Shattered: The Iron Druid Chronicles, Book Seven (36 page)

Perun and Oberon had decided to play while we did our thing.
They had squared off in front of the cabin and were circling each other. Oberon’s tail was wagging madly, and if Perun had a tail I’m sure his would have been wagging too. He grinned through his beard and said, “You like to have fun,
da
?”

I think you should experiment and find out
.

He barked once and launched himself at Perun. The thunder god laughed as they tumbled in the leaves, and I was glad they would be entertained while we performed our ceremony.

We remembered the Morrigan first, wishing her peace beyond the veil. We all got a little emotional about it—including my archdruid. It belied the Morrigan’s belief that no one loved her. It might not have been love conventionally expressed, and it might not have been the sort she sought, but she was undeniably missed. And in truth, despite the death of her human flesh, she could still manifest on our plane whenever she wished; there was more than enough magic in the prayers of those who still worshipped her, ours included. I hoped she would avail herself of that opportunity and visit me again.

Midhir was a different matter. He had never been especially worshipped, and we needed him to come speak to us whether he wished to or not. Manannan took the lead on that, chanting words that were both encouraging and binding. We followed him between the fires, echoing his words and strengthening the binding, until a form coalesced out of the smoke of the second fire and resolved into a sort of negative image of Midhir, a pale hologram of swirling vapor rather than light. He looked less than pleased, and his voice was an annoyed, breathy puff of wind.

“Great. The fecking Iron Druid and Manannan Mac Lir, Lord of Denial.” His eyes found Flidais, Owen, and Meara, and slid away from them, uninterested. “What do ye want?”

Manannan replied, “When I took you to Mag Mell, you claimed that Fand killed you.”

“Aye, an’ ye brushed me off, dinnit ye, ye salty twat.”

“Never mind that. Tell me what you would have said then. Why did she kill you?”

“Because I
dinnit
kill
him
,” Midhir replied, pointing at me. “Or at least arrange to have it done properly.”

It took little coaxing after that for Midhir to list the full extent of his involvement in Fand’s schemes—all he wanted was a guarantee that we’d never bother him again. Manannan was agreeable to that. “Just don’t give us any reason to follow up. Tell us everything.”

Midhir had been in charge of liaising with the vampires and dark elves, and it had been he who suggested to the vampires that snipers with infrared vision would counter our camouflage and Granuaile’s invisibility spells. Lord Grundlebeard had been in charge of the rangers, as we suspected, and used them to cut off the Old Ways as an escape route. But Grundlebeard had missed a few here and there in England—probably because he never thought we’d make it that far—most notably the cellar entrance to Windsor Castle that Flidais had used to come to our aid. Midhir hastily had it blown up from the earth side so that no one could return to Tír na nÓg, but Grundlebeard had also left one open that was tied to Herne’s oak, and both were unpardonable oversights in Fand’s eyes. To her way of thinking, Artemis and Diana would have killed us easily in Windsor Forest if Flidais had not been there to tilt the odds in our favor. Piecing together his timeline with mine, I conjectured that Fand had taken action against Midhir and Grundlebeard while I was being snacked upon in the dungeon by little tooth faeries. If she had bothered to take a look downstairs, she would have found me there, helpless.

The two greatest bits of news I gleaned from Midhir’s confession were the names of his contacts: Among the vampires, he spoke to Theophilus—which I had already suspected, but it was gratifying to have confirmed—and his dark elf contact was a Svartálf named Krókr Hrafnson, who was the leader of what
I suppose must be called an assassins’ guild. Most frustrating was the fact that Fand had spoken directly to the Olympians herself—an assertion that we’d never be able to prove. The Olympians were not actively trying to kill me anymore, but they weren’t my friends either. They’d never confirm anything.

When Midhir finally said he’d told us all he knew and answered a couple of questions from Flidais, Manannan released him, with a promise to leave him alone going forward. The smoky outlines of his form unbound and rose in restless wisps into the night sky. Whoever said that dead men tell no tales never spent Samhain with Druids.

Meara, Owen, and Flidais were the first to leave the space between the fires, and Manannan followed after a sigh. I was about to trail after him when the Morrigan, dark and beautiful, appeared suddenly in the flames and froze me in mid-step. Unlike Midhir, she looked almost solid; she had chosen to manifest herself and hadn’t been bound in any way. Her scratchy voice entered my head, and a ghostly finger reached out, chilling me as it trailed along my jaw with very solid pressure.

“Protect the dark elves, Siodhachan,” she said, and then she dissolved from view, as ephemeral as mist, before I could muster a reply. I was left shouting at the fire of the next world.

“Morrigan! Wait! Come back!” I had so many things I wanted to say to her, and she hadn’t given me the time. She probably already knew all of it, but that didn’t ease my need to say them. I did not, however, wish to say them in front of the others, and since they had all turned and were watching me now, I subsided with a muttered promise that we would speak later.

“You saw the Morrigan?” Manannan said.

“Very briefly,” I admitted. “She just did a peekaboo thing in the fire.”

“What did she say?” Flidais asked.

“Forgive me, but I think it was for my ears only.”

My answer didn’t please any of them, but they knew they couldn’t force me to share a confidence.

“Fine.” Flidais affected indifference. “Tell me what you intend to do now that you’ve heard what Midhir had to say.”

“He intends nothing,” Manannan said. “We still have no proof. That’s all hearsay.”

Flidais shook her head. “Manannan.”

“What?”

“You don’t have to be a huntress to see where the trail leads. Much as I wish it weren’t my own daughter or your wife who killed Midhir and plotted to kill the last two Druids on earth—I mean, the last two until recently,” she amended, looking at Owen, “I don’t see who else could have done it. Unless you have a theory as to who could pressure Midhir to frame Fand from beyond the veil?”

“He could simply be out to ruin my life, yours, and Fand’s with a fabrication,” Manannan said. “We are no true kin of his, and he has never liked any of us.”

Flidais scoffed. “He’d do that and let his true killer go free?”

“He doesn’t know who his true killer is,” Manannan insisted, “so he’s taking what petty revenge he can.”

Silence fell while we all waited for Flidais to respond. It lengthened uncomfortably—perhaps on purpose, to let Manannan hear how ridiculous he sounded.

“I know how much you love her,” Flidais finally said, “and that you both have taken great joy in deceiving the other in a harmless pursuit of other bed partners. I understand it is a game and you have been merry adversaries for centuries. But this deception is no game. It’s murder and conspiracy and all very contrary to the wishes of Brighid. And in keeping this information from the First among the Fae, you risk making yourself an accomplice, Manannan.
We cannot blink it more
.”

That made
me
blink. Flidais had just quoted Arthur Miller—and in a context that fit well here. Reverend Hale in
The Crucible
had been telling the court that the people of Salem feared to speak the truth. I would have to ask her later if she had memorized
Miller’s work as an English headspace. If so, it was interesting that a huntress chose a work about witch hunting.

The god of the sea clenched his fists and shut his eyes tightly, perhaps in a final vain attempt to see no evil.

“If I may interrupt,” I said, “I think we do need to go to Brighid soon. But we can wait long enough to see if I can mend a broken relationship. I can forgive Fand—I’ve already done so—but if she can forgive me as well, perhaps we can go to Brighid and say punishment isn’t necessary.”

Owen spluttered, “She gets no punishment for killing Midhir?”

“He has already paid for his role in the conspiracy, and he had nothing like the excuse Fand has for wanting me dead. As the wronged party, I can say Midhir’s death was justice on my behalf and beg clemency for Fand.”

“You would do this?” Manannan said.

“Aye. In the morning, I will go to Fand and ask for a truce. And if you wish, you and Flidais will go to Brighid and tell her everything, thus clearing yourselves of any collusion. You can blame the delay in informing her on the need to wait for Samhain so you could question Midhir more closely in congress with Flidais.”

The two gods exchanged glances and shrugs, and then Manannan said, “Very well. But you cannot go alone. Take Owen and Meara with you.”

My archdruid said, “What’s this, now?”

“If Fand truly bears a grudge against Siodhachan, we can’t let him go alone. You are a neutral party, and Meara, as a selkie, will be seen as one of mine. She lends you my aegis, in a sense.”

Perun, who had been waiting patiently after managing to wear Oberon out, broke into a wide grin and boomed, “Is settled, then! Let us go into this town at bottom of mountain and get shitbuttered.”

Our collective jaws dropped and stared at him. “Excuse me?” I said.

“Is this not word? How you say someone is drunk?”

“Oh, you mean shit-faced.”

Perun threw up his hands, thoroughly exasperated. “How is shit on face any better than my word? And why would English-speaking peoples ever think that putting shit on face is like drinking good vodka?”

“Well, I’m not here to judge—”

“Good. Then we go get shitbuttered.”

“All right, but not until you take that leaf out of your hair.”

Three gods, two Druids, and a selkie walk into a bar …

It needs to be said: No one can completely cock up a day like Siodhachan. And I think there are few living people who can bear witness to this fact so well as I. If he’s only hurting himself, then I can hold me tongue and let him go, because he might learn a lesson from it. But when his shenanigans are going to get me in trouble, I need to say something. And I know he’s technically my elder many times over now, and if there’s anyone who knows a thing or two about surviving it’s him, but surely that doesn’t mean I have to shut up about him being stupid. It just means I have to tell him he’s stupid using me best manners. And not hit him while I’m doing it.

“Listen, Siodhachan, this isn’t going to turn out well for us if we go in there alone,” I says. “Let’s bring along an army of Scottish bagpipers to distract them while we move in silent from the flanks—you know, the lads who smell like old cheese. Or maybe some of those dwarf axemen you were tellin’ me about.”

“We can hardly signal our desire to talk if we bring an army of anything.”

“But it’s not
we
who wish to talk, lad. It’s only you.” Of course, Siodhachan turns to the selkie to bolster his pox-ridden argument. After we drank ourselves nearly unconscious the night before, she slept in his room, while he spread out on the living room couch with his hound curled up on the floor beside him.

“Do you want to talk rather than fight, Meara?” he says.

“My lord Manannan commands it.” Aye, he commanded it as the bar closed, then shifted away with Flidais and her mountainous hairy sex toy to sleep it off. Soon they would unburden their souls to Brighid in hopes that she wouldn’t char them to toast. Siodhachan recognizes that Meara doesn’t give a true answer, but he pretends that it’s good enough, and my good sense is somehow overruled because a selkie obeys the commands of her god.

“You’re perceived as a neutral party at the moment,” Siodhachan tells me, “so I need you along. And Meara will be Manannan’s eyes and ears and provide us safe passage.”

“I hope you’re right,” I says, “but I’m afraid you’re not. I think Fand’s lost her mind once and I think she can lose it again. And my neutrality will mean about as much as a pellet of rabbit shite when I walk up there with you.”

That hound of his speaks up: shite
instead of
shit
? Is shite fancier somehow, or is he just trying to make it sound that way?>

“We’ll go in with our eyes open, Owen.”

“Speaking of going in,” Meara says, “will we be shifting directly into the castle courtyard? I know which tethers to follow.”

“No, but thank you for the offer,” Siodhachan says. “We’ll shift in using the surrounding trees, as we normally do. I want to be invited in, so that the rules of hospitality apply.”

“It’s going to be the rules of the battlefield, lad. We should be going in there with a thousand naked warriors who fight like wet cats with dodgy bowels.”