by Kevin Hearne
“Do you know the answer?”
Oberon had a point (Why are we here? Bacon), but that wasn’t the kind of answer Herne needed. He wanted to hear the name of an old hunting partner with a legendary libido, so I said, “Whether in bedde or in feeld do ye meet, Flidais awaiteth your limbes to greet.”
At this, laughter erupted from the ghosts to the point where one of the hunters started coughing uncontrollably, which I thought completely bizarre since he no longer had a pulmonary system.
“Wait,” Granuaile said. “Flidais isn’t funny. I missed the joke. Why was that funny?” The easy grins of the hunters faded, replaced with a look of discomfort.
“If I explain it to you, then it won’t be.”
Granuaile noticed that the hunters now looked a bit embarrassed. “Do it anyway.”
“In Middle English, when referring to a man, a limb was a euphemism for a penis, and the verb gretan didn’t simply mean hello—it had a rather strong connotation of a sexual embrace. So I’m sorry to say I was being a bit crude.”
“Ooooohhh.”
“Perhaps more than a bit.”
Granuaile’s mouth tightened in prim disapproval, and she turned narrowed eyes on the hunters. One began to inspect his boots, and the other found something fascinating up in the sky. Herne abruptly decided that now would be a good time to pet his horse. They might speak Middle English, but it appeared they could follow Modern well enough, and Granuaile’s body language needed no translation. “I know all you boys are old school,” she said, waving her finger around to include me while looking at the hunters, “but let’s try to remember what century this is, shall we? Any ass you can kick, I can kick better, and so can Flidais.”
“Aye!” Herne barked, and glared at his men as if they had been the only ones laughing. Then he turned to us, smiled, and said, “Honored Druids, you are welcome to my forest.” His old diction sloughed away. “I have learned to speak Modern English over the years, so be at ease. You are my guests. Hunt or rest as it pleases you.”
Once he called us his guests, I finally understood what the Morrigan intended. Herne would take little to no convincing to join our side. His honor—his raison d’être—demanded that he protect both his forest and his guests.
“Is my hound a guest as well? He likes to hunt with us.”
“Aye, he is.”
I thanked him and said, “It is more likely that we will be hunted than have time to hunt anything else.”
Herne’s friendly smile disappeared. “Hunted? By whom?”
“Olympians. At least one is plaguing Albion even now—either Pan or Faunus.”
“The goat-footed god? He has passed through here recently.”
“And because of that we cannot shift to Tír na nÓg. He spreads pandemonium and upsets the order of Gaia, distresses the forest. He keeps us here so that Artemis and Diana can slay us.”
Herne scowled, and the cobalt eyes flared brighter for a moment. He dismounted and squatted, pressing the fingers of one hand into the earth. I noted that this process made no noise whatsoever—no creak of leather, no thump of foot on the forest floor. He and his companions made noise only when they wished to. After a few seconds of contemplation, Herne said, “It’s true. It’s not visible, but it can be felt. The goat disturbs my forest.” He looked up at me. “And they come to hunt my guests?”
“Aye. And it is not only your forest they disturb but all forests in Albion.”
“It shall not stand,” Herne vowed, rising. “My guests are few, and none have dared trespass on my goodwill for some time. No one attempts to hunt my forest anymore.”
That was more likely due to protections laid down by the Crown Estate than anything else, but if Herne wished to believe it was due to his badassery, I wouldn’t disabuse him of the notion.
“If any attempt it now, they shall feel my wrath. Rest now and recover your strength. Should Olympians appear to despoil my forest, day or night, we will ride.”
“My thanks. Um … forgive my ignorance, but do you have power to wound the corporeal?”
Herne stared at me in silence for a time, unable to believe I’d asked him, but then withdrew a knife from a sheath at his belt. It was barely visible, and its outlines were suggested only by reflected light. Stepping forward slowly, he raised it casually and pressed the point into my chest just enough to draw blood.
“Do you feel its bite?” he growled.
“Yes. Fair enough. I am answered.”
He nodded—a rather dangerous gesture when one is sporting antlers—and returned the knife to its sheath. I triggered my healing charm to close up the small wound.
One of Herne’s hunters spoke up suddenly, his voice surprisingly high and nasal and amused. “Ha! What means your hound to sniff thus?” he said. Herne and I turned our heads to discover Oberon with his nose snuffling at the rear end of a bewildered ghost hound.
I sighed. “Oberon, you’re embarrassing me.”
Chapter 22
Together we left the Home Park and ran southwest to the proper Windsor Forest, which was only a mile or two long these days. On the northeastern side of it there was an amusement park, which struck me as an odd juxtaposition. To a Druid, the forest was the amusement park.
Herne left us near the edge of a field in the middle of it, far from prying eyes, and told us he and his hunters would leave us for now.
“Again, you are welcome. Call my name if you need me,” he said. “Otherwise, rest or prepare yourselves as you will.”
We thanked him, and he faded out of sight as slowly as he had originally appeared. As soon as they were gone, Oberon flopped onto his back and said,
Granuaile laughed and knelt next to him to oblige. I smiled and took a look around. This wood was a comfortable place. Not sensual comfort of any kind—merely a quiet spot where we could repair and nurture those parts within us that had been damaged or neglected during the run. I approached an old beech tree twined with ivy, plucked a couple of strands, and plonked myself down on the ground next to Granuaile and Oberon. My hound twisted his head to see what I had in my hands.
“Arts and crafts,” I replied.
“I guess so.”
Granuaile shook her head. “You slept all day.”
She smiled, got to her feet, and then addressed me. “What are we going to do now?”
“Relax while we can. There are a few hours before dawn.”
“Shouldn’t we be preparing to meet two very pissed-off huntresses? Building booby traps or something like that?”
“Probably. But there is some time to be creative—or at least some time that I can steal—and so I’m going to take it. Ever notice how you never have time to do something until you decide that you do?” Granuaile peered at the twisted strands of ivy in my hands and looked doubtful that they could serve as anything beyond compost. “Come on. Sit back down for a sec.” I patted the ground next to me, on the side where Oberon wasn’t stretched out. She sighed and sat in the indicated spot, resting her staff on the ground. I smiled at her. “There. Isn’t this nice?”
She looked at the canopy above, with the moon peeking through the leaves, and listened to the soft whisper of the night from grasses in the nearby field. “I can’t argue the point. It’s lovely.”<
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“Gaia has left us wonder wherever we go, if we only open our eyes to it.”
“Oh, I agree.”
“Now, I know I am not much of a craftsman,” I said, busily knotting the vines into a circle, “but greatness is in the act of creation and not necessarily in the finished product. Creating is the yin to the yang of our consumption and the doorway to beauty that we all want to walk through. Creating is how I tell the world I love it.” I handed the completed wreath to Granuaile, and she smiled as she took it.
“You’re very sneaky, you know.”
“Am I?”
She placed the ivy wreath on her head. “I thought you were being philosophical, and then you pivoted to mushy.”
“I have +20 verbal dexterity.”
Granuaile leaned in for a kiss, but Oberon interrupted.
We were saved from both yak and further mush by the arrival of Flidais, who called to us from the small field and revealed herself when our eyes followed her voice.
“Well met, Druids.” Her tone mocked us gently. “Is it safe to approach?” She stood in her chariot, nearly identical to that of the Olympians in that it was pulled by stags. It wasn’t a flashy design, more utilitarian than anything else. I’m not sure how she had muffled the noise of her movement; we should have heard her coming. Or perhaps I’d been simply too absorbed in Granuaile.
I beckoned her over and we all rose from the ground to meet her, Oberon grumbling about naps he’d never get back. I cautioned him to keep his thoughts to himself, since Flidais could hear him if she wished. She was dressed for battle—that is, she had her standard hunting leathers and bow and quiver, but she also wore two long daggers for close work. One I had seen before but had thought it was purely ceremonial, for appearances at the Fae Court. Its handle was made of malachite and mother-of-pearl. Her hair bounced on her head in curly red ringlets and she appeared to be in a good mood, which put me on my guard. Though I currently thought Midhir was behind all this, Flidais had shown herself in the past to be a willing pawn of Brighid’s. I doubted she was truly our adversary, but neither did I trust her.
“How did you get here, if you don’t mind my asking?” I said as she approached. “The tethers are all shut down by pandemonium.”
The huntress shrugged. “I used an Old Way.”
I blinked. “It wasn’t guarded?”
“No. Why would it be?”
“Because they’re all guarded or destroyed. All across Europe.”
“Not the one I used.”
“Where is it?” I asked, because I couldn’t remember any in this vicinity.
“Underneath Windsor Castle, down amongst the earth left over from the days of William the Conqueror. It emerges in the dungeon or basement or whatever they call it these days. Is it catacombs?”
“It was probably the cellar,” I advised her. “How long ago did you use it?”
“Only minutes ago. I traveled directly here, because I was informed by Odin’s messenger that you were in some dire need.”
“Our dire need is to get off this plane. We have to escape the Olympians.”
“Ah, yes. I’ve heard you provoked them somehow and the Morrigan is dead as a result. What did you do?”
“I put Bacchus on one of the Time Islands.”
Flidais rolled her eyes. “That would do it. And for that the Morrigan is slain.”
Her comment stung, and I knew it would settle into a corner of my mind and leap out at me from time to time, stinging me anew, but I pretended that I felt nothing. “Can you take us to the Old Way?”
The expression of amusement faded. “Oh. I suppose.”
“What’s the matter?”
“When I received your message from Odin, I was rather hoping you’d asked me here to help you fight the Olympians.”
“If there wasn’t a way to avoid the fight altogether, that’s precisely what I would be asking, since you know this area better than anyone—with the possible exception of Herne. But I don’t relish standing toe-to-toe with a true immortal. I’d rather withdraw and try diplomacy.”
Flidais snorted. “The Olympians are not diplomatic—or haven’t you noticed? They talk through their differences only when killing isn’t the best option. Unless you can give them a good reason to let you live, you’re alive just until they catch up. Or as long as I’m fighting on your side.”
Ignoring her last comment, I said, “I might be able to think of something if we can get them to listen. Escaping the plane would take killing us off the table. They’d have to talk. Through intermediaries, of course.”
“You’d rather run?” Scorn thickened Flidais’s voice as she flirted with calling me a coward. “They are on our turf—or as close to our turf as we’re likely to get. Let us show them what the Irish think of their arrogance. We have some time to prepare. My divination says the Olympians are on their way but won’t be here until after dawn. We can give them a fight and win.”
It was gratifying to hear that her divination corroborated the evidence of my augury, but I said, “I prefer to live up to the fighting-Irish stereotype only when I’m cornered or when the odds are skewed in my favor. There’s no upside to taking them on, Flidais. They’re as fast as we are, if not faster. And, as you pointed out, they killed the Morrigan.”
“But because it was two against one, correct?”
I nodded, though I doubted it was true. From what I could tell, the Morrigan held them off and conducted a mental conversation with me for precisely as long as she wished. She died only when she stopped trying to live.
“We can do the same thing to them,” Flidais assured me, “one by one. Use the strategy their Roman puppet favored so much: divide and conquer.”
Or, I thought, you could be pretending to help us now, and then you’ll quietly sit back and do nothing while Artemis and Diana hunt us down. There was no proof Flidais wasn’t the one scheming against us, other than my vague inclination to view her as one who participated in the schemes of others rather than initiating them herself. But I voiced a different thought: “Why are you so anxious to meet them in battle? Might you have a personal agenda?”
Flidais scoffed. “I have never met them, so I don’t know what that could be.”
“You’re essentially the same goddess, except that they’re virgins and you’re not. Maybe you’re trying to prove that chastity is overrated.”
“That’s self-evident, Atticus,” Granuaile pointed out. “Or at least it is to everyone who’s enjoyed a good diddle.”
“She knows what I mean,” I said. “Perhaps Flidais is seeking validation that she’s better than the Olympians instead of pursuing the strategically wiser option.” She wouldn’t be able to dance around calling me a coward if I turned her eagerness for battle into self-aggrandizement.
Narrowing her eyes at me, Flidais let out a slow hiss of breath before saying, “All right, let’s go to the Old Way.” She waved at her chariot. “Follow and I’ll take you there.”
“Hold on,” I said. “How did you get that chariot and team up through the cramped cellar of Windsor Castle?”
“I didn’t.” She flicked a finger at her ride. “This is but one of many chariots I keep hidden throughout the isles. The stags live in the area and came when I called.”
That was far more sensible than what the Olympians were doing—but, then again, they couldn’t shift planes the way Flidais could, so it would make little sense for them.
We followed Flidais through the damp mist of the dark before dawn, the air like wet cloth on our faces. As we loped at an easy pace through the park, we stayed alert for any sign of the Olympians—or for any sign of betrayal.
We received a sign before we reached the castle. A dull thump pounded the air a half mile ahead of us, and a faint shock wave buffeted our faces soon afterward. We stopped running and watched a pale cloud of dust rise into the sky. It wasn’t difficult to discern the source. I hoped no one had been in residence.
Granuaile said, “Was that …?”
“An explosion? Yeah.”
We turned to Flidais and she shook her head. “It wasn’t me.”
“I didn’t say—”
“Speech wasn’t necessary. You think I arranged the destruction of the Old Way to keep us here.”
“No, I don’t. But someone else did. Someone from Tír na nÓg. Do you have any idea who might be responsible or who might have ordered such a thing?”
Flidais whirled on me with a flash of anger in her eyes. “Just what is it that you suspect of me?”
There was quite a long list, but voicing my suspicions would be counterproductive. I chose my words with care, leaving her little room to take offense or to escape telling me something useful.
“I suspect nothing, but I wonder plenty. If you have no ideas regarding who might have blown up part of Windsor Castle to prevent us using the Old Way to get back, then we are dealing with someone extremely clever. Who amongst the Tuatha Dé Danann would be able to arrange an explosion on this plane less than an hour after you used it? Or, more to the point, who was following you in Tír na nÓg and saw you leave that particular way?”
Flidais frowned at my last sentence. The idea that she might have been followed disturbed her more than anything else. The challenge faded from her eyes and she looked away, considering the problem.
“I suppose Ogma could have done it. His designs have been inscrutable for a long while.”
The thought chilled me but had occurred to me before. Granuaile gasped, because it hadn’t occurred to her.
Flidais continued, “But Midhir has been keeping to himself recently. He has a mind for such things. And he is a patron of that Fae lord you shamed during your visit to Court, the one in charge of the rangers. What did you call him?”
“Lord Grundlebeard.”
“That’s it.”
“What’s his real name?”
“I never knew it. The irony is that no one ever paid attention to him until you singled him out for ridicule. Everyone calls him Grundlebeard now.”