chapter 30
I have decided that I really hate poison and I’ll never use it again myself. It’s not how I want to win.
The sidheóg toxin didn’t deliver a fraction of the pain of the manticore’s venom, but it was effective in slowing me down and making me vulnerable. And it was sneaky—the lack of pain meant I didn’t realize what was happening until it was almost too late. My muscle responses dragged, and my movements became sluggish and unbalanced. My vision blurred, and I warned Granuaile about it with a mouth full of mush.
I barely avoided the swing of a goblin’s axe by stumbling backward but couldn’t recover from it and fell flat on my posterior, Fragarach bouncing from my grasp when my knuckles hit the ground. Granuaile shouted my name, but I couldn’t answer. I knew I could beat the toxin given enough time, but the goblin who missed me wanted a second chance. He was charging after me—axe raised to chop down into my guts, and an ugly slash of a grin on his mug—when an unseen force knocked him sideways, as if he’d been kicked. He had in fact been kicked by Granuaile, and when he tried to get up he got a knife in the face for his trouble. Two more goblins met swift ends trying to come after me as Granuaile stood invisible sentinel, and then Brighid took the fight to Fand and everyone stopped to watch.
“Atticus, are you okay?” Granuaile’s disembodied voice asked.
“Worr … Working on it.” I hoped whatever Brighid was doing would keep everyone preoccupied for a few more minutes. My body was breaking down the toxin, but I wouldn’t be turning cartwheels or even speaking clearly for a while. And then, when I had no option but to stay still and think, I felt the crushing weight of responsibility for the entire debacle.
I’d never have a beer with Goibhniu again; he’d brewed his last barrel and forged his last project in the iron and silver knot-work of Scáthmhaide. Nor would I get a chance to discuss Rembrandt again with Meara; her grotto would remain forever dark, blacker than the canvas of The Night Watch.
I’m not ashamed to say I shed tears for them. They deserved much more than that. And then I heard but didn’t see Brighid say that Fand was gone, and the Fae army melted away like a snowman in the Mojave Desert. There was a profound lack of celebration on our side. I cast my eyes to the left and saw that Manannan Mac Lir was gone. He had plenty of spirits to escort to the next world after a battle like this, and his wife was now indisputably a treasonous fugitive. I supposed we wouldn’t see him for a while. Owen and the rest of the Tuatha Dé Danann were physically fine—or at least they would be, given time to heal. Owen came up to me in his bear form and snuffled at my face to make sure I was still alive. He had several goblin weapons lodged in his body and probably needed them removed before he could shift back to human. But he moved off before I could offer any aid, apparently satisfied that I wouldn’t die immediately.
The Tuatha Dé Danann were another matter. I thought they’d be emotionally scarred forever. Off to my right, Flidais dropped her invisibility and fell to her knees, weeping, and Perun rushed over to provide whatever comfort he could. Luchta and Creidhne gathered over the body of their fallen brother and engaged in some cathartic swearing as they removed the spriggan’s body from Goibhniu’s and folded his arms over the wound. Luchta lost it and beat the spriggan’s head with his club until it was nothing but a sappy smear on the turf. Part of me wanted to go to them, all of them, and say how sorry I was, how I would never forgive myself for my role in bringing this about, but that was an atrocious idea. It wouldn’t make them feel any better—it might seriously annoy them—and it would put me in their debt if I made any admission of culpability. I didn’t know what else to do except weep and wonder how my overture for peace could have resulted in such ruin. Feeling small and alone but physically somewhat better, I sat up and propped myself with my right arm.
Granuaile’s voice came softly from my left. “I’m here, Atticus, if you’re looking for me.”
I turned and saw nothing. “Where?”
“I know it’s over, but I’d rather stay invisible for now. I have a lot to tell you.”
Frowning, I asked, “Are you hurt?” My speech had returned to normal and I was somewhat relieved at the progress.
“Yes, but it’s nothing that won’t heal soon.” An unseen hand ruffled through my hair. “I missed you,” she said.
“And I missed you. I was worried about you, in fact, when I couldn’t get in touch. But I guess you got my note. Thanks for saving me. Like, five times or whatever it was.”
“You’re welcome. I wasn’t keeping score.” Her fingers ran across my head again, and then she said, “Hey. Looks like you’ve been crying.”
I sat forward, taking the weight off my arm, pawed at my eyes, and sniffed. “Well, yeah, it’s been a terrible day. I was hoping to broker a peace but ignited a revolution instead. I didn’t want anyone to die. Not the goblins, not any of the Fae, and certainly not Meara and Goibhniu.”
“Then we’ll talk about that too. Is your arm okay? That axe went pretty deep.”
“It’ll be all right in a few days.”
“Want any help pulling out all those little tiny arrows that almost did you in? You look like a mutant hedgehog.”
I laughed in surprise more than mirth. “Yeah, that would be great, thanks.”
As we sat amongst the ruin of so many lives and carefully plucked miniature weapons from my upper body, a strange sense of peace settled over me, the soft comfort of a small revelation that gave me hope. I’d been pushing so hard to find harmony when it wasn’t there to be found. It was much better to be still and let it find me.