Trapped

“Yes, congratulations. You did well to track his movements through the glamour. But whose blood is that on your arm?”

A crinkle appeared between Granuaile’s eyes. “Where?” She looked first at her right arm and then at her left, which she had curled around her staff. One end of the staff rested on the ground, and she was leaning on it a bit, hand above the elbow. That’s where she saw what I saw. A trail of blood from the outside of her wrist wove down to her elbow, where it dripped. “Huh. He must have nicked me. I didn’t even feel it.”

“Not a good sign. These guys probably favor poison.” Even as I said it, Granuaile’s knees buckled and she dropped to the cave floor, her confidence replaced by confusion. Her staff tumbled out of nerveless fingers.

Her expression filled with a dollop of panic, and I think it was safe to say that mine did as well. “Poison?” she said. “I hope it wasn’t iocane powder.”

“Hopefully not. But probably potent if he was gunning for us. Speak to Olympia about it and ask her to heal you. She’ll probably be happy to do it. And look—there’s more on your leg. Quite a lot.”

Granuaile looked down at the outside of her left calf, where the assassin had more than nicked her. There was a deep gash, and for her to be unaware meant either he was using some sort of numbing agent or she had some really amazing adrenaline.

“Oh, shit, I don’t even feel it—right. Same solution.” She closed her eyes and spoke to Olympia, while I did my best to look unconcerned. Forcing myself away from her side as she concentrated, I began to gather our supplies.

<We’re leaving now?> Oberon asked.

As soon as we can. This place isn’t safe anymore. If one group of assassins was told to look here, then another was probably told the same. Speaking of which, would you mind keeping an eye on the wee valley? There’s still one out there, and I don’t want to be surprised again.

<All right.> Oberon turned to the cave entrance and wriggled between the bushes to give himself a commanding view up and downstream.

And don’t forget to look up. He’s a flier.

<Okay. But honestly, Atticus, I think you should invent a ranged weapon for me to use in situations like this.>

If I did, you would just use it on squirrels. Is it all clear out there?

<Yes. I don’t see anything.>

Granuaile raised her head and opened her eyes.

“You were right, sensei. A numbing agent and a neurotoxin. Olympia spotted it and broke it down, though. Now I can feel where he got me.”

“He was waiting for you to fall down like that so he could finish you. Can you move again?”

“Yeah,” she said, waggling her fingers, “I think so.”

“Good to hear. Pull this arrow out of my back, will you?”

“What? I didn’t even see that!”

“Had it camouflaged.” Despite having the pain under control, I winced when she yanked it out. There simply wasn’t anything comfortable about the feeling. “Thanks,” I said, and began to close up the wound. “Pack your things. We have to get out of the area before we have more assassins than we can deal with.”

Leaning her staff against the wall of the cave, she moved to comply, albeit with a slight limp. “Where will we go?”

“Back to Tír na nÓg for a brief while. Someone there is not only helping assassins find us, but they’re colluding for some reason with the dark elves. It’s a mystery worth investigating.”

“When will we continue my binding?”

“As soon as we can. Believe me, I want it over with as much as you do.”

Chapter 12

I have seen children play a game of tag in which they can’t be tagged if they’re touching “base,” which may be a tree, or an old tire, or any other object. It is a safe zone—a place where one can catch his breath and maybe throw a taunt or two at whoever is “it.”

Irish base is the plane of Mag Mell. There is no discord allowed. Fae assassins would not dare defile it. One can relax there, heal there, and even practice the damnable art of diplomacy if so inclined. That is where I took Granuaile and Oberon once we shifted away from Olympus. I created a tether to Tír na nÓg first using the tree in front of the cave—it would be senseless to try to hike back, wounded as we were and under the eye of a flying sniper—and once we shifted to Tír na nÓg, I pulled us a bit farther along the tether to Mag Mell.

The blood on our bodies startled and angered some of the Fae nymphs at the hot springs of Cnoc an Óir at first, but when we made it clear it had been shed elsewhere and we had come only to heal, they were polite, even solicitous, and asked how they could help. I asked them to take messages to Goibhniu and Manannan Mac Lir in Tír na nÓg, imploring them to visit me at the springs on a matter of some urgency. Bless them, they sent two nymphs straightaway, and the rest of them offered carved soaps and bandages and invited us to soak in the restorative hot springs.

The grounds around the springs were lined with spongy turf; verdant hedges grown for the sake of privacy separated individual soaking pools. There were larger pools available for parties of two or more, and it was into one of these that Oberon and I eased. Granuaile was led to a single pool nearby but well out of sight.

<Explain to me again why you are unable to stand the sight of her unclothed,> Oberon said, as I stripped and stepped gingerly into the pool.

It isn’t that I can’t stand the sight. The problem is that part of me would stand very tall. And it wouldn’t matter how much I thought about baseball either. Hmm. Maybe I should try thinking of a geriatric hockey game. Very cold and lots of broken hips. That might work.

Oberon snorted. <Human mating habits are stupid.>

I’m trying not to get in the habit with her, Oberon.

<But you want to.>

No, I don’t. Well, I do, but you see, I can’t, and … it’s complicated.

<No, it’s stupid.>

I sighed. Maybe you’re right.

<You know I’m right. Dogs are much smarter about this. Bitch comes into heat, the Marvin Gaye song plays, puppies in nine weeks. Leaves more time for playing and napping when you’re not worrying about all the things humans worry about after sex. I swear you spend more time worrying about it than doing it.>

A nymph approached but kept a safe distance, then informed me that Goibhniu was on his way. I thanked her and she left.

Brewers are craftsmen to be envied, and Goibhniu is one of the finest. His daily work is easily tested and tasted, and unlike, say, one of those people who greet you in a soulless big box store, he can point to the produce of his labor and say, “There. I made that.” These days he has a taproom next to his smithy (for he is also an extremely accomplished blacksmith), and he is often found behind the bar, pulling pints for people and grinning as he serves up his latest creation. I have always liked him. Then again, it’s difficult to dislike a man who takes pleasure in giving away free beer.

“Siodhachan!” he bellowed good-naturedly, striding toward me across the turf. He was dressed in a simple brown tunic with white knotwork and a cream-colored belt. He carried a big dark bottle in each hand. His arms were thrown wide, giving the impression that he wished to hug me with beer—a poster boy for the idea that Beer Is Love. “Good to see you outside the bloody Fae Court! You simply must try a draught of my latest.” He sat down cross-legged at the edge of my pool and popped off the top of one bottle with his thumb and a subtle unbinding. He handed it to me and then opened the other. “I call it my Bagpipe Porter. A steady note of sonorous malt with top notes of clove and vanilla dancing a jig along the sides o’ your tongue.”

“Good health and harmony,” I said, raising my bottle to him. He clinked the neck and echoed me, then we enjoyed a few delicious swallows. “Magnificent,” I told him.