might be?”
“Theories abound, but the Svartálfar refuse to discuss it and no one has delved deep enough into their realm to see it. They meet envoys and conduct trade in a couple o’ large chambers not far down from that dark stair they built. What’s going on deeper inside, no one knows.”
“Sounds like North Korea. Can’t believe one of the Álfar told you this though. It wasn’t exactly flattering to their king.”
Manannan nodded. “They are nothing if not an honest people.”
“So if this story is true, it means the dark elves aren’t inherently evil.”
“No. They are a proud people and will not hesitate to kill, but they seek no lands beyond their own and have no wish to dominate others.”
“You’d never know it from the way people talk about them, myself included. I mean, I’m not going to stop thinking they’re creepy as hell—because if your body turns to tar, you’re fucking creepy, right?—but I’m frankly shocked to hear they don’t want to destroy us all. They need to get a good PR guy.”
“What’s a PR guy?”
“They’re kind of like the old Greek sophists who played with words until you believed up was down. PR guys get paid to make people believe that a pile of shit is an investment in soil fertility. Professional liars.”
“Ah!” Manannan’s expression lit with comprehension. “They are politicians?”
“No, they’re smarter and less pretty. They advise politicians.”
“Oh. Well, I thought ye should know the dark elves are seeking ye.”
“I appreciate the thought. It is bizarre. Two years ago, you say? I wonder what set them sniffing after my trail.”
“I wondered that myself, lad. Hoped ye might have an answer.”
I had a possible answer; thanks to a certain rendezvous six years ago, three of the Norse gods knew I was alive. One of them could have let slip the truth, intentionally or not. But since I had no way of knowing, I just shook my head. “No. But it’s one more enemy to watch out for. I’d love to see that map of the nine realms.”
“I’ll get ye a copy.”
“You are kind. Might you have a place in the castle where I could perform a divination in private?”
“What sort?” Manannan asked. Some of the old Druidic divination rituals could be messy, what with sacrificing animals and all. I had never favored those methods: Truth stained with blood is not so savory as truth arrived at without the forfeit of life.
“Just wands,” I reassured him.
“Oh, sure.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Not a problem.”
“There’s one other matter we should speak of. That hairy Russian god doesn’t have a home anymore, and he’s being pursued by Loki. Do you think the Tuatha Dé Danann might grant him asylum here for a time?”
Manannan grunted and smirked. “I feel certain Flidais will grant him nearly anything right now. It’s fine with me, if ye vouch for his character.”
“I do.”
“Then I can’t see too many objections if he has our support. I’ll send a faery to Brighid right away.” He dispelled the binding of the air around us, gathered up his cloak of mists, and we shifted back to birds before flying up to the tower. In our human skin again, we got dressed, I retrieved my pack, and Manannan showed me to a room where I could perform a divination. It was a spare chamber—a guest bedroom—decorated in burgundy and gold. I withdrew my wands from my pack and selected five at random while focusing on my question: Where and when could I best bind Granuaile to the earth? I cast the wands on the floor in front of me and interpreted the pattern they made; diplomatically, in the company of others, I would call the result less than satisfactory. Since I was doing this in private, however, I winced and cursed as I might if someone were to pluck out my short ’n’ curlies with a pair of tweezers.
I performed several more castings, refining my question and eking out every wee drab of vague meaning from the wands. The depressing conclusion was that there was not going to be any better time or place than at the base of Olympus in the near future. Whatever it was that had disrupted all the tethers to Tír na nÓg in Europe would remain in effect for an unconscionably long time, and every minute wasted now was another minute Granuaile would spend unable to defend herself—at least from anyone stronger or faster than a human. The problem was that she and I were going to start running into plenty of such beings; Brighid’s gag order aside, I knew very well that word was spreading even now: That bloody Druid was still alive.
Chapter 6
Oddly enough, Manannan’s news about the dark elves relaxed me somewhat. I didn’t have to wonder anymore: Everyone really
“The land of eternal summer is also the land of the dead, but fortunately the dead tend to keep to themselves.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, you know how you can attract senior citizens to certain communities by offering shuffleboard courts and bingo nights? Plop down an IHOP nearby for them to lounge in during the daytime?”
Granuaile looked lost. “What?”
“Have you ever been to an IHOP on a weekday morning, when everyone else is at work?”
“No,” Granuaile admitted.
“Well, that’s where all the senior citizens go. Or they go to a Village Inn or a Denny’s or whatever. It’s because, once you hit sixty or thereabouts, you don’t ever want to make your own pancakes again.”
“You’re over sixty,” Granuaile pointed out.
“And I never make pancakes. I go to IHOP with all the other old people.”
<It’s true! He only makes omelets and—damn. I keep forgetting she can’t hear me yet.>
“But I don’t want to make my own pancakes
“I don’t know. The point I was trying to make is that part of Tír na nÓg is very attractive to dead people.”
“What’s so attractive about it?”
“Mostly the lack of living people. They don’t like being reminded that they’re all dead. And there might be a pancake buffet. Twenty-four-hour keno. Concerts featuring Elvis impersonators. That sort of thing.”
<Do they sing “Suspicious Minds” in the white high-collared jumpsuit?>
“You’re making Tír na nÓg sound like Las Vegas,” Granuaile said.
“Well, it might be. Because what happens in the land of the dead stays in the land of the dead. I simply don’t know and I’m not anxious to find out. Manannan and the Morrigan won’t tell you anything if you ask them either. They won’t even say how they decide who comes here and who goes to Mag Mell or the other Irish planes. It might not be their decision. But the point is, there is plenty of real estate left over for the living. And for the Fae and other curiosities. Check this out. I mean, in a minute.” I gestured to an oak in front of us. “Put your hands here and get ready to go.”
“How do you know where you’re going?” Granuaile asked.
“Can’t really explain until you’re bound and you can see things in the magical spectrum,” I said. “But, basically, every destination has its own unique sequence of knots. Think of it like airport codes back on earth.”
“Do I have to memorize them all?”
“Not unless you want to hate your life. The ones on earth are based on coordinates. Tír na nÓg is odd, though, as you might expect. You kind of need to know where you’re going or else you’ll appear in the middle of an ogre orgy or something horrific like that. We’re going to a popular destination here—there will be plenty of Fae
