Kevin Hearne: Trapped

“Flidais, please warn them to stay clear of my friends and me. We may interpret sudden moves as threats and respond accordingly.”

The goddess of the hunt stopped and turned to face us. “Do you truly feel we are so hostile?”

“I doubt Brighid is well disposed toward me right now. That is cause enough to be on our guard. The Fae take their cue from her; you know this.”

Flidais smirked. “If Brighid wishes you harm, she’ll deliver it herself, Druid. None of these would presume to steal her right.”

“She has no rights regarding me.” All the Fae within earshot gasped and went, “Oooooh,” in expectation that I’d be paying for that comment soon.

“Do please tell her that to her face.” Flidais turned to resume her walk to the throne and called back over her shoulder, “I can tell already that this is going to be an amusing audience.”

I have the same hope . I checked on Granuaile, and she gave me a short, tight-lipped nod to let me know she was okay. Perun was okay too—rather, he was hopelessly in lust with Flidais’s backside. As long as she didn’t go invisible on him, he’d probably be content.

Fae were flooding into the Court—or the meadow—attracted by gossip that had no doubt circulated on fluttering wings. A susurrus of excitement swelled from all sides, and our audience was quickly building to the proportions of a spectator sport.

A small formation of pixies, goaded by their friends or perhaps genuinely clueless about who I was and how I’d react to Fae flying at me, swooped in for a quick playful welcome dance over my head—or so I was informed afterward. There were seven of them one second, and two seconds later, after a couple of quick shooing motions above my noggin, there were only three left. The survivors, horrified by watching their companions disintegrate to ash in midair, stayed still enough for Perun to zap them with small fingers of lightning.

“Big mosquitoes here,” he said, as a roar bellowed from the spectators on either side, who had seen the whole thing.

“Those weren’t mosquitoes,” Granuaile said, as Flidais whirled, a scowl on her face.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Pixies,” I explained. “Maybe someone’s trying to establish my bona fides.”

Flidais raised her voice and spoke to the assembled Fae on either side. “I warned you he was the Iron Druid before he arrived,” she said. “Molest him at your peril.”

A three-note chorus split the air and sang menacingly, “And if the Iron Druid doesn’t kill you, I will.” It was Brighid’s voice. In her aspect as the goddess of poetry, she could somehow hit three notes at the same time when she spoke—and if she wanted you to hear her clearly from seventy yards away in the middle of an angry mob, she could do that too. The effect was that she could speak once and you’d be told three times; it gave her an authority among magic users no one could match. She couldn’t lie or tell half-truths when she spoke like that, so she didn’t employ it often and she chose her words carefully when she did. “Let him approach undisturbed, or I will have your life.”

Cowed, the mob of Fae quieted down and gave us a wider berth. Satisfied, Flidais turned and led us again toward the throne. It felt as if we were part of a very small parade, except everyone watching was sad because the flowers on the floats had wilted. The character of the buzz around us was not only muted now, it was resentful. Flidais was striding forward confidently, thinking that Brighid’s very loud words and her presence were enough to guarantee our safety, but I was still wary. There were all sorts of Fae in the Court now, and some of them were bound to be descendants of Aenghus Óg. If those pixies had been sent by someone to confirm I was truly the Iron Druid, that someone was still out there. Honestly, I wouldn’t put it past Brighid or Flidais to have orchestrated it; I had supposedly been dead for almost twelve years, so one way to make sure I wasn’t an impostor was to watch some Fae turn to ash at the touch of my cold iron aura. And one of the best ways to absolve herself of responsibility for any further attacks would be to very publicly threaten everyone with death. She’d follow through on the threat, of course; couldn’t have her agents blabbing at the last minute that she’d sent them.

The Morrigan had told me after Aenghus Óg’s death that Brighid had conducted some sort of pogrom here in Tír na nÓg; there had been a rebellion in his name, lots of stockpiled magical weapons abruptly found their way into angry hands, and a whole host of Fae had died. Many—if not most—had been Aenghus Óg’s spawn, but I’m sure there were other factions represented as well. That meant tension among the Tuatha Dé Danann—and I had caused all of it.

Well. Maybe not all of it. The Morrigan had her tensions with just about everyone, but especially with Brighid, and I had not caused that so much as exacerbated it. Regardless, I couldn’t look for the same favor in Court that I might have enjoyed in the past. I might have even created some new enemies here, and until I could verify who was content to let me live and who would rather serve me a cold dish of revenge, suspicion was the best policy.

The crowd of Fae ended abruptly about twenty yards from Brighid’s throne. It provided a nice little area for subjects to feel small and weak during their audience. It also provided some space, to either side, for some VIPs to sit and offer catty remarks or snide questions. To Brighid’s right sat the Tuatha Dé Danann, and to her left sat representatives of the various Fae factions.

A quick glance at the Tuatha Dé Danann showed me that nearly all of them were present. Manannan Mac Lir, wrapped in his cloak of mists, winked at me from underneath his bushy black eyebrows. His wife, Fand, sat next to him, small and delicate and ethereally beautiful in a white sheath with the same sort of knotwork designs Flidais had embroidered around the neck; since she was Flidais’s daughter, perhaps it was a family thing. There was a liquid grace to her, even when she sat still.

Ogma was there, tall and tanned and sporting a shaven head these days, along with two large gold hoops in his ears. He wore a golden torc around his neck and a kilt—nothing more. He’d always been a bit vain about his six-pack. His expression was one of polite interest, but you got the feeling it was a façade for his indifference. Next to him sat Goibhniu, the master smith and brewer who had made cold iron amulets for the Morrigan, Granuaile, and Oberon. Unlike Ogma, Goibhniu was riveted by the spectacle of an old Druid approaching Brighid with his friends. He sat on the edge of his seat, grinning with anticipation, his elbows resting on his knees and his hands clasped together between them. Brighid was his mother, and he was therefore probably one of the few people who thought it was funny to watch her get worked up. His brothers, Creidhne and Luchta, lounged next to him, quietly exchanging words and not even paying attention to our passing.

There was another row of seats behind them, and a couple of these were empty. One seat was presumably for Flidais, and I noted that the Morrigan was conspicuously absent.

While most of the Tuatha Dé Danann had dressed modestly and with very little ornamentation, Brighid had gone out of her way to look like a model for a Frazetta painting. Conscious of how it set off her red hair, she wore a sheer green sleeve on her left arm, bound at the top of the biceps and at the wrist with a circlet of gold. She had a golden belly chain holding up another sheer cascade of cloth between her legs, but it highlighted rather than concealed what was there. Aside from these purely ornamental accoutrements, she was naked, the tattoos on her right side—among other bits—proudly on display. She also had two wolfhounds lying at her feet, their heads up and watching our approach closely. They were black hounds with glossy coats.