by Kevin Hearne
If I did, you would just use it on squirrels. Is it all clear out there?
Granuaile raised her head and opened her eyes.
“You were right, sensei. A numbing agent and a neurotoxin. Olympia spotted it and broke it down, though. Now I can feel where he got me.”
“He was waiting for you to fall down like that so he could finish you. Can you move again?”
“Yeah,” she said, waggling her fingers, “I think so.”
“Good to hear. Pull this arrow out of my back, will you?”
“What? I didn’t even see that!”
“Had it camouflaged.” Despite having the pain under control, I winced when she yanked it out. There simply wasn’t anything comfortable about the feeling. “Thanks,” I said, and began to close up the wound. “Pack your things. We have to get out of the area before we have more assassins than we can deal with.”
Leaning her staff against the wall of the cave, she moved to comply, albeit with a slight limp. “Where will we go?”
“Back to Tír na nÓg for a brief while. Someone there is not only helping assassins find us, but they’re colluding for some reason with the dark elves. It’s a mystery worth investigating.”
“When will we continue my binding?”
“As soon as we can. Believe me, I want it over with as much as you do.”
Chapter 12
I have seen children play a game of tag in which they can’t be tagged if they’re touching “base,” which may be a tree, or an old tire, or any other object. It is a safe zone—a place where one can catch his breath and maybe throw a taunt or two at whoever is “it.”
Irish base is the plane of Mag Mell. There is no discord allowed. Fae assassins would not dare defile it. One can relax there, heal there, and even practice the damnable art of diplomacy if so inclined. That is where I took Granuaile and Oberon once we shifted away from Olympus. I created a tether to Tír na nÓg first using the tree in front of the cave—it would be senseless to try to hike back, wounded as we were and under the eye of a flying sniper—and once we shifted to Tír na nÓg, I pulled us a bit farther along the tether to Mag Mell.
The blood on our bodies startled and angered some of the Fae nymphs at the hot springs of Cnoc an Óir at first, but when we made it clear it had been shed elsewhere and we had come only to heal, they were polite, even solicitous, and asked how they could help. I asked them to take messages to Goibhniu and Manannan Mac Lir in Tír na nÓg, imploring them to visit me at the springs on a matter of some urgency. Bless them, they sent two nymphs straightaway, and the rest of them offered carved soaps and bandages and invited us to soak in the restorative hot springs.
The grounds around the springs were lined with spongy turf; verdant hedges grown for the sake of privacy separated individual soaking pools. There were larger pools available for parties of two or more, and it was into one of these that Oberon and I eased. Granuaile was led to a single pool nearby but well out of sight.
It isn’t that I can’t stand the sight. The problem is that part of me would stand very tall. And it wouldn’t matter how much I thought about baseball either. Hmm. Maybe I should try thinking of a geriatric hockey game. Very cold and lots of broken hips. That might work.
Oberon snorted.
I’m trying not to get in the habit with her, Oberon.
No, I don’t. Well, I do, but you see, I can’t, and … it’s complicated.
I sighed. Maybe you’re right.
A nymph approached but kept a safe distance, then informed me that Goibhniu was on his way. I thanked her and she left.
Brewers are craftsmen to be envied, and Goibhniu is one of the finest. His daily work is easily tested and tasted, and unlike, say, one of those people who greet you in a soulless big box store, he can point to the produce of his labor and say, “There. I made that.” These days he has a taproom next to his smithy (for he is also an extremely accomplished blacksmith), and he is often found behind the bar, pulling pints for people and grinning as he serves up his latest creation. I have always liked him. Then again, it’s difficult to dislike a man who takes pleasure in giving away free beer.
“Siodhachan!” he bellowed good-naturedly, striding toward me across the turf. He was dressed in a simple brown tunic with white knotwork and a cream-colored belt. He carried a big dark bottle in each hand. His arms were thrown wide, giving the impression that he wished to hug me with beer—a poster boy for the idea that Beer Is Love. “Good to see you outside the bloody Fae Court! You simply must try a draught of my latest.” He sat down cross-legged at the edge of my pool and popped off the top of one bottle with his thumb and a subtle unbinding. He handed it to me and then opened the other. “I call it my Bagpipe Porter. A steady note of sonorous malt with top notes of clove and vanilla dancing a jig along the sides o’ your tongue.”
“Good health and harmony,” I said, raising my bottle to him. He clinked the neck and echoed me, then we enjoyed a few delicious swallows. “Magnificent,” I told him.
“Yes, isn’t it?” Goibhniu smirked at his own narcissism. “If only there were a bard to catalog all the fine beers I’ve made. Alas!” He stopped mocking himself and turned serious. “But I’ve been summoned with a note of urgency. What is the matter?”
“Someone in Tír na nÓg is after us. Granuaile’s binding was interrupted by a group of Fae assassins—yewmen and some lesser Fae.”
“No! Is she all right?”
“Healing. A pool or two that way.” I hooked a thumb to my left. Goibhniu frowned, his eyes flicking down to my shoulder.
“I see the remains of a wound there, if I’m not mistaken,” he said.
There was little visible beyond a pink puckering now, but among Druids that was telltale enough. “Aye. Arrow from ambush.”
“Whoever did it will ne’er get another drink from me,” he said.
“That is just and thoughtful of you,” I said. “But I wondered if perhaps you and your brother might be up for a bit of a challenge.”
“Which brother?”
“Luchta.”
“A challenge, ye say?” Goibhniu’s eyes glinted. “Haven’t had one o’ those in some time.”
“We haven’t had a new Druid in some time either,” I said. “I was thinking perhaps the occasion should be marked by a new Fae weapon.”
The corners of Goibhniu’s mouth drooped. “Not another sword?”
“No, your brother Luchta will do the bulk of it. Granuaile prefers the staff. Not the wizard’s sort, but the fighting sort. A quarterstaff. Can you craft it in such a way that one end is inlaid with iron to strike against the Fae and the other inlaid with silver to dissuade werewolves and their ilk?”
The smith’s expression lit up. “Ah! That would be something new! It must be both light and strong, of course, specially bound to resist shattering and splintering. Working the metal into either end must serve both functionally and aesthetically to deserve the Fae name.”
“I daresay it would be a challenge for both of you. There are no templates for such craft.”
“I think you are right, Siodhachan!”
“Add such enchantments as you think are fit and meet, and it will be a legendary weapon the likes of which the world has never seen.”
“Indeed! It has been too long since the Tuatha Dé Danann have crafted something worthy of legend.” He shot me a wry grin. “Aside from my ales, of course.”
“Of
course.”
Goibhniu pounded the rest of his porter at an alarming rate and then wiped a wee bit of foam off his upper lip. “I must discuss this with Luchta immediately.” He got up and brushed dirt off his breeches.
“Wait. Shouldn’t we discuss payment?”
“Ha! Is not the challenge payment enough? And considering how much trouble you tend to get in whenever you show your face in public, I imagine your apprentice will do the same; thus she will bring me fame for ages to come. Nay, Siodhachan, it’s entertainment and sops for my ego that I lack, not money, so I think you’ve paid me—and I daresay my brother—well already in the bargain. We will work on it forthwith!”
I bade Goibhniu farewell and another nymph appeared, very sorrowful, with what she thought was very bad news. “Manannan Mac Lir is not to be found at the moment. He is in the ocean somewhere but is due to return soon. His wife, Fand, invites you to their home to wait.”
“Excellent. I think we will do that.” I smiled at her to indicate my gratitude.
Indeed. Feel like barking at Granuaile to let her know we’re leaving?
Feeling better and much refreshed, we shifted back to Tír na nÓg to visit Manannan. Fand was waiting for us outside the doors. When she saw Granuaile’s limp, she said, “You poor children! Do come in and tell me all about it!”
“If you don’t mind terribly, we’d rather not relive it,” I said.
Fand looked bemused, then embarrassed. “Oh, but of course! Let’s get you fed and rested until Manannan returns.”
She led us into the kitchen and nattered on about what everyone had been saying after our audience, while she fried some bacon made from the famous hogs. “It’s the bacon of eternal youth,” she said, smiling at Granuaile as she served her a plate. “Should heal you right up and taste sinful.”
Granuaile’s jaw dropped at the four slices of bacon draped on a blue ceramic plate that looked one of a kind. It wasn’t just the bacon: She knew her knots well enough now to read that the white knotwork around the edge was a blessing of good health to anyone who ate from the plate.
“I …”
“Yes, dear?”
Granuaile said nothing more.
“She’s a bit overwhelmed,” I said.
“I understand.”
Fand also had sausage links made from the same hogs, so she fried a pan full of those for Oberon and placed them on a plate for him.
That good, huh?
It’s free, Oberon.
Rather than argue the semantics of great with him, I laughed inwardly and enjoyed my own plate of bacon and bread.
Fand was a gracious hostess, and thoughts of how unlike her mother she was caused me to inquire, “How does your mother these days?”
“Oh.” Fand blushed. “She’s still besotted by that thunder god you brought with you.”
“Perun is still here?”
“Aye. He’s been granted a sort of asylum. He’s welcome to stay on the plane as long as he wishes, but once he leaves, he cannot return without invitation. He is not anxious to return to earth, I hear, since Loki is after him—and since my mother is being so … hospitable.”
I diplomatically ignored that bit. Fand was clearly embarrassed by her mother’s legendary libido. “Has no one spotted Loki?” I asked.
“No. He’s either hidden himself well or he’s on the Norse planes somewhere.”
A faery cleared his throat at the entrance to the kitchen and bowed when we turned. “M’lord Manannan has returned.”
“Excellent,” Fand said. “Please let him know where we are.”
Another bow and scrape and he was gone. Manannan must have been close behind him, for he entered almost as soon as the faery disappeared, a scowl on his face.
“What’s this?” he said without greeting us, eyeing Granuaile’s bare arm. His hair was wet and he carried a harpoon in his right hand. It was etched with knotwork, so it was probably a named weapon. He had been hunting in the sea. “Siodhachan, I thought you were binding her to the earth.”
“I was, but we were interrupted,” I said.
“Interrupted?”
Before he could ask by whom, I said, “I wonder if we might have a private word, Manannan?” The sea god’s eyes flicked to his wife and back to us, and then he nodded.
“Of course.”
It wasn’t Fand I was worried about but rather her faeries. I bowed to the lady of the castle. “Fand, your hospitality remains legendary. Please excuse us.”
“You are welcome anytime,” she replied.
We followed Manannan to a room of slate and glass. Granuaile’s limp was already disappearing, thanks to the springs of Mag Mell, the bacon of youth, and the plate of good health. A faery ducked out just as we entered, saying the fire had been laid. The hearth glowed warmly in contrast to the cold appointments of the room. Shelves of bluish gray stone lined the walls, and on these rested books bound in leather and various objets d’art. There was an enormous pearl couched on the tongue of an open oyster shell, softly glowing with reflected firelight. Four golden high-backed armchairs with dark blue cushions waited in front of the hearth for us to be seated, and Oberon leapt onto one, considering himself an equal participant in the coming conversation.
Manannan raised an eyebrow at Oberon’s behavior but made no comment. His eyes turned to the door and lost focus—or, rather, refocused in the magical spectrum. He mumbled a binding and sealed us in; no one outside the room would be able to hear us. Unless …
I turned on my faerie specs to see what the faeries might have been up to in here. I trusted Manannan implicitly, but he lived in a castle full of the Fae and he wasn’t around often to watch them. Scanning the bookshelves, I saw something interesting on the oyster shell—subtle but barely discernible against the natural shimmer of the shell. Bindings. Unfamiliar ones.
“Manannan?”
“Hmm?”
“What are these bindings over here?” I pointed at the shell. He stepped closer and peered at them, frowning.
“I’m not sure. It’s not my work, I can tell you. It might be harmless, but I don’t like strange bindings in me own library. Especially when I want privacy.”
He unbound the knots and they fizzled away, leaving only the shell behind.
“We should look for more,” I suggested. “I want to be sure no one else hears what we have to say.”
“That bad, eh?”
“Aye.”
“It might be better for us to leave the castle entirely, then,” Granuaile said. “Shift to somewhere isolated on earth, where we won’t be overheard.”
“I know just the place,” Manannan said. “Not another word until we’re there.”
We followed him out of the castle in silence to a tethered tree, and then we shifted, following his lead, to Emhain Ablach, the Isle of Apples. I’d never been to this particular Irish plane, but it was impossible to mistake it for anything else, with the ocean behind us and an orchard in front of us.
“All right, what is it?” Manannan asked.
“Pie!” Granuaile said, delighted with the scent filling her nostrils.
“Pie is the problem?” The Irish god of the sea looked lost.
“No, that’s not the problem,” I clarified. “Manannan, we were set upon by a band of assassins on Mount Olympus.”
“A band?”
&nbs
p; “Yewmen and some others. They meant to kill us. They poisoned a steak and left it for my hound. They interrupted the binding of my apprentice. And they’re working with the Svartálfar.”
We recounted the whole harrowing tale and watched storms form on Manannan’s face.
“Ye can be sure I will investigate,” he said.
“That is kind of you,” I replied. “But mightn’t you have any ideas now about who’s responsible?”
Manannan sighed. “Ye haven’t been keeping up with the Court, that’s sure,” he said. “These days it could be almost any faery ye point to.”
I frowned. “Am I that out of favor?”
“I’m afraid ye are. And ye did yourself no favors a while back with your audience. Now that Aenghus Óg is dead and most of his lot have been cleared out, Brighid is living in brickshittin’ fear of a coup attempt by the Morrigan”—he suddenly balled his fist under my nose and shook it, his blue eyes promising pain—“and I’ll crush your scrotum if ye ever suggest I said that, am I clear?”
I gulped. “Very well. I shan’t speak a word of it.”
His fist returned to his side. “Good. Now, what ye have to understand is, there are plenty of Fae in Brighid’s camp that count ye on the side of the Morrigan because they can’t count ye on the side of Brighid. They have half the brains of a pickled herring, we all know it, and so ye can imagine how their fancies are runnin’ away with what little sense they have. To their way of thinkin’, eliminating you means eliminating the growing threat of the Morrigan. They figure she’ll never finish that amulet on her own. Will she?”
I shrugged. “I haven’t shown her the last part of the process. That doesn’t mean she needs to be shown. She knows the theory. She could finish it without me.”
“Huh. Well, regardless, the Pickled Herring—can we call ’em that?—think they’re going to score major points with Brighid if they can do anything to thwart the Morrigan. They’re probably right, if we’re honest. But o’ course none o’ them would have the spine to act directly against the battle crow. Wave and tide, I don’t think I would have the spine t’do that! So they’ve decided you’re a tad easier to kill. Nothin’ personal, y’see. It’s not your fault that your life is in the way of their personal ambition.”