Shattered: The Iron Druid Chronicles, Book Seven (42 page)

I have decided that I really hate poison and I’ll never use it again myself. It’s not how I want to win.

The sidheóg toxin didn’t deliver a fraction of the pain of the manticore’s venom, but it was effective in slowing me down and making me vulnerable. And it was sneaky—the lack of pain meant I didn’t realize what was happening until it was almost too late. My muscle responses dragged, and my movements became sluggish and unbalanced. My vision blurred, and I warned Granuaile about it with a mouth full of mush.

I barely avoided the swing of a goblin’s axe by stumbling backward but couldn’t recover from it and fell flat on my posterior, Fragarach bouncing from my grasp when my knuckles hit the ground. Granuaile shouted my name, but I couldn’t answer. I knew I could beat the toxin given enough time, but the goblin who missed me wanted a second chance. He was charging after me—axe raised to chop down into my guts, and an ugly slash of a grin on his mug—when an unseen force knocked him sideways, as if he’d been kicked. He
had
in fact been kicked by Granuaile,
and when he tried to get up he got a knife in the face for his trouble. Two more goblins met swift ends trying to come after me as Granuaile stood invisible sentinel, and then Brighid took the fight to Fand and everyone stopped to watch.

“Atticus, are you okay?” Granuaile’s disembodied voice asked.

“Worr … Working on it.” I hoped whatever Brighid was doing would keep everyone preoccupied for a few more minutes. My body was breaking down the toxin, but I wouldn’t be turning cartwheels or even speaking clearly for a while. And then, when I had no option but to stay still and think, I felt the crushing weight of responsibility for the entire debacle.

I’d never have a beer with Goibhniu again; he’d brewed his last barrel and forged his last project in the iron and silver knot-work of Scáthmhaide. Nor would I get a chance to discuss Rembrandt again with Meara; her grotto would remain forever dark, blacker than the canvas of
The Night Watch
.

I’m not ashamed to say I shed tears for them. They deserved much more than that. And then I heard but didn’t see Brighid say that Fand was gone, and the Fae army melted away like a snowman in the Mojave Desert. There was a profound lack of celebration on our side. I cast my eyes to the left and saw that Manannan Mac Lir was gone. He had plenty of spirits to escort to the next world after a battle like this, and his wife was now indisputably a treasonous fugitive. I supposed we wouldn’t see him for a while. Owen and the rest of the Tuatha Dé Danann were physically fine—or at least they would be, given time to heal. Owen came up to me in his bear form and snuffled at my face to make sure I was still alive. He had several goblin weapons lodged in his body and probably needed them removed before he could shift back to human. But he moved off before I could offer any aid, apparently satisfied that I wouldn’t die immediately.

The Tuatha Dé Danann were another matter. I thought they’d be emotionally scarred forever. Off to my right, Flidais dropped her invisibility and fell to her knees, weeping, and Perun rushed over to provide whatever comfort he could. Luchta and Creidhne gathered over the body of their fallen brother and engaged in
some cathartic swearing as they removed the spriggan’s body from Goibhniu’s and folded his arms over the wound. Luchta lost it and beat the spriggan’s head with his club until it was nothing but a sappy smear on the turf. Part of me wanted to go to them, all of them, and say how sorry I was, how I would never forgive myself for my role in bringing this about, but that was an atrocious idea. It wouldn’t make them feel any better—it might seriously annoy them—and it would put me in their debt if I made any admission of culpability. I didn’t know what else to do except weep and wonder how my overture for peace could have resulted in such ruin. Feeling small and alone but physically somewhat better, I sat up and propped myself with my right arm.

Granuaile’s voice came softly from my left. “I’m here, Atticus, if you’re looking for me.”

I turned and saw nothing. “Where?”

“I know it’s over, but I’d rather stay invisible for now. I have a lot to tell you.”

Frowning, I asked, “Are you hurt?” My speech had returned to normal and I was somewhat relieved at the progress.

“Yes, but it’s nothing that won’t heal soon.” An unseen hand ruffled through my hair. “I missed you,” she said.

“And I missed you. I was worried about you, in fact, when I couldn’t get in touch. But I guess you got my note. Thanks for saving me. Like, five times or whatever it was.”

“You’re welcome. I wasn’t keeping score.” Her fingers ran across my head again, and then she said, “Hey. Looks like you’ve been crying.”

I sat forward, taking the weight off my arm, pawed at my eyes, and sniffed. “Well, yeah, it’s been a terrible day. I was hoping to broker a peace but ignited a revolution instead. I didn’t want anyone to die. Not the goblins, not any of the Fae, and certainly not Meara and Goibhniu.”

“Then we’ll talk about that too. Is your arm okay? That axe went pretty deep.”

“It’ll be all right in a few days.”

“Want any help pulling out all those little tiny arrows that almost did you in? You look like a mutant hedgehog.”

I laughed in surprise more than mirth. “Yeah, that would be great, thanks.”

As we sat amongst the ruin of so many lives and carefully plucked miniature weapons from my upper body, a strange sense of peace settled over me, the soft comfort of a small revelation that gave me hope. I’d been pushing so hard to find harmony when it wasn’t there to be found. It was much better to be still and let it find me.

Though I wish for nothing so much as a hasty departure from the battlefield, I understand that a certain amount of debriefing is needed before we can go. I cannot be certain, but I think Brighid is seething and blaming herself more than anyone else for not spying this attempted coup in time to prevent it. The sheer numbers we saw on the field are an indictment of her leadership, and while I might question many of her decisions, she is at least honest enough to admit her own failings. How many of the horde that faced us had sworn fealty to her before? Why had none of the Fae fought to defend her and the Tuatha Dé Danann from the rest? There would be uncomfortable answers to those questions.

It is a sad, tense while before Brighid can pay attention to us, since she understandably commiserates first with Flidais and then with her two sons at the loss of her third. She must feel her own flood of anguish at Goibhniu’s death, but I do not think she is the sort to grieve in public. It gives Atticus time to dissolve the poison in his body and get to his feet. When Brighid joins us, she
has sheathed her sword across her back, the way Atticus does, and is cradling her helmet in her left hand. Her hair, strangely, is full and perfect. Such are the prerogatives of a goddess, I suppose. I listen in silence as she confers with Atticus and his archdruid, Owen, who has had the weapons removed from his bear form and shifted to human. Visible angry wounds paint red lines across his body. I haven’t met him formally yet, but I’m not particularly looking forward to it. Judging by his expression, the flag of his disposition is habitually sour, and that comports with the stories Atticus told me about him in the past. I must make allowances, however, for the extraordinary circumstances. I can expect few smiles today.

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.”