Shattered

Chapter 20

I would have returned to my cabin in Colorado, except that Owen was going to show up eventually near the house of Sam Obrist after his trip to Tír na nÓg, and I had to return the rental car in Flagstaff anyway.

After Jesus had bid me farewell and gifted me with the glasses and the remainder of the tequila, I wasn’t any closer to figuring out how best to proceed. I had more doubt than resolve, and a faint but growing worry about Granuaile. As it grew dark Friday night, I thought perhaps I should give her a call. I shifted back to Arizona, where there was cell service, and was about to punch in her number when she texted me and told me not to worry about her. She was still in India, and it was Saturday morning there. I didn’t know how things had turned out with her dad, and she said not to worry about that either, so I was left with the luxury of time to decide what to do next.

I dreamed up several different courses of manly, decisive action with muscles and swords and copious grunts of exertion, but I wasn’t sure which of the gang of nine gods would deign to join me, if any. Jesus had hinted pretty strongly that I was on my own, which made any action extremely risky. After a night spent under the stars, I leavened my meditation on Saturday with long runs through the Coconino National Forest with Oberon, during which he informed me of his plans to write a book like Miyamoto Musashi’s, except his would be called The Book of Five Meats.

Only five?

Oh, yes, I didn’t think of that. Miyamoto divided his book into five rings, or ways—The Way of Fire, the Way of Earth, and so on—and each way taught something about his approach to martial arts. What will your five ways be?

That’s a good way to group them, Oberon. Seafood and Deli encompasses a wide range of meats. I’ll be interested to hear what you have to say about headcheese. And the last?

Please do.

I think you’re on to something there, buddy.

Oh, that’s a winner. In addition to the warning against the dangers of routine, it has both rhyme and innuendo.

of course it does; I totally planned that!>

My phone eventually rang on Sunday afternoon. It was Sam Obrist’s number, but Owen was on the other end of it.

“Siodhachan?”

“Yes?”

“Come to Sam’s house so I don’t have to talk to this unnatural piece of shite anymore.”

“What the hell, Owen? Sam is not an unnatural piece of shite!”

“What? Gods blast it, I was talking about this fecking cell phone, not Sam!”

“Well, you should choose your words more carefully, then!”

“Ye really need to shut your hole about me word choice. Or do I need to remind ye that this isn’t my fecking native language?”

“Blow a goat!”

“You’ve already blown them all!”

“I’ll be there soon!”

“Fine!”

I pressed the button to end the call and saw that Oberon was looking at me.

I breathed out a long sigh and tried to relax. “Yeah, somehow my conversations with him always do.”

When I got to Sam’s house, I had to endure more hazing along the lines of “Fun’s over, boys. Siodhachan’s here.” Owen left them a half-finished bottle of whiskey, and the unsteadiness of his gait indicated he might have drunk the other half recently, but eventually we were able to shift to Colorado. It was his first visit to the place, and he made some effort to say nice things about it. Perhaps that was his apology for snapping at me earlier. Or perhaps it was an apology for what was to come.

A pronounced chill heralded the early onset of winter, and the birds were beginning to notice. As the sun sank below the jagged ridge of the San Juans, many of them spoke loudly of leaving soon for the south—or anyway it sounded that way to me—and at least one pair said, to hell with it, we’re leaving now. Sitting outside in canvas sling chairs with glasses of stout in hand, Owen and I listened to the song of Gaia in silence and spent a half hour pretending there wasn’t anything to talk about. Then, without preamble, Owen cleared his throat and broached the subject he’d been avoiding ever since he got back. “Look, Siodhachan, the good news is that it’s not Brighid.”

“Oh, I know. I found that out recently through a different source, but I’m glad to hear it confirmed.”

The archdruid nodded, uncomfortable, looking disappointed that there was little reason to dwell on the good news before he had to get on with the bad.

“All right, keep in mind that I haven’t any proof,” he said. “Someone else will have to get that. All I have is circumstantial evidence, though I’m convinced I’m right. I’ll walk you through it. All the business with the Fae assassins and the vampires and the dark elves started after you came out of hiding and presented yourself at the Fae Court, am I right?”

“Right.”

“So it was that appearance that triggered everything. We know it’s not Brighid, and you can eliminate all the Fae, because they don’t have the connections outside Tír na nÓg to pull this off. So it had to be one of the other Tuatha Dé Danann.”

“I’m with you so far.”

“Now you look at Brighid’s boys, and they have no motive. They’re into their respective crafts and they’re actually happy you’re back, because you make life more interesting. Ogma is spoiling for a fight, but he’s the sort who will pick one with you and leave the subtlety to others. If he’s after you, you’ll know it. Same thing with Flidais. If she wanted ye dead, then you’d be dead already with an arrow in your eye, and besides, she came to your aid against those huntresses. Nearly all the others who might be able to do this sort of thing are long gone. So, by my figuring, that leaves only two of the Tuatha Dé Danann with the power to do this: Manannan Mac Lir and Fand.”

“No.”

He slapped his chair arm with his free hand. “Fecking listen, boy! They’re both incredibly good at keeping secrets, but only one of them had the opportunity to do this. And with all his responsibilities as master of the sea and being the only remaining Irish god looking after the dead, Manannan Mac Lir doesn’t have the opportunity. Nor does he have the motive.”

“You’re saying it’s Fand? What motive does she have?”

“She’s the Queen of the Faeries, Siodhachan! The faeries who can’t stand cold iron, who hate and fear you more than anything in all the worlds, and who, I might add, you have killed in vast numbers over the years, by your own admission.”

Stunned, I managed only a lame protest. “But Fand has been so kind to us.…”

My archdruid lost what little composure he had left. “Of course she has, you giant fecking tit! You had the favor of the Morrigan and her husband and even Brighid, so she had no choice but to smile in your face! But she hates your guts in sympathy with all the Fae who love her so. The Fae both respect and fear Brighid, Siodhachan, and they follow her, but it’s Fand that they adore. And the very last thing Fand wants, lad, is another Iron Druid. One is far too many for her, don’t ye see? So both you and Granuaile had to go, but go without anyone figuring out who was responsible. Manannan was often not at home, and her mum was off having thunder sex with Perun in the forest, so Fand had plenty of time to scheme and leave and come back without anyone being the wiser. She met Granuaile at the Fae Court when you introduced her, which means Fand knew her name and shook her hand, maybe swiped a hair or two or something to help her with divination, and that was all she needed. She could track you through Granuaile and send in the assassins of one kind or another almost immediately, but it took her some time to set up that arrangement with the Romans and shut down your ability to shift planes.”

“So she was the one who killed Midhir and Lord Grundlebeard and left that manticore in his home.…”

“Aye. And that manticore told ye he was captured by someone masked, with an odd voice, correct?”

“Correct.”

“I’ll bet ye three grandmas and all their cookies that she was masked like that when she killed Midhir. That way, when Manannan arrived to take Midhir’s shade away to wherever he was bound, Midhir couldn’t tell him that Fand had done the deed.”

“Gods, Owen. She’s Manannan’s wife and Flidais’s daughter.”

“I know, lad.” He burst into a wide grin and leaned back into his chair, taking a sip of Guinness and smacking his lips. A line of foam trailed along the bottom edge of his mustache. “Oh, that’s right delicious, that is. But you’re fecking doomed, and that’s no lie.”

“I don’t think that’s necessarily so.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

“Because I can see where she’s coming from. If someone was out there killing people I cared about, I’d be going after them myself. I can’t blame her, because I’d do the same thing in her position. There has to be something I can do to fix this.”

“Ah, so you’ll be lyin’ down and presenting your belly, then, and askin’ her to kill ye straightaway, because she’s justified?”

“Of course not. But this isn’t a kill-or-be-killed situation yet. We can still talk.”

My archdruid scoffed. “Aye, lad. I’m sure she talked to Midhir for a nice long while before she wrapped him up in iron and cut his throat.”

“I’m in a very different position than Midhir was. I just … don’t … want to jump to violence.”

“Why not? It will solve the problem, and you’re good at it.”

“No. Every time I think I’ve solved a problem with violence, more problems grow in their place, like a hydra.”

“A hydrant, ye say? One of those yellow things ye pointed out to me?”

“No, a hydra. Greek monster. Cut off a head and two grow back in its place.”

“Oh. Well, then, ye don’t cut off its head. You take out the heart or the kidneys.”

“Yes, Owen, that’s my point. I’d rather approach this a different way.”

“All right, approach it on your knees if ye must. I’ll be tellin’ ye I told ye so later.”

I quelled the retort on my lips and instead replied with, “Tomorrow’s Samhain. Celebrate it with me here?”

Owen took his time in responding, wondering if perhaps I had an ulterior motive, but finally he said, “Aye, lad. I’ll do that.”

“Good. With any luck, we’ll be celebrating it with Manannan Mac Lir.”