Trapped

Chapter 5

“BWAH-ha-ha!” someone laughed amongst the Tuatha Dé Danann. I darted a glance that way and saw everyone looking at Manannan Mac Lir, who had clapped a hand over his mouth. Flidais threw in a girlish titter, and then they all erupted—which gave everyone else permission to laugh as well, though they had no idea what they were laughing at. What had happened is that the Tuatha Dé Danann had “heard” Oberon’s comment. My eyes slid back to Brighid, and her mouth was quirked upward on one side; as I watched, her hounds subsided and sat down. I told Oberon to lay off as well.

You might have just saved our bacon there, I added.

Oberon asked, a hopeful note in his voice.

“Please explain, if you will,” Brighid said in a much more cordial tone, “why you found it necessary to conceal your existence from me and the rest of the Tuatha Dé Danann.”

“I needed some assurance that I would be undisturbed for a span of years, for I have been hard at work training an apprentice. You may remember her.” I gestured over my shoulder. “Granuaile MacTiernan.”

Brighid bestowed a nod of recognition, and I assumed Granuaile returned it. A murmur of appreciation rippled through the Tuatha Dé Danann. A new Druid would be most welcome.

“She is not yet bound to the earth,” Brighid noted, seeing no tattoos on Granuaile’s right arm.

“No, but she is ready. I was on my way to begin the process when we were interrupted.”

“On your way where, if I may ask?”

“I was searching for an appropriate place in Arizona.”

Brighid frowned. “You cannot bind a Druid to the earth in the New World.”

That set me back on my heels a bit. “You can’t?”

Brighid seemed as bemused as I was. “It may be done only in Europe. Only the Eurasian plate has agreed to participate in the ritual. I thought you knew this.”

“No.” I had never tried to bind an apprentice elsewhere—in truth, I had bound precious few apprentices to the earth in the first place. All three Druids of my “issue” were dead now. Two had been ambushed—or perhaps assassinated, shot in the back—and another had died in the civil war that resulted in the dissolution of the Carolingian Empire. I hadn’t attempted to train anyone since the death of Cíbran, my last apprentice, in 997. And so it was no wonder I had never discovered this particular proviso to a Druid’s binding, but it made sense. All levels of the earth, from elementals to plates to Gaia herself, must be involved, and the plates were notoriously loath to get involved in anything but their own slow movements and ceaseless grating against one another.

Manannan spoke up. “Brighid, if I may interject?” She waved at him to continue, and he rose to address me. He commanded everyone’s rapt attention. “I cannot speak for all, but I hope I speak for many of the Tuatha Dé Danann when I say we welcome Granuaile MacTiernan to Druidry, and I, for one, would like to see you train many more apprentices. Druidry has been neglected far too long on the mortal plane.” Emphatic nods among the Tuatha Dé Danann supported his statement.

“Thank you, Manannan, and all of you who agree,” I said, and privately cursed myself for not taking note of who hadn’t visually concurred. “If I could find such excellent apprentices as Granuaile, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to continue teaching. However, for me to accomplish this goal, I need to have a modicum of security. To that end, I humbly request that you keep my existence a secret, especially from the Olympians and the Norse.”

Furtive glances warned me that I had made a troublesome request.

“If … that is possible?” I asked.

Flidais spoke up. “The Olympian Bacchus asked us to inform him if you ever showed your face here.”

“Well, the Olympian Bacchus can go blow a goat.” There was no love lost between us. I had called him a “petty god of grape and goblet” and derided him as a pale echo of Dionysus. All the Roman gods were; their worshippers had possessed so little imagination that they hadn’t even moved them off Olympus. Two pantheons lived atop the same bald peak, albeit on different planes.

“Attempting to conceal it will strain our relationship with the Olympians,” Brighid pointed out.

“Perhaps you do not have all the facts here. Bacchus does not want to know of my whereabouts so he can send me a skin of his best cabernet. He wants to kill me, nothing else. He has sworn to Jupiter that he will do so. You cannot strain our relationship any more than that. So do you want more Druids or not? If you do, then don’t tell the immortal god of madness where to find me, and keep a close watch on your faeries.”

“Regrettably, it may already be too late,” Fand said, in a liquid sort of lilt that perfectly matched her appearance. “I’m quite sure many of the Fae have already spread word of your audience here. Word will circulate quickly that you are back from the dead. Bacchus will hear of it sooner or later.”

Three kinds of cat shit, Oberon.

There was nothing I could do about it now. “Speaking of people returning from a long absence,” I said, “Loki, the Norse god of mischief, is walking the nine realms again. And he seems intent on burning others.”

Brighid frowned. “Explain.”

I waved a hand at the Russian thunder god looming behind me. “This is Perun, a Slavic god of the sky. Loki somehow gained access to his plane and burned it all. You could feel the plane dying on the earth. I tell you three times; Gaia shuddered beneath my feet. I do not know if Loki plans on attacking the Tuatha Dé Danann or the Fae, but considering the myriad paths to Tír na nÓg, I highly recommend taking steps to seal it off from intruders, keeping in mind that Loki has a reputation as a shape-shifter.”

Brighid nodded. “I hear you three times, Siodhachan.” She turned to her right and said, “Manannan. Ogma. Please see to our security and devise a plan to deal with Loki should he make his way here.” She turned to her left and addressed the dignitaries there. “The Lords of Faerie and their respective hosts will assist you.” They bowed in acquiescence and acknowledgment of the order. The hairstyles represented there, I thought, could start a revolution in Hollywood salons. I didn’t know much about the Lords of Faerie and their hosts, other than that they didn’t like me very much. I think that had something to do with the cold-iron-touch-of-death thing.

One of the lords cleared his throat to get Brighid’s permission to speak. He was dressed foppishly in an Elizabethan kit, cursed with the physique of an anorexic mannequin, and had half-lidded eyes that communicated his disdain for the universe. She looked at him and dipped her chin, giving him the green light to pontificate.

“Majesty, perhaps the shuddering of Gaia reported by the Iron Druid may explain some recent disturbing reports coming in from the rangers throughout Europe.”

“Do share with us all,” Brighid said.

“Most tethers to Europe from Tír na nÓg are now inoperable. The death of the Slavic plane may explain this.”

“Begging your pardon,” I said. “Are you saying that it’s impossible to shift to Europe right now?”

The fop raised an eyebrow and sneered at me. “That is precisely what I am saying. Except for a small area in the south of Greece.”

“The tethers for the rest of the world still work?” Brighid asked.

“Yes, Majesty.”

“And the secret paths walked by the Fae?”

“Those still function admirably.”

“So your theory is that the death of Perun’s plane is causing this.”

“It is a possibility.”

“Where, precisely, in Greece may one still travel freely?” I asked.

“Anywhere in the vicinity of Mount Olympus.”

I snorted. “An Olympian wants to kill me and the only place I can currently bind my apprentice to the earth is under the nose of the Olympians? Doesn’t that seem odd to you?”

The faery shrugged indifferently. “The timing of the Slavic plane’s destruction coincides with the beginning of the tether disturbance. I realize that correlation does not imply causation, but it is a plausible theory. Have you another to offer?”

I almost held back, but then thought better of it. I would never win the favor of any Fae host at this point, so I might as well enjoy myself and call it like I saw it. “I will offer the theory that you are an insufferable grundlebeard,” I said, much to the amusement of the audience behind us, who were not of that particular lord’s host. He’d always be called Lord Grundlebeard after this, and he knew it; his face burned red.

“Why is it that only the area around Olympus is free from this disturbance?” I asked, turning away from the Fae.

“It would make sense if you assume the Olympians are protecting their territory,” Flidais said, rising from her chair to address the assembly. “I’m sure the dryads are under their protection. If the reverberations of Perun’s plane are being felt worldwide, the Olympians would see it as their duty to prevent the creatures in their domain from suffering.”

“Then why don’t all the world’s pantheons do the same?” I asked.

Flidais shrugged helplessly. “Perhaps they don’t understand that there’s a problem. Few depend on the earth for travel as we do, and they might be entirely unaware. And they might also be too weak to do anything about it, whereas the Olympians still retain a decent measure of their old power.”

These were certainly possibilities. It would be as fallacious for me to assume that the world was out to get me as it would be for them to assume the world wasn’t. In their favor was the timing: How could the Olympians have known an hour ago—in time to orchestrate something like this—that I was still around? I had to admit that, though it looked like a convenient trap for me, Flidais’s theory held much more water. The Olympians were looking after their own.

“Brighid, though the news of my return has probably spread already, as Fand noted, will you neglect to tell Olympus, or to officially acknowledge my return, until such time as I can finish binding my apprentice to the earth?”

She tilted her head slightly to one side. “Why should I do this?”

“So that the world will have another Druid. One,” I added with a wry smile, “who is perhaps not so annoying as myself.” Self-deprecation is an enduring social lubricant and should be applied liberally in cases like these.

Brighid broke into a full grin. “For that, I would do much more.” Her voice took on the three-note tone and she announced, “None of the Fae or the Tuatha Dé Danann are to speak of the Iron Druid’s return until after his apprentice is bound to the earth. Transgressors will be severely punished.”

I nodded my thanks instead of speaking it. “Will that be all, Brighid?”

“For now,” she said. “Your audience was not without excitement. But Fragarach is returned and we have a new Druid to welcome.” All was forgiven, then. At least in public. “Please inform us when she is successfully bound.”

“I will,” I said.

“Flidais will escort you wherever you wish.”

A soft but excited “Da! Da!” escaped Perun’s lips. As Flidais walked up to us, a coy smile on her lips for the thunder god, the assembled crowd began to murmur and discuss my audience. Flidais said the Tuatha Dé Danann all wanted to meet Granuaile; for them, she was the highlight of the day, for she represented something new. Watching them stand next to each other, I was struck again by how similar they looked—at least, when Flidais was all “cleaned up” like this. They were the same height, and their hair was quite nearly the same shade; Flidais’s hair leaned perhaps a bit more toward auburn.

Granuaile had a slightly wild yet glazed look to her eyes, the look that graduates and brides get when they are congratulated by an endless train of well-wishers. Having your hand kissed by gods and your cheeks kissed by goddesses can set one’s heart aflutter, but I think she bore it well. She didn’t go all fangirl on anyone, but I suspect that’s only because none of them bore the slightest resemblance to Nathan Fillion. I’d taken her to Comic Con about eight years ago and she got to meet him; when he shook her hand and said, “Charmed,” she damn near swooned. Then she lost most of her language faculties.

“Am. Uh. I mean. Granuaile. That’s me. Oh, gods! Hi. So handsome. You, and. Wow. Sorry! Can’t breathe.”

I got a lot of mileage out of that one.

Manannan invited her to his house for a pint of ale; Fand seconded the invitation and included the rest of our party and her mother, Flidais.

“Yes, of course, ye must all come,” Manannan said. He looked expectantly at Granuaile, but she swung her gaze to me, which caused Manannan to raise a querying brow in my direction.

“I told them not to accept any food or drink while here,” I explained.

“Ah!” The god of the sea nodded sagely. “A wise precaution. I should have thought to be more formal and observe the proper manners.” He turned to Granuaile once more but addressed us all. “Granuaile and friends, I invite ye to enjoy my hospitality this day, expecting no favor in return and incurring no debts or obligations on your part. I keep a wholesome table.” Wholesome, in this case, was the Fae equivalent of Certified Organic; it meant he personally guaranteed the food would be the simple sort, without any sort of bindings used before, during, or after its production.

“We will accept your hospitality for a couple of hours,” I said, “and then we must leave to begin binding Granuaile to the earth.”

Manannan grinned from behind his mustache. “Excellent. Please follow.”

Carrying Fragarach in his left hand, he walked hand in hand with Fand to a tree on the border of the court and shifted somewhere. Flidais followed, then we found the binding marker he left behind and shifted to a tree outside a large castle set on a cliff overlooking the sea. In the “real” world, this castle was a poor stone hut, seemingly abandoned. Here in Tír na nÓg, it was an architectural wonder set on breathtakingly beautiful grounds. The famous hogs of Manannan Mac Lir—the ones that re-spawned after slaughter, providing him with eternal luscious bacon—snorted fatly in their pen and radiated decadence. Kine lowed in the distance, black-and-white Rorschach blots on a green field. Wolfhounds trotted around creamy pincushions of sheep. The scene was edged with golden highlights, a pastoral the likes of which Thomas Cole would have dreamed. Some faeries were visible here and there—the airborne and the grounded—and while they looked at us curiously, none approached. The three members of the Tuatha Dé Danann were waiting for us and smiled a welcome, beckoning us inside. Manannan delivered Fragarach into the hands of a sleek servant who was no doubt the human form of a selkie. She bowed to him and bore it into the castle ahead of us.

Fand dismissed most of the faeries in the castle immediately, “for their comfort and yours,” she said to me. When I had last been a guest at Manannan’s estate, I wasn’t known as the Iron Druid, and the Fae rather liked me. Circumstances were much different now, and, as such, we were treated to the singular privilege of being served by Manannan and Fand in the kitchen. It smelled of apples, and when I remarked upon this they mentioned a cider press through a door in the rear. They set out a platter of fruit, cheese, and bread, then poured us each a flagon of ale and toasted our health. They gave Oberon a ham bone with plenty of meat left on it.

Oberon said.

Yes, it’s okay.

Oberon set his ears back and reared up on his hind legs playfully. he said, and pawed at it a couple of times before chomping down and trotting off to enjoy it elsewhere.

Manannan and Fand wanted to learn more about Granuaile since she was shortly to be a full Druid, so they encouraged her to talk about herself. Flidais and Perun quickly lost interest, however, and began conducting a hushed conversation of their own, every murmur vibrating with the frisson of sexual tension.

Before long, Granuaile was talking directly to Fand. The god of the sea had apparently been waiting for this development, because Manannan jerked his head at me to repair to another room, where there was an open window looking out on his sheep pasture.

“Fly with me down there for a moment?” he asked, pointing.

It was unusual, but it seemed a harmless request, so I shrugged. “Sure.” We stripped and shifted to our bird forms; he was a great shearwater and I a great horned owl. Manannan took his cloak of mists with him in his talons. We leapt from the window and coasted down to the sheep, where we shifted back to human. Manannan quickly shook out his cloak and used it, enveloping us entirely in mist. Then he bound the air around us so that no sound could travel out of a bubble around our heads.

“Faeries and enchantments everywhere up there,” he explained with a jerk of his head toward the castle, “and some o’ them are quite talented at remaining inconspicuous while they eavesdrop. I just wanted to have a word with ye that wouldn’t be overheard, and I didn’t want our lips read either.”

“Okay,” I said, though his preamble made me curious and more than a little nervous.

“It’s not only Bacchus who wants to see ye dead,” he explained, “or who might suspect you’re still alive. There was an envoy from the Svartálfar a couple o’ years back, asking if ye might be alive after all.”

“Well, I suppose it had to happen someday,” I said, and sighed. “I actually have cause to blame the dark elves.”

“Blame them for what?”

I shrugged. “Whatever vexes me at any given moment. They have been my universal scapegoat for ages. The truth of the matter is I don’t know much about them.”

One of the stranger developments of modern times is that more people have heard of dark elves today than at any other time in human history. This is almost entirely due to the twin influences of role-playing and fantasy-based video games. Or perhaps more credit is due to the artists who depicted them visually with dark skin and fantastic white hair; they had impossibly magical manes, as if they’d found some eldritch concoction in the deeps that gave them +5 flowing locks.

Even literature got it wrong. There are only a couple of passing references to dark elves in Sturluson’s Prose Edda, but they’re a bit confusing since they seem to conflate the dark elves with dwarfs. I have often wondered how much of that was intentional; in my mind it’s impossible to make such a mistake. They didn’t look a damn bit alike, if my sources were correct.

To be fair, Snorri Sturluson had priorities other than filling in the history of the dark elves. He wanted to preserve his country’s myths and culture without upsetting the Christian authorities of the time. He had to stretch like Mr. Fantastic to make the Norse gods descendants of the Trojans—and thus, to the Christians, not really gods at all, merely heroes—and he probably couldn’t figure out a way to explain the dark elves satisfactorily. Then again, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that the Svartálfar had paid him a visit while he was writing the Edda and encouraged him to elide their existence all he wanted—perhaps more than he wanted.

The reason that there is so little information about dark elves is that they tend to keep to themselves, and, in truth, from what little I have heard, this is rather kind of them. Any interaction they have with humans tends to ruin the humans’ day.

“I know a bit about them,” Manannan said. “I got the short version o’ their history from one o’ the Álfar.”

“The Álfar spoke to you? Why?”

“This was some time ago. I had the story from a treasure hunter who wanted my help in locating wrecks at the bottom o’ the Irish Sea. Since he wanted a map, I asked him for a map in kind. I never could figure out where the nine realms were located on the World Tree, so he gave me a map that he swore was truth and told me a story about how the Svartálfar were born. Would ye like to hear it?”

“Yes, I would—and I’d love to see the map as well. If the dark elves are actively searching for me, I’d prefer to be armed with as much knowledge as possible.”

“That is wise, especially where fighting them is concerned.”

“Why so?”

“Patience, Siodhachan. I’ll tell all, even as he told it to me.”

Ages ago, even before the Tuatha Dé Danann had come to Ireland, the king of the Álfar—for there was only one kind of elf back then—commissioned a map of the Nine Realms of Yggdrasil. Asgard, Álfheim, and Vanaheim at the top were well known, but less was known of the six lower realms. The lowest three, in particular, were almost complete mysteries. Niflheim was a land of ice, and it was within that realm that Hel reigned over the moaning, inglorious dead; Muspellheim was a land of flames, where Surtr and the fire jötnar lived, awaiting the day of Ragnarok, when they could burn the whole of creation; but there was another land, both between and underneath them, subterranean and dark, beyond the jaws of the great wyrm Nidhogg, that did not even have a name, and no one knew what waited there in the black silence.

The largest party of Álfar was sent to explore this land, and none returned. All other parties returned and the map grew into an atlas, yet the king was displeased by the loss of the last crew. Another party, half again as large, was sent to seek them after forty years, but they did not return either. Ailing and old, this king—whose name has been purposefully forgotten by the Álfar—sent out a series of single adventurers. They were told not to explore but rather to discover the fates of their forebears and report back.

The answer to the mystery came three years later. Five strange beings appeared at the court of the Álfar king. Dressed in robes of a white material that looked like silk yet shimmered so that other colors reflected from its surface, they very nearly sparkled when they moved.

The beings appeared to be elves, except that instead of the light flesh and light-blond hair of the Álfar, this company had skin of obsidian. Each had a single queue of jet-black hair growing from the very top of his head, bunched together in places with silver circlets and falling down to the waist. Their eyes were green and abnormally large. They carried weapons unlike any the Álfar had seen, longish curved daggers that were not quite fit to be called swords, crafted not of iron or bronze but of some dark material; hilt, blade, and guard were all made of the same inky substance.

Approaching the throne, the strangers bowed but did not kneel to the king. He demanded to know who they were.

The one in the middle answered: “We bring greetings from Svartálfheim, the ninth realm of Yggdrasil.”

“What do you say? Explain.”

They were descendants of the first party he’d sent to the subterranean world, the entrance to which lies between the Ylgr and Vir rivers, and they had come to tell him and all Álfar that it was named Svartálfheim.

“You’re elves, then!” the king cried. “My subjects!”

“No, not your subjects. The sons of your former subjects.”

The king was not pleased by this show of independence but not inclined to argue the point. He was not sure he wanted them for subjects, for in his eyes they were strange.

“How came you to look thus?”

“We were given the Gjor at Reykr, the Gift of Smoke. We are now Svartálfar, as you are Ljósálfar.” This was the first time the distinction was made between the two races.

“What nonsense is this?” the king demanded.

“Svartálfheim is nothing like Álfheim. The caverns have changed us. We are no longer like you. But, for the sake of our former kinship, we would have ties with you so that both our kingdoms may flourish.”

“Both our kingdoms?” the king spluttered. His face grew red and he stood from his throne. “You have some king other than I?”

“Of course. You are Ljósálfar, not Svartálfar. We would not suggest that one of us lead your people.”

“And that is as it should be! But you owe me your allegiance! I funded your expedition! I supported the families left behind!” Thinking of this, the king decided they should be his subjects after all. “And, despite your dark skin, you are Álfar! Acknowledge me as your sovereign!”

“Our sovereign is in Svartálfheim. We are but ambassadors of his goodwill.”

“Goodwill would be acknowledging your rightful king. If I am not your sovereign, then you and your ancestors are deserters and traitors.”

The five Svartálfar stiffened. “We are none such,” one of the other dark elves said. He was not the spokesman, but none of his companions bristled at his interruption. “We are a different people now, as your senses must clearly report. We acknowledge our debt to you and will gladly repay your generosity. But we will not subject ourselves to your rule when you are none of our own.”

Perhaps a less prideful king would have found the strength to negotiate from this point. Perhaps the dark elves had said enough to provoke any king beyond all endurance. Regardless of might-have-beens, the king of the Álfar roared for his champions to take the dark elves and throw them in his dungeon.

“We wish all here to remember that we did not begin the violence and that we offered to pay our debts to the Álfar,” the spokesman called loudly. “You cannot prevail against our martial art, Sigr af Reykr. Send to Svartálfheim when your new king wishes to talk in peace.”

It was an odd thing to say, since they had yet to move, but the reason for it became clear shortly. When the Álfar champions tried to seize them, the Svartálfar became incorporeal, their white robes falling to the ground and their silver hair ties clinking after them, as something like coal dust bloomed where they had stood. Their strange knives did not fall to the ground but transformed with them. The dark elves became solid again outside the ring of champions, naked, holding those wicked curved blades, as black as their bodies. They could have slain all the Álfar then with a twitch of their wrists. Instead, they waited for the champions to turn, and this time the champions tried to use their weapons. Swords and axes swung at the dark elves but swished through nothing but black mist. Four clouds swirled back out of reach, but one wove sinuously through the air toward the king. The spokesman for the Svartálfar became solid at the bottom of the steps leading to the king’s throne, black knife in his left hand.

“Your orders gave our people life,” he said, “but we will let no one order us into submission. Rethink your orders and let us talk peaceably, or else you and you alone will suffer for overreaching.”

“Slay them all!” the king ordered, and his bodyguards rushed down to meet the threat.

The dark elf waited until their weapons were descending upon him, then he turned into a plume of curling smoke and rose up the steps toward the king. Seeing this, the king drew his sword. His bodyguards would not recover and reach him in time. He swiped at the tendrils of smoke, to no effect. Long wisps of it entered his mouth, and he coughed once before he died.

The dark elf solidified with his right arm down the king’s throat. He yanked hard and tore free the king’s jaw and unmoored his throat from his spine. The gush of blood showered the elf in gore, but he turned to mist again and the blood fell like rain as the king’s corpse tumbled down the stairs to meet his bodyguards, a silent testimonial to their utter failure. This, then, was Sigr af Reykr, Victory from Smoke.

The stunned court of the Álfar noticed two things as the Svartálfar retreated: One, the dark elves never kept their incorporeal form for more than five seconds—they always solidified for at least a full second before dissolving again to mist—and, two, they could be killed. The latter was discovered just before the Svartálfar exited the audience chamber. An archer, high on the balcony surrounding the court, had been closely observing the changes and movements of the dark elves. It was he who realized their smoke form could last no longer than five seconds. He nocked an arrow and carefully followed the movements of a single dark elf. Once the villain turned to smoke, the archer counted to five and released his arrow at the center of the mist when it was but ten paces from the door. The dark elf became flesh a split second before the arrow lanced into the space between his shoulder and neck, spearing his vitals and ending his life.

He collapsed before the door and the champions bore down on him, stabbing him again and again for surety, but in all likelihood he was already dead. Within seconds the body began to crumble in on itself, smoke rose from the corpse, and inside of a minute all that was left was carbon mixed with fluid, a wet puddle of tar with the archer’s arrow in the middle of it. The blade, too, dissolved into the mess.

From that day to this, the Svartálfar and Ljósálfar have hated each other. The dark elves have held peaceful if rather tense talks with the Æsir and Vanir, and they have traded well with the dwarfs of Nidavellir and with the denizens of Jötunheim. On Midgard, as you might imagine, they have found employment as assassins. But in Álfheim they are forever attacked on sight for their unforgivable treason and regicide.

When Manannan fell silent, I prompted him to continue. “Go on,” I said.

“That’s it.”

“What? That can’t be it!”

“That’s all I was told. I can tell ye it’s more than most people know about them.”

“There has to be more though. Centuries of war and rivers of elfin blood, battles that lasted for three months—come on!”

The sea god shook his head. “No. The Álfar despise the Svartálfar as traitors but refuse to go to war on their own kind. Between you and me, I think they fear entering Svartálfheim and being corrupted in the same way. The turning-to-mist trick seems like a fabulous plus, but they make awfully messy corpses. The Álfar think it unwholesome somehow and a high price to pay to exterminate traitors who are otherwise doin’ no harm to the realm.”

“Which realm?”

“I misspoke. No harm to Álfheim.”

“Yeah. Tell me more about that trick of theirs. What is the ‘Gift of Smoke,’ precisely?”

Manannan shrugged. “Some kind of mutagen.”

“Hey, look at you busting out the modern words!”

He scowled at me. “Not all o’ the Tuatha Dé Danann believe the mortals have nothin’ to offer us.”

“I’m of your mind, Manannan, and have been for a long time. I approve. No one knows what this mutagen 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.