Kevin Hearne: Trapped

That was almost twelve years ago, but, yes, I remember. Better stick next to me, buddy .

“Is this the same hound you had when last I saw you?” Flidais asked.

“It is.”

“Hello again,” Flidais said to Oberon. “Perhaps we will have occasion to hunt together soon.” After a small pause, she frowned, because she had just tuned in to hear Oberon’s thoughts in the same way I could.

“You forbade him to hunt with me?” A flash of temper sparked in her eyes.

“Forgive me, Flidais, but the last time we hunted with you, someone died. I’d rather avoid a second accident.”

“You accuse me?” she growled.

Oh, I could. I could accuse her of murder most foul, as in the best it is , but I have done my own share of reddish work and I do my best to eschew hypocrisy.

“No. I forbid my hound to hunt with you. There is no accusation of any kind there.” Flidais might have pursued the matter but was distracted by the large, hairy arrival of Perun.

“Is this faery?” he asked hopefully, speaking English. His eyes roved over Flidais and enjoyed the journey. He wasn’t subtle. Flidais, for her part, gave Perun an appraisal that was not a whit less wanton. He was, undeniably, a mobile mountain of musk and virility, and Flidais was rather famous for her appetites. I introduced them to facilitate their mutual seduction; I didn’t think either of them would have to work very hard at it.

As they continued their ocular foreplay, I spied Granuaile hanging back a bit, her face a grim mask. She’d met both Flidais and Brighid at the beginning of her training, and while she’d come to terms with the necessity of the Baolach Cruatan —the test of mettle—she didn’t have fond memories of the event. Or of Flidais.

The goddess of the hunt didn’t get so lost in Perun’s eyes that she forgot why she had come. Speaking to me but still looking at the thunder god, she said, “I’ll leave a marker for you to follow, Atticus. It’ll take you to a tree directly outside the Fae Court. I know you’re too paranoid to arrive without your sword drawn, but do try to be careful. I’ll make sure the area is clear.”

Some of this penetrated the almost visible cloud of lust hovering over Perun’s head. “What? You are leaving?”

“We will have occasion to speak more … at length,” Flidais promised. “Soon.”

“Very soon!” Perun said.

Flidais nodded to Granuaile, acknowledging her existence but saying nothing. My apprentice responded in kind, and the goddess padded her way silently to the tree we’d all been watching. She winked at Perun as she laid her hand on it and shifted away.

“By axe and sky, she is fine woman!” Perun rumbled, and then a flash of white teeth under his beard made him appear young again. “Come! Let us go!”

“Rein in your nads for a moment, if you please, Perun,” Granuaile said.

The thunder god’s enthusiasm disappeared in a cloud of confusion. “What is nads?” he asked. “And why should I make it rain on them? Can you say this word in Russian?”

Granuaile ignored him and spoke to me. “Atticus, what’s this going to be like? What should I watch out for?”

I sighed. “I’m afraid I don’t have a helpful answer. You should watch out for everything. Though I’ve been to Tír na nÓg plenty of times, I haven’t been to the Fae Court since before I met Airmid—which was before I stole Fragarach. It’s been more than two thousand years and I was still in my normal human lifespan, so there’s no telling what it looks like. The Tuatha Dé Danann—however many of them are there—will be in their true forms. But I imagine every faery you see will be wearing a glamour of some kind, so don’t trust anything you see. Even the furnishings may be illusions, so don’t sit on anything and don’t feel secure just because you have your back to a wall.”

Probably not . “Oberon just brought up a good point,” I said aloud. “Don’t eat or drink anything while you’re there. Accept no gifts, make no promises—don’t even say that you will do something, because you’ll be held to it. Words are binding in Tír na nÓg more than anywhere else. To be completely safe, if you’re addressed or asked a question, tell them that I speak for you. Don’t let them cajole or threaten you into answering on your own—they’re trying to get you rattled so that you’ll make a mistake. Also, don’t get separated for any reason. You might see something attractive—don’t take a closer look. If someone wants to tell you a secret, don’t listen to it. There are those who would love to use any one of you as a hostage in order to control me, so don’t give them the opportunity, all right?”

As we returned to the tree that would take us back to Tír na nÓg, I searched for a token of Flidais’s to follow to a certain point on that plane. It was a shortcut to follow within the realm; we’d shift to the same isolated spot in Tír na nÓg we’d used to get here, then hop over to the center, using her marker. I found said marker in the magical spectrum, a glowing green ribbon of knotwork that pulsed like a ready light.

“All right,” I said. “Weapons free, mouths shut.” I held on to my sword, Perun had his axe, and Granuaile held the blade of a throwing knife between her fingers.

We shifted to Tír na nÓg and found ourselves facing a small crowd of faeries on a field of heather. Simultaneous shouts of joy and dismay filled the air at our appearance, and pouches of gold or other tokens were exchanged in what was clearly a good-natured settling of debts.

“What are they doing?” Perun asked.

Flidais separated herself from the crowd and waved. “They were betting on whether you would show up with your weapons drawn or not. Come. Follow me.”

I began to follow, but I moved slowly and kept my sword out. The downside to paranoia is that you occasionally become the target of sport like this, but the upside is that you stay alive.

The slow pace allowed us to wonder at the scenery a bit. Apart from ordinary sidhe , who were difficult to distinguish from humans at times, there were oak-men, dancing feeorin, Fir Darrigs, geancanach , brownies, and a small delegation representing the Blue Men of the Minch. Pixies flitted about excitedly, making snide comments about us, no doubt, and causing small pockets of Fae to erupt in laughter wherever they paused to whisper.

The sky above us was the precise shade of blue that travel agencies want on all their promotional materials, and I wondered, apropos of nothing, what its Pantone number might be back on earth. Here it was the illusion of perfection that Brighid wished to project: All was well in Tír na nÓg, because how could it be otherwise with such fabulous weather?

The Fae Court wasn’t the stuffy European sort, of course, with marble floors and gilt-framed portraits and human accessories like fops and fools lying about. It was, rather, this heather-kissed meadow in the middle of a carefully tended grove. So when Flidais had led us to “a tree directly outside the Fae Court,” she meant a tree on the edge of the meadow. Behind us lay the shade of impressive oaks, and eyes in there were watching us, I knew.

Judging by the sun’s position, we were on the southern edge of the Court; Flidais was leading us to the northern edge, where there was a small hill—a hillock, I suppose, a wee mound with hillish ambitions—upon which sat Brighid’s throne. I could tell she was there, but the distance was great enough that I couldn’t read her expression, and in any case it was far enough away that she didn’t represent an immediate threat. The crowd of faeries, however, which was parting to allow us through, would soon be on either side of us and then behind us, and I didn’t like that so much.