Trapped

sword.
    » Spread yourselves and be on your guard, « I said. » He may come back with friends. Or gods. «
    Oberon asked, › What if he comes back with snacks? ‹

Chapter 3
    Granuaile didn’t say anything, but I caught a tiny smile on her face as she palmed a throwing knife. I couldn’t read her mind, but I could read her expression well enough: She was thinking, Finally, some action. After twelve years of training and sparring with no one but me, here was the possibility of a real scrap. She took cover behind a different tree and crouched down.
    I hoped it wouldn’t come to any sort of fight. This was precisely the crucial period when I’d lost my last apprentice, Cíbran—at the end of his training but before I could get him bound to the earth and give him access to magic. Granuaile had trained both her mind and body extremely well, but she wouldn’t be able to survive the throw-downs I was used to fighting until she was able to speed herself up, boost her strength, and heal quickly using the magic of the earth.
    Perun and I took up positions elsewhere, and Oberon lay down, sphinxlike, watching the tree bound to Tír na nÓg, ready to spring up and attack.
    Stop wagging your tail. The movement will give away your position .
    › But this is so exciting! I might get to pounce on a faery! ‹
    Something much more powerful than a faery might come through there, so don’t jump until you know what you’re jumping on, okay?
    › Okay, I’ll wait until you say sic ’em. ‹
    It was an excellent precaution, because the faery herald didn’t return. Someone tapped me on the shoulder, but when I whipped around, Moralltach at the ready, I didn’t see anyone. A soft snort of amusement was my only clue that someone was actually there.
    » Calm yourself and be at ease, Atticus, « a woman’s voice said, and then Flidais, Irish goddess of the hunt, dissolved the binding that granted her true invisibility. » It’s only me. I’m to escort you and your companions to the Court. I am Brighid’s guarantee no harm will befall them in Tír na nÓg. Good enough? «
    It was entirely satisfactory, even if Flidais wasn’t dressed in her customary fashion. She had made some effort to appear courtly; usually she was dressed in her hunting leathers, her bow and quiver were prominently on display, and her red hair was frizzy and wildly adorned with random bits of vegetation that could charitably be called camouflage. Now, however, she wore a plain woven tunic, cream colored, with a band of green embroidered knotwork around the neck and down the sides, underneath either arm. This was belted at the waist, and she wore a large knife there with a handle wrought in polished malachite and mother-of-pearl. I had never seen it before; it was either a recent acquisition or something she wore only to Court. Her hair had been recently washed and brushed, and the flowers in it were clearly put there on purpose instead of resting there accidentally. I noted privately that when she was cleaned up like this, she looked quite a bit like Granuaile. Instead of a skirt, Flidais wore loose cotton pants—like those from a martial-arts uniform—dyed brown to match her belt; she was barefoot. I suspected that the rest of the Tuatha Dé Danann would be similarly dressed. The Celtic ideal for clothing was that it had to be easy to move in if you needed to fight and easy to take off if you wanted a quickie.
    » Of course we’d be honored by your escort, « I said. » But why did Brighid send you rather than her herald to fetch us? «
    Flidais arched an eyebrow at me. » You were lying in wait for him, were you not? You and your friends out there? Brighid didn’t want him to die. «
    » I wouldn’t have killed him, « I said.
    Flidais shrugged a shoulder, a wry smirk on her face. » Perhaps not. It was safer to send me invisibly to prevent an accident, « she said. She looked over my shoulder and called, » You can come out now; it’s safe. «
    › Is this the lady we can’t really trust because you never know what side she’s on? ‹ Oberon asked, rising from his position and trotting over to us.
    Yes, but I’ll keep it simple: Don’t trust anyone except Granuaile and me .
    › Okay. I sure won’t trust Brighid. Remember how she set your kitchen on fire last year? ‹
    That was almost twelve years ago, but, yes, I remember. Better stick next to me, buddy .
    › Word. ‹
    » Is this the same hound you had when last I saw you? « Flidais