Kevin Hearne: Two Ravens and One Crow

I hopped down from the trailer doorway and hooted a good-bye to Granuaile. The Morrigan flapped her wings noisily and launched herself to the southeast.

Come, Siodhachan, her voice said in my mind. I shuddered and took wing after her. I didn’t like having her in my head, though at the moment I had to admit it was convenient. Unlike the Morrigan, I couldn’t speak like a human while in bird form.

‹So what’s the emergency?› I asked her. We were flying toward Canyon de Chelly, where we could find a tree bound to Tir na nOg and shift out of the state.

You need to repair your tattoo, the Morrigan replied.

‹You mean the back of my hand? That’s been messed up for six years.› Ever since I’d been chewed on by a giant locust-courtesy of Coyote’s attempt to save the world-my ability to heal myself had been damaged. Colorado (the elemental, not the state) had taken care of what few needs I’d had since then, because I’d known all along that at some point the Morrigan would have to be the one who doctored my tats. The problem with that was that, unlike most doctors, the Morrigan didn’t agree with the credo of “First, do no harm.” The rest of the Tuatha De Danann thought I was dead-at least, I hoped they did-so I was stuck with the Morrigan as my ink slinger.

You have procrastinated long enough.

I stopped flapping my wings out of shock and dropped like a stone for a second before I recovered. The Morrigan was not a type A personality who worried about procrastination-hers or anyone else’s.

‹What’s really going on? Have you seen something coming? Some reason I’ll need to heal?›

One thing at a time, Siodhachan.

‹Fine. What’s really going on? You’re not worried about procrastination.›

She didn’t answer. She kept flying as if I hadn’t said anything and allowed me time to realize that she wasn’t going to answer any more questions, whether I asked them one at a time or not. This was highly unusual behavior for the Morrigan. Usually she couldn’t wait to tell me about all the dire shit that was about to befall me. Pronouncing my imminent doom held a certain relish for her. I couldn’t understand why she was being so closemouthed now, but my curiosity was piqued.

We shifted from Canyon de Chelly to a deserted patch of Tir na nOg, where no Fae would see us, and then from there to a damp gray fen in Ireland, surrounded by yew trees, that the Morrigan called her own. She led me to a barrow that I suppose I should call her home or estate or perhaps a simple dwelling, but those words don’t really fit the feel of the place so much as the word lair. The Morrigan was a bit too savage to live in a home; she could rock a lair like nobody else, though. Bones, I noticed, were a strong decorative motif. Skulls too. Perhaps that subconsciously tilted me toward the word lair instead of home; few homes are so abundantly adorned with bones-especially ones that the owner has quite probably gnawed on.

We flew straight through an open portal into a longish tunnel lit by torches, until we emerged in a large chamber with a table and a single chair. It had a pitcher resting on it and a lone goblet made of carved and polished wood. Clearly the Morrigan was unaccustomed to entertaining visitors.

The Morrigan shifted in midair so that her feet touched down lightly and gracefully next to the table. I tried to do the same thing and discovered that the graceful bit was something that one achieves only after much practice. My momentum was far greater than I had judged it to be, and I stumbled toward the table. I panicked as I realized that some very vulnerable body parts were about to be squashed into the edge of the table, so I twisted as best as I could and instead smashed my hip against it. Did I mention the table was stone? My entire leg went numb and I crumpled to the ground at the Morrigan’s feet with a pained groan.

The Morrigan laughed hysterically. I’d heard her laugh before, but it had always been evil-genius laughter, not genuine mirth.

It really was ground that we lay on, and not tile or marble or anything else. There was nothing to prevent us from contacting the earth here. And nothing to prevent me from blushing, because the Morrigan was laughing so hard that she couldn’t breathe. Tears streamed from the corners of her eyes. She sounded almost girlish, but I carefully refrained from noting this out loud and did my best to banish it from my thoughts as well.

Seeing that she would be at it for some time, I took the opportunity to examine my surroundings a bit better; it would distract me while I waited for the pain in my hip to subside. (If I drew any power to smoosh the pain, the Morrigan would feel it and laugh all the more.)

There were two other entrances to the chamber, equidistant from the one we had used. They were lit similarly and lined with bones on the walls. A wrought-iron chandelier with candles in it blazed above our heads.

The chamber was circular, I now realized, the very center of a barrow-mound with three entrances. It seemed like an awful lot of effort had gone into building such a plain room. There wasn’t even a hearth with some questionable stew bubbling in a cauldron.

“What is this place?”

The Morrigan took her time in answering. Once she had wound down, she said, “It is a place for rituals. For mortals it is a place of mystery and dread. Now, thanks to you, it is a place for laughter.”

I chose to ignore that last bit. “I see no thorn bush here.” The tattoos that bound us to the earth had to be made with a living plant; Gaia would be present in our minds and direct the process.

“The ritual spaces are all hidden. Come.” She rose to her feet and brushed dust off her body. I rose too, limping a little, and followed her down the passageway to our left. After maybe ten yards she paused and faced the bony wall to her right. “The doors are easily seen with your magical sight. Mortals would never find them.”

Before I could shift my sight to the magical spectrum, she touched an inconspicuous knob of bone, which pushed in like a button, and a section of the bone wall sank backward and then shifted left with a hiss of air. Pneumatics. The Morrigan must have seen the surprise register on my face.

“I know you think me old-fashioned and resistant to change,” she said. “And that is probably not without merit. I still prefer the sword to the firearm. But I think I may have learned something from you. Many somethings. Come.”

She stepped through the door into a humid indoor garden ripe with oxygen and floral scents that tickled the nose. A glass ceiling turned the chamber into a sort of conservatory; along the top of the walls, near the ceiling, bindings carved into the surface spoke of abundance, fertility, and harmony. And, underneath those, bindings that meant the above were to apply liberally to all living things in the room. It was the sort of general, nontargeted binding that my cold iron aura had difficulty suppressing; I’d have to ward specifically against it if I didn’t want to fall prey to it, but, honestly, why would I bother?

Wait. As Hamlet said, That would be scanned. Harmony with the Morrigan?

More alarming: abundance and fertility… with the Morrigan?

I needed to change the subject quickly, even though the subject was only in my head. The Morrigan might spot it there.

“You know, Morrigan, I’ve been meaning to speak with you about how I got this wound,” I said, gesturing to my scarred right hand. “You were nearby at the time. You could have stepped in and prevented it, yet you didn’t. I could have died, and you would have broken your word.”

The Morrigan blew air through her nose in a sort of halfhearted snort, and a corner of her mouth turned up. “Why are you paying attention to what might have happened? Tell me what did happen.”