“Trophies,” Manannan says. “Men who dared to give her insult over the centuries.”
The helmets give way to hats as the wars in Europe subsided, though I do spy an actual motorcycle helmet at the end and some ball caps, plus a couple of fedoras.
After that is the first genuinely pleasant room I’ve seen. There are two red upholstered chairs in front of a stone hearth, a wool rug spread out to buffer the feet from the cold floor, and gilt-framed paintings on the bone-free walls, illuminated by candles resting in sconces. Sure, the paintings are all of battlefields and feature crows feasting on the staring eyes of the slain, but they’re masterfully done.
Our reception by the rebellious Queen of the Faeries waits beyond, in a dining hall that’s fair-sized but by no means large, since the Morrigan never expected to play hostess for more than a few.
Fand, in contrast to Manannan, is fecking resplendent. She’s wreathed in frippery and fancy doodads and whatnots and she radiates health and power. Maybe she’s doing yoga or had a superfood for breakfast. Greta says science cranks out miraculous solutions to aging every week, so many that ye could spend your whole extended life trying them all out. But kale is worse than old man balls, she says, though I don’t rightly know what kale is, or why she hates it so much, or even when old man balls became a superfood. That whole conversation confused me and I let it slide past, like much of the nonsense this modern age throws me way. Maybe Fand has been eating kale or something else to make her look so fine. More likely she’s simply glamoured, but if I peek in the magical spectrum she’ll know and be insulted. Better to just accept her magnificence at face value.
“Welcome, Coriander,” she says, her voice warm and sweet like honey in summer. But when she turns to me, her voice is furry with hoarfrost. “Hello, Jailor.”
Ah. She hasn’t forgotten that bit, then. I give her a shallow nod—less than her due—and force a friendly smile. “Fand. I appreciate ye seeing me.”
She offers no reply to this but waves at the spare table, set with a couple of cheese boards and some bottles of whiskey and wine. The room lacks anything fancy: Simple wood chairs, sunlight streaming through high windows providing some weak light instead of candles, no tapestries or sculptures or seashell motifs like I saw in their place in Tír na nÓg. Stone walls and floors, no rugs. It’s a different aesthetic from Manannan’s estate, for sure. Minimalist, methinks it’s called. Or miserable. I think the words may be related. Only Fand and Coriander stand out in this gloom.
We sit and Manannan pours me some whiskey that’s been aged in stout beer barrels. It’s a fine medley of flavors and I feel it mellowing me bones almost immediately. Manannan pours a glass for himself and says, “Sláinte,” but Fand reaches for wine, and Coriander follows her lead. I wonder if there’s anything to that—is it merely his preference, or is there some message there? Is he being diplomatic, or is he trying to signal to Fand that his sympathies lie with her? Me skills with nuances are often limited to being just aware enough of their existence to know that I’m probably missing them.
Bloody nuances.
Fand asks Coriander how the Fae are faring in Tír na nÓg and asks him to convey her fond regard. He agrees, and an awkward silence falls until Manannan asks about me grove of apprentices.
“Ah, they’re grand. Fast learners and pure hearts. They’ll serve Gaia well.” I remembered suddenly that I did have one icebreaker at me disposal that hadn’t failed yet. “Speaking of apprentices, did I ever tell ye the totally true story about Siodhachan, the Roman skirt, and the goat?”
Fand frowns at the mention of his name, but a minute later she’s snorting into her wineglass and peals of laughter bounce off the walls. Manannan throws his head back to roar out loud with such force that he topples over in his chair and crashes to the floor. Coriander’s face turns the color of a tomato as he laughs hoarsely and tries to catch his breath. That story has done me more good winning people to me side than any bottle ever has, though the spirits no doubt help to loosen them up. They are all in a much better mood, then, when I give them Brighid’s offer.
“Ireland’s at risk due to this Ragnarok business. Word is it’s coming in a few days.”
Fand nods. I’m not surprising her with anything.
“I’m not the sort to be fancy with me words, so I’ll say it plain: Brighid wants your help and then she’d like to welcome ye home. Fight in Ragnarok. Save some lives to make up for the ones ye took. Restore balance, gain honor and renown the way the Tuatha Dé Danann are used to, on the field of battle, and be welcome in Tír na nÓg again.”
“Under her rule? The Iron Throne?”
“Aye.”
“Absolutely not.”
I catch a flash of disappointment on Manannan’s face. He’d like to take the deal, no doubt. So it’s Fand that needs convincing.
“Allow me to ask for clarification on one thing: Do ye object more to Brighid’s rule or that she’s doing it from the Iron Throne?”
“The throne, of course!” she spits, and the surprise on me face must have encouraged her to explain in more even tones. “It’s that iron in the face of the Fae every day that makes her insufferable. It’s both a threat and an insult. We know she’s mastered iron and we’re unlikely to forget it; there’s no need to terrorize the Fae with it at Court every second.”
I swing around to Coriander, Brighid’s Herald Extraordinary, to see if he agrees with this assessment. He winces and sucks at his teeth and I have no idea if he’s agreeing or what.
“Be plain, lad, don’t just scrunch up yer face at me like some swollen, pouty anus!”
He flinches and then says, “Were we in private, I would agree with Fand’s assessment.”
“I’m not going to tell. I just need to know the truth of things, since I’ve obviously been away, so thank ye.” I turn back to Fand. “I had no idea what Brighid sat on was such a thorny issue. Have ye communicated this to her before?”
“We have, on many occasions. She refuses to even consider scrapping it.”
“And when was the last time?”
Fand defers to Coriander to answer that.
“I believe it was as recently as the 1960s, by human reckoning, when the Fae became upset at the existence of a mortal band called Iron Butterfly and renewed their plea to rid the Court of the scourge of iron.”
“The Fae got upset over a band name? Never mind, of course they did—a better question is why ye think sixty years or more qualifies as recent? Plenty has changed since then. Especially right now. Ye may have some leverage ye didn’t have before. So let me pose a hypothetical, Fand: If I can get Brighid to agree to ditch the Iron Throne, will ye fight in Ragnarok, then go home again to live in peace? She’d still be First among the Fae, mind, but you’d also have won something for them, wouldn’t ye? And all would be forgiven. Manannan would have his ocean again.” I gesture at the forlorn god of the sea, and Fand glances his way, seeing how desperately unhappy he is. I press on: “Ye wouldn’t be stuck in this fen surrounded by bones and cold stone walls. Sounds like the closest thing to harmony you’re going to get.”
“Hmm. What say you, husband?” Fand asks.
“I say it’s a way back,” he replies. “And I think both the price and the reward are fair.”
Fand leans forward, selects a cube of Irish cheddar, and pops it gracefully into her mouth. She chews as she thinks it over, demonstrating that it is in fact possible to eat cheese beautifully. I’m thinking that the Beautiful Cheese Eaters is a far better band name than Iron Butterfly when Fand gives me an answer.
“I am not so sure about the price. She gets rid of some furniture and in return gets an army. Still, it is, as you say, Manannan, a way back. Very well, Eoghan. Speaking only for myself and the Fae host: If—and only if—Brighid agrees to remove the Iron Throne from Court, we will fight in Ragnarok for Ireland and then return to Tír na nÓg, our rebellion forgiven, our possessions returned, and agree that Brighid is First among the Fae, to live in harmony again.”