know what truly happened in history from someone who was there. I want to know the things you know, especially the things humanity has forgotten or never knew in the first place. It’s just the general principle that knowing is better than not knowing, knowledge is power, and so on.”
I’ve heard worse. She walked up to the precipice of brownnosing, took a good look, but stepped back at the last moment.
“Another reason,” she continued, “is that I think Laksha’s magic is a bit scary, and I say that hoping she isn’t offended.” She rolled her eyes up for a moment, apparently conducting some internal dialogue. Then she looked back at me. “I think that much of what she has told me about her magic, and much of what I have read about magic with true power behind it, is a bit alarming. It seems to involve trafficking with H. P. Lovecraft action figures, and there are some rituals that I would have a problem with morally and, like, digestively. Toenails and body fluids-ew!” She shuddered. “But your power, a Druid’s power, comes from the earth, right?”
“That’s correct.”
She pointed at my right arm. “Laksha tells me those tattoos aren’t just for show.”
“She’s right.”
“That sounds like something I could live with.”
“Are you sure? It limits you. A Druid cannot do all the things a witch can do. If it’s power you’re after, then witches can access far more of it far faster than a Druid can.”
“There are different kinds of power,” Granuaile shot back. “And witches have the power to dominate and destroy. Your power is to defend and build.”
“Nah, no.” I shook my head. “I think you’re romanticizing quite a bit. My powers can also be used to dominate and destroy.” Aenghus Og had certainly dominated Fagles. And Bres had tried to destroy me using a glamour.
“Okay, granted,” she conceded. “Anything can be twisted from its original intent. But the intent is what I’m talking about, Atticus. Laksha knows of rituals and spells that cannot possibly be, you know, benign. The difference is, your magic can be twisted to evil purposes, but some of the magic Laksha knows cannot ever be good. That is an important distinction for me.”
“So what do you think a Druid is?” I asked. If she mentioned white robes and ZZ Top beards, I would scream.
“They are healers and wise people,” she said. “Tellers of tales, repositories of culture, shape-shifters according to some stories, and able to exert a little influence over the weather.”
“Hmm, not bad,” I said. “Do they ever kick ass?”
I said it flippantly, but she knew this was a test. “Occasionally they kicked some ass in battles.” Granuaile frowned. “I mean according to some of the old legends. But they used swords and axes to do that, not magic force. That’s a nice sword you have there, by the way,” she said, tilting her chin to the hilt of Fragarach peeking over my shoulder. “Are you planning on kicking some ass?”
I ignored her question and asked her another. “What did the Druids do in the old legends you read?”
“Mostly they advised kings and tried to predict the future-oh, I forgot that. Divination is kind of a Druid thing. Do you cut open animals and look at their guts?” She crinkled her nose at me and held her breath.
“No,” I answered, shaking my head, and she relaxed. “I prefer to cast wands.”
“There, see?” She tapped me teasingly on the arm. “You don’t destroy things.”
“Do you seriously want to become a Druid initiate? Before you answer, let me explain what that would involve, because Laksha could not possibly know, and if you’ve been reading any of that New Age crap that says you only need to take some plant life and pray to Brighid or the Morrigan, well, it’s not like that. First, you get twelve years of memorizing things. No spells, nothing remotely cool or powerful. Just memorizing and regurgitating for twelve years. You might be able to knock off a year or so because you’re starting later than most initiates and your brain is fully developed, but still, it’s a long time. You have to seriously like books and learning and languages, because you’d have to learn a few, and that’s all you’d do, full time, until you’re in your thirties.”
“Oh,” she said in a tiny voice. “What about paying bills and things like that?”
“You’d have to quit your job here and come work for me in my bookstore. To relieve the tedium of reading books, I can occasionally allow you the tedium of selling them to other people. And maybe I’ll teach you how to brew some special teas.”
“Wow. Okay.”
“After you pass all your tests, we can start teaching you some magic. But you have to be able to draw power for that, and that means getting yourself tattooed ritualistically with vegetable-based dyes. It takes five months.”
“Five months?” Granuaile’s eyes bugged.
“I just told you about twelve years of study up front and you didn’t even blink, and now you’re worried about five months?”
“Well, this is five months of getting stabbed with a needle, right?”
“Thorns, actually. This is very old-school. Doesn’t get much older.”
“Yeah, see, that’s a bit different than curling up with a book and a mug of hot chocolate.”
“But it’s necessary if you want to perform Druidic magic. It’s a ritual that binds you to the earth and allows you to tap its power. And once you’re bound to it, you will never want to do anything to harm it. Aenghus Og might be dealing with demons these days, if Brighid’s right, but even he wouldn’t dare mess with the earth.” After I said that, it occurred to me that a man willing to deal with demons might do much worse, so I added, “I hope,” sotto voce.
“You talked to Brighid? And who’s Aenghus Og? You mean the old Irish love god?”
“Yeah, him,” I said, mildly surprised and impressed that she was able to place the name, though I shouldn’t have been after she had correctly identified Airmid. “But forget I mentioned him. The point is, Granuaile, it will be more than a decade before you get to feel anything that can be called magical power. If you’re anxious to start wielding magic, Laksha might know a ritual that can get you started tonight. What kind of patience do you have?”
“The right kind,” she said. “And I have enough.” She reached out and covered my hand with hers, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I truly want this.”
“You said you’re twenty-two. Don’t you have a college degree already?”
She rolled her eyes at me. “Yeah, I graduated in May with a degree in philosophy. And now I tend bar because what the hell else am I going to do with a philosophy degree?”
All right,” I said after studying her face. “I’ll take your application seriously and consider it. But before I make a decision, I need to speak to Laksha.”
“I figured as much.” She twisted her lips in an expression of regret and let her hand slip back to her side. “I need to work a bit before I let her take over, though. She doesn’t know jack about bartending. Hold on.” She quickly revisited her lingering patrons, getting a refill here, closing out a check there, distributing smiles and thanks and drinks with equal facility.
Tullamore Dew trickled down my throat as I considered her and reviewed why I hadn’t had an apprentice in more than a thousand years. Mostly it was because everyone thought the Druids had all died out, and they didn’t know there was still someone around to ask for training. I was kind of like Yoda chilling out in the Dagobah system. But even when people found me-as they occasionally did, as Granuaile just had-training someone had been impractical, because I had to remain mobile and I couldn’t afford to stay in one place for so long. I had also been working on my necklace for much of that time, and you can’t concentrate on a project like that with constant questions and the need to plan instruction for someone else.
My last apprentice had left this plane near the very end of the tenth century. He was a bright, earnest lad named Cibran, who managed to play the role of an illiterate Catholic peasant convincingly while learning the mysteries of the earth from me. I was hiding underneath the skirts of the Holy Roman Empire at the time-a far-flung fold of its skirts, really, near the city of Compostela in the kingdom of Galicia. I had a modest farm a couple of miles from town, and everyone liked me because I gave all the credit for my crops to Jesus and paid the clergy generous tithes. Cibran’s father was a smith in town, and he sent his son out to my farm a few times a week to get fresh produce and eggs from the chickens I kept. He paid me with Cibran’s labor on the farm, and that’s how we found time to conduct his education. He had nearly completed his studies, and we were about to travel into the woods to begin his tattoos, when Al-Mansur’s forces swept up from the southern Caliphate and sacked the city in 997, killing him and his father before I could get there to protect him. That was when I gave up on trying to be a teacher.
