, who has risen and advanced in time to prevent disaster.
“Siodhachan? Do you count yourself on the side of the traitors?”
Atticus replies, “You know I do not. I invoke the ancient privilege of Druids to offer advice to leaders of the people.”
“I did not solicit your advice.”
“I understand, Brighid, and of course you shall do as you will. But I ask you to hear me first and consider. Fand is currently no threat. There are iron nets in the trees nearby,” he says, jerking his head to the south, “and one can be fetched while we speak and render her impotent should she wake up.” I admire how Atticus addresses the heart of the matter and does not waste breath on peripherals, like how Fand came to be knocked unconscious in the first place. He focuses on the present and the future rather than the past. “There is time to hear me before you make a decision,” he adds.
Brighid withdraws her sword and says, “Very well.” She turns to Owen and speaks formally. “Eoghan Ó Cinnéide, I ask you to fetch one of these iron nets to bind Fand while I speak with Siodhachan Ó Suileabháin.” Atticus’s archdruid bobs his head and moves to obey without comment. Brighid turns back to Atticus with the force of command. “Deliver your advice, Druid.”
Perun walks over, bends down, and removes Moralltach from Fand’s grip, tossing it aside. Atticus takes a deep breath and speaks.
“Honored Brighid, it is my opinion that killing Fand now would only exacerbate the grievance that the Fae currently hold against you. You just finished speaking to the Fae of your willingness to become a better leader, and you showed them mercy. You would therefore do damage to your own reputation by not showing mercy here. You have the opportunity to wrap Fand in iron and neutralize her while in the meantime solidifying your own power as a just and benevolent leader. And leaving an avenue open by which Fand may one day be redeemed would endear you to Manannan Mac Lir and Flidais, who have both served you faithfully already in this matter.”
Brighid’s head turns to regard Flidais, Fand’s mother. The two of them have been friends for uncounted centuries. They worked together to put me through the Baolach Cruatan when I was first chosen to be a Druid initiate. Flidais had even taken a couple of shots at Fand at Brighid’s request. A long history lies exposed between them, an ineffable trust and love in that meeting of eyes. And, in that moment, I know that Brighid cannot execute Fand, no matter how betrayed she feels.
Atticus makes gigantic mistakes at times. But there are also times like this one when he makes of his life a poem and achieves an apotheosis of sorts, when his years manifest as wisdom and he spies a path forward that no one else sees until he points it out. And in this case that means not allowing swords to fall where they may. Brighid swings her head back to Atticus and speaks in a soft voice.
“You counsel prudence and thoughtful consideration.”
“It is no more than you would counsel yourself, were you at Court and not on the field of battle,” Atticus says.
Brighid nods. “You advise me well, Druid.”
Atticus’s archdruid returns with the iron net and spreads it over Fand, as Flidais draws near. Brighid speaks to him in three voices: “Go with Flidais and imprison Fand humanely in a place the two of you shall decide. She shall not have access to the Fae, but neither shall she suffer physical torment. Agreed?”
The two of them give their verbal agreement, and in Tír na nÓg such words are far more binding than a right hand over a Bible. The archdruid gathers up the body of Fand, and Flidais accompanies him to the canopy of trees where they can shift away. I don’t know where they’re going, but I foresee tension between Flidais and Manannan and Brighid regardless of the destination. On the one hand, Brighid can say to them both, “Fand is toast for treason!” but, on the other, the two of them could call in innumerable favors for centuries of service to the First among the Fae.
I wouldn’t want to walk in any of their shoes—that is, if any of them wore shoes. I only want to be with Atticus and the hounds again. Fortunately, he is of the same mind.
“It was kind of you to hear me,” he says to Brighid. “If you have no more need of me now, I will retire and call upon you soon at the Fae Court.”
She bows her head at him and says, “Go, Siodhachan, and may Gaia guide your steps.”
Thus dismissed, we walk toward the trees so that we can shift to earth.
“We can’t go back to the cabin yet,” I whisper to Atticus as we near the oaks. “We have to talk somewhere else. I promise there’s a good reason why.”
He shrugs and says, “Okay. I’m sure the hounds will be fine for a little wh
ile longer. Where do you want to go?”
“Costa Rica. Can I take you there?”
“Sure.”
I clasp his hand and shift us to the Monteverde Cloud Forest Reserve, a moss-covered jungle of birdcalls in the mist, redolent of orchids and the flowers of other epiphytes. Atticus smiles and draws a deep breath.
“Good call,” he says. “It’s been too long since my last visit.”
“Okay, don’t freak out when you see me.”
He pauses for a few beats before saying, “You’re scaring me, but all right.”
I drop my invisibility and Atticus flinches the tiniest bit when he lays eyes on me, but he keeps his mouth closed for a few seconds as he assesses the bruises.
“I certainly hope whoever did that to you is dead,” he finally says.
“It is.”
“It?”
“Long story. Let’s find someplace to sit and I’ll tell you.” We descend into a valley and find a couple of lichen-frosted boulders sticking up out of a river. We sit down, lean our weapons against the rocks, and—with the sounds of flowing water and treetop monkey arguments swirling around us—I pour out all that happened to me since I last saw him in Thanjavur and he suggested that I seek out the yeti: my father’s death and my brief visit with my mother; Laksha’s new body; the creation of Fuilteach and its loss to Loki; the Lost Arrows of Vayu, now in Loki’s possession; and the indelible mark on my arm that meant I couldn’t be divined any longer—a definite plus—but that also meant I couldn’t stay anywhere without endangering everyone around me.
“If I stay at the cabin for any length of time, Loki will know that’s where I live and that’s where you probably live too. And he wants to kill you, Atticus.”
“Let him come,” he says. “Loki is a shitty swordsman, and his fire can’t hurt me. I’ve got the green light from the gods now to take him out, and Hel too.”
“He might have been faking his poor swordsmanship as well—wait, which gods?”
“Nine of the biggies, plus we have the Olympians waiting outside the ring to be tagged in.”
“But if he comes with Vayu’s arrows, he’ll shoot you and can’t miss.”
“Yes, he can. You fool enchantments like that by shape-shifting and removing the original target. Odin tossed Gungnir at me once and whiffed.”
That’s a relief to hear, but I’m not sure Atticus is taking the danger seriously. “But Loki can set the cabin on fire,” I point out, “or the whole forest, for that matter. Threaten the hounds.”
“Granuaile, I understand, believe me. We’ll take precautions, of course—you can ward against almost anything if you really want to. But I don’t think we have to worry about a frontal assault. It’s not Loki’s style to threaten you with something and follow through on it. His style is to say one thing and then do some other sneaky thing while you’re looking the wrong way.
Right?”
“I guess …”
“Let’s not uproot ourselves because of his threats or, worse yet, live separately and alone in paranoia. I’ve had more than enough of that. And much as I’d like to talk him and Hel out of their desire to burn the world, recent events demonstrate that I’m absolute rubbish at diplomacy. So let’s prepare instead to kick his ass, Fierce Druid,” he says, and I cannot help but smile. I think a certain amount of this is bravado for my benefit, but if we are truly free now to deal with Loki as we choose, we might have some allies that he would never consider, and I warm to the idea.
“Tell me, Atticus, who would win in a fight—Loki’s fire or the frost magic of five yeti?”
I am unsure why modern men are so reluctant to admit that they enjoy snuggling. When they scoff at it or claim to despise it, they’re lying, of course, trying to conform to some bullshit code of machismo. Regardless of one’s lifespan, there are few pleasures in it like a lazy morning under comfy blankets with someone you love. Granuaile’s soft smile and the early beams of sunlight on her freckled cheeks, all healed now, were so beautiful that I suspected that my day had already been made. In fact, odds were that it wouldn’t get any better, so I enjoyed the view while I could and felt grateful to be alive. Moments like that never grow old.
The moment ended, however, when the hounds demanded attention after completing their morning stretches and suggested with the force of command that we should all go running in the forest. When we didn’t respond with sufficient eagerness, they leapt onto the bed and delivered a punitive slobbering.
“Gah!” Granuaile spat. “All right, Orlaith, I’m getting up! Or I will if you let me! Let’s go.”
We tiptoed out of the cabin together so as not to disturb Owen, who had returned from Tír na nÓg last night after a week of service to Brighid and Manannan, then gone into town and gotten hammered before crashing on our couch. The chill air of a November dawn felt bracing, and I relished a carefree romp after weeks of stress and uncertainty.
“I’m feeling a bit of Touchstone this morning,” I said to Granuaile as the hounds bounded forth in a playful lope, knowing we’d catch up. She grinned at me.
“Are you, now? The clown from As You Like It? Go on, then, let’s hear it.”
I cleared my throat, placed one hand over my heart and raised the other in front of me in the likeness of a terrible actor, and pronounced with suitable melodrama: “We that are true lovers run into strange capers; but as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal in folly.”
“Ah, well done,” Granuaile said. “Let me see.” Her eyes smiled at Oberon and Orlaith nipping at each other under the trees. “I think I am in a slightly different mood. I’m looking forward to the four of us running together again, now that we are all fully recovered. And so I answer you with Whitman: I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contain’d, / I stand and look at them long and long.”
Such perfection of thought and sentiment passing over shining lips had to be acknowledged. “I love you,” I said.
“I know,” she replied, and then laughed because she got to deliver the Han Solo line. “Catch me if you can.” She shifted to a jaguar and shot into the forest, purposely plowing between Oberon and Orlaith to trigger their instinct to give chase. I shifted to a wolfhound and joined in the fun, our tails wagging and tongues lolling as we wove through the pine and spruce and white-barked trees and our paws stirred drifts of fallen aspen leaves.
That was one of my finer mornings in recent memory. That we lived it under the threat of Loki showing up at any time did not diminish it in the slightest.
In fact, in one sense, that may have made it even better. I have spent so much of the past few hundred years running away whenever I sensed a threat that I forgot how good it feels to be rooted. And to be rooted is not the same thing at all as being tied down. To be rooted is to say, here am I nourished and here will I grow, for I have found a place where every sunrise shows me how to be more than what I was yesterday, and I need not wander to feel the wonder of my blessing. And when you are rooted, defending that space ceases to be an obligation or a duty and becomes more of a desire. I was feeling that way about our cabin in Colorado. Snow would fall soon, vast white blankets of it, and we probably needed to find a different place to winter, but I would lay down plenty of wards on the cabin before we left. I wanted to enjoy more mornings like that one.
Even Owen, when we returned, had nothing negative to say over breakfast. I was reluctant to broach the subject of settling him elsewhere, because the pleasantness would evaporate when I did. It turned out the evaporation was to come from another source entirely: a call from Hal Hauk.
“We need to talk,” he said. “The Tempe police are asking about your past again.”
“Aren’t I supposed to be dead to them?” I said. “Atticus O’Sullivan died years ago according to the American authorities.”
“Yeah, that’s why they’re talking to me, because they’ve heard from another source that you’re still alive, and they’re kind of curious as to whether i
t’s true and, if so, where you are.”
“Oh, splendid,” I said. “All right, give me three hours.”
“How about you give me three hours instead? It’s a full moon tonight and we have to get out of town anyway. Thought I’d bring my people up to join with Sam and Ty in Flagstaff. Meet you at their place?”
“All right, that sounds good.”
Owen was as anxious to see Sam and Ty again as we were to leave him there. Almost as soon as we arrived, he went out to the forest with much of the Tempe pack and all of the Flagstaff pack for another round of friendly brawling with Ty. I noticed that Greta went with them, and I believe I saw her smile for the first time: It was when she laid eyes on Owen. I privately bet that he would decide to settle in Arizona somewhere and hoped that harmony had finally found them both.
Hal and Farid remained behind in the house with Granuaile, the hounds, and me. Granuaile and I sat across the kitchen table from Hal, who slapped a manila folder down on the table between us. Farid was keeping the hounds’ attention in the food-prep area by marinating a massive amount of tri-tip and whipping up sundry side dishes for two hungry werewolf packs. Regardless of what news Hal had for me, at least lunch would be brilliant.
“Remember that accountant you told me about, Craig Black?” Hal growled. “The guy who’s in charge of the bulk of your fortune?”
Something in my gut twisted and made a tiny noise. This wasn’t going to be good. “Yes?” I said, reaching for the folder.
