Two Ravens and One Crow - 4.5 (2 page)

We flew straight through an open portal into a longish tunnel lit by torches, until we emerged in a large chamber with a table and a single chair. It had a pitcher resting on it and a lone goblet made of carved and polished wood. Clearly the Morrigan was unaccustomed to entertaining visitors.

The Morrigan shifted in midair so that her feet touched down lightly and gracefully next to the table. I tried to do the same thing and discovered that the graceful bit was something that one achieves only after much practice. My momentum was far greater than I had judged it to be, and I stumbled toward the table. I panicked as I realized that some very vulnerable body parts were about to be squashed into the edge of the table, so I twisted as best as I could and instead smashed my hip against it. Did I mention the table was stone? My entire leg went numb and I crumpled to the ground at the Morrigan’s feet with a pained groan.

The Morrigan laughed hysterically. I’d heard her laugh before, but it had always been evil-genius laughter, not genuine mirth.

It really was ground that we lay on, and not tile or marble or anything else. There was nothing to prevent us from contacting the earth here. And nothing to prevent me from blushing, because the Morrigan was laughing so hard that she couldn’t breathe. Tears streamed from the corners of her eyes. She sounded almost girlish, but I carefully refrained from noting this out loud and did my best to banish it from my thoughts as well.

Seeing that she would be at it for some time, I took the opportunity to examine my surroundings a bit better; it would distract me while I waited for the pain in my hip to subside. (If I drew any power to smoosh the pain, the Morrigan would feel it and laugh all the more.)

There were two other entrances to the chamber, equidistant from the one we had used. They were lit similarly and lined with bones on the walls. A wrought-iron chandelier with candles in it blazed above
our heads.

The chamber was circular, I now realized, the very center of a barrow-mound with three entrances. It seemed like an awful lot of effort had gone into building such a plain room. There wasn’t even a hearth with some questionable stew bubbling in a cauldron.

“What is this place?”

The Morrigan took her time in answering. Once she had wound down, she said, “It is a place for rituals. For mortals it is a place of mystery and dread. Now, thanks to you, it is a place for laughter.”

I chose to ignore that last bit. “I see no thorn bush here.” The tattoos that bound us to the earth had to be made with a living plant; Gaia would be present in our minds and direct the process.

“The ritual spaces are all hidden. Come.” She rose to her feet and brushed dust off her body. I rose too, limping a little, and followed her down the passageway to our left. After maybe ten yards she paused and faced the bony wall to her right. “The doors are easily seen with your magical sight. Mortals would never find them.”

Before I could shift my sight to the magical spectrum, she touched an inconspicuous knob of bone, which pushed in like a button, and a section of the bone wall sank backward and then shifted left with a hiss of air. Pneumatics. The Morrigan must have seen the surprise register on my face.

“I know you think me old-fashioned and resistant to change,” she said. “And that is probably not without merit. I still prefer the sword to the firearm. But I think I may have learned something from you. Many somethings. Come.”

She stepped through the door into a humid indoor garden ripe with oxygen and floral scents that tickled the nose. A glass ceiling turned the chamber into a sort of conservatory; along the top of the walls, near the ceiling, bindings carved into the surface spoke of abundance, fertility, and harmony. And, underneath those, bindings that meant the above were to apply liberally to all living things in the room. It was the sort of general, nontargeted binding that my cold iron aura had difficulty suppressing; I’d have to ward specifically against it if I didn’t want to fall prey to it, but, honestly, why would I bother?

Wait. As Hamlet said,
That would be scanned
. Harmony with the Morrigan?

More alarming: abundance and fertility … with the Morrigan?

I needed to change the subject quickly, even though the subject was only in my head. The Morrigan might spot it there.

“You know, Morrigan, I’ve been meaning to speak with you about how I got this wound,” I said, gesturing to my scarred right hand. “You were nearby at the time. You could have stepped in and prevented it, yet you didn’t. I could have died, and you would have broken your word.”

The Morrigan blew air through her nose in a sort of halfhearted snort, and a corner of her mouth turned up. “Why are you paying attention to what might have happened? Tell me what
did
happen.”

“I suffered unnecessarily.”

The mention of suffering caused the Morrigan to close her eyes in pleasure and make a yummy noise. “The necessity can be debated. But you lived. I never broke my word.”

“But it was an awfully close thing, Morrigan. A skinwalker tore out my throat—”

“And you healed,” she finished. “I have been faithful in my promise to you. I never promised that you would remain free from injury or suffering. For one thing, that would have interfered with my sex life.”

I flinched and took a step back. The Morrigan noticed and laughed. “Speaking of which, Siodhachan, how is yours of late? Do you even have one?”

“Yes, I have one,” I replied. I did my best to keep my tone matter-of-fact rather than sullen. It was more difficult than I thought it would be.

Her disbelief was clear. “You keep a mistress in that tiny town?”

“No. We head into Farmington or Durango on the weekends, or Gallup and Flagstaff on occasion. We both have various partners in these places willing to, uh, spend time with us.”

“Your gift for euphemism continues to thrive. But I think I have heard of such modern relationships. There is a colloquialism for them, yes? They are boogie calls.”

“Boogie? Oh! Nice try. You were very close. They’re known as booty calls.”

“That’s what I said. Booty calls.”

“You said boogie—” The Morrigan’s eyes flashed red for the briefest moment, and I cleared my throat. “Pardon me. I must have misheard you. Quite right.”

“So your apprentice has these booty calls as well?”

I shrugged. “As far as I know. It’s not really my business. She’s had a steady boyfriend or five over the years. She got a marriage proposal, too, which she rejected.”

“And you were not jealous?”

“It’s not my place to be jealous, because I have made it very clear to her that we cannot have a relationship beyond that of master and apprentice.”

“I didn’t ask about your place or anything regarding propriety. I want to know how you
feel
about her dalliances. Are you jealous?”

I considered. To claim I was completely indifferent would be dishonest. And there were times, perhaps, when Granuaile was a bit too eager to share her conquests with me. After she first met her boyfriend in Durango, she reported that “he was so hot that he damn near made my ovaries explode.” But
that was as it should be; there was no reason for Granuaile to settle for anything less than hotness. Neither should she settle for anything less than joy. I hoped she would find someone to provide that for her since I couldn’t. For my part, I had not been trying very hard lately, and despite the general truth of what I’d told the Morrigan, I hadn’t made a booty call in quite some time. There were many beautiful, delightful, intelligent women in the area, especially in the college towns, but somehow they all fell short of Granuaile in my eyes, and I had been choosing to do without rather than settle for a sort of surrogate. It wasn’t celibacy, I told myself. It was high standards.

“No,” I finally said. “She is my apprentice but isn’t mine in any other sense. I am a tad envious of her partners, perhaps, but nothing more. I am happy for her happiness.”

The Morrigan scoffed openly. “Happiness? Neither of you is happy. Your auras scream of repression.”

“That’s okay,” I said.

“It is not. Sexual repression is conduct unbecoming a Celt.”

I shrugged. “Better that than having to deal with guilt ferrets.”

“What are guilt ferrets?”

“They’re bastards. They cling to your neck and tickle and bite and generally make you miserable, which is a pretty good trick for a metaphor.” They were also impervious to logic—perhaps their most diabolical power. There was no cause for me to feel guilty about any liaisons with other women, since Granuaile and I were not in a relationship and monogamy was not required, but the guilt ferrets attacked me anyway every time.

“I dislike guilt,” the Morrigan said. “It is regret and recrimination and despair over that which cannot be changed. It is like eating ashes for breakfast. It is the whip that clerics use on the laity, making the sheep slaves to whatever moral code the shepherds espouse. It is a catalyst for suicide and untold other acts of selfishness and stupidity. I cannot think of a more poisonous emotion.”

“I don’t like it either,” I admitted.

“So why do you bother to feel it?” the Morrigan asked.

“Because an inability to feel guilt points to sociopathic tendencies.”

The Morrigan made a purring noise deep in her throat, and her hands rose to pinch her nipples. “Oh, Siodhachan. Are you suggesting I’m a sociopath? You always say the sweetest things.”

I took a step back and raised my own hands defensively. “No. No, that wasn’t meant to be sweet or flirtatious or anything.”

“What’s the matter, Siodhachan?”

“Nothing. I’m just not being sweet.”

The Morrigan’s eyes dropped. “Fair enough. Looks to me like you’re scared stiff.”

I looked down and discovered that the sodding abundance and fertility bindings weren’t messing around.

“Ignore that guy,” I said, pointing down. “He’s always intruding on my conversations and poking his head in where he’s not wanted.”

“But what if I want him?” The Morrigan had an expression on her face that was almost playful; it humanized her, and for a moment I forgot she was a bloodthirsty harbinger of death and realized how stunningly attractive she was. She reminded me of one of those old Patrick Nagel prints, except very much in three dimensions and far more sexy. I found it difficult to come up with a clever reply, perhaps because most of the blood that used to keep my brain functioning well had relocated elsewhere.

“Well, um. Uh. Pretend I’m saying something witty right now. Also: nnnn—” I couldn’t say no. I wanted to, but I was physically unable to say it. I kept trying. “Nnnn …”

The Morrigan laughed and drew closer, taking me into her hand. I tensed up, expecting pain. She chuckled a bit more about that and leaned forward to whisper in my ear.

“Relax, Siodhachan. You have nothing to fear. You saw the bindings for harmony in this room. They work on me too. There can’t be harmony if you’re terrified, now, can there? So we will do it your way. This once.”

Harmony, I discovered, could be horrifying. That was what kept me from saying no. There couldn’t be open disagreement in the presence of these bindings. Combined with fertility and abundance, what the Morrigan currently wanted was precisely what the bindings wanted. I was the one out of harmony, so I felt the force of it. I thought of simply exiting the room, and managed a single step before my legs refused to move any farther in that direction. “Do we have to do it at all?” I said, desperately.

“You need it. So do I. And I can play nice when I want to.” Her words fell on my ear in soft warm puffs of breath, and she stroked me gently to prove she spoke the truth. My eyes closed and then snapped back open as I realized what was happening.

“But …”

“Shh.”

“Weren’t we supposed to be in a hurry?”

“I allowed for some wiggle room.”

She kissed me, preventing any other protest, and played nice. But the physical pleasure didn’t come with a side of emotional fulfillment. A zoo full of guilt ferrets bit me the whole time.

*  *  *

*  *  *

A Druid’s tattoos aren’t the sort one gets in a parlor from an excessively pierced person. The needle has to be living—in other words, a thorn from a live plant—and Gaia must be present. She guides where the ink goes and creates the binding that allows us to tap into her magic. Alone it took me about a week to get in touch with Gaia, but together with the Morrigan we were able to enter the trancelike fugue state and meld our minds in only five days. Touching up the tattoo on the back of my hand took an additional two, and during that time we were able to speak of the Morrigan’s progress on her cold iron amulet, amongst other things. One needs a distraction or five when getting stabbed repeatedly with pointy bits. Gaia doesn’t let you turn off the pain; gifts and talents earned without pain are so often taken for granted.

“So it’s been six years,” I said. “Are you about ready to bind your amulet to your aura?”

A hint of red crept into the Morrigan’s eyes and she didn’t respond at first, so I was going to let it slide and pretend I’d never asked the question. She surprised me by answering a few minutes later, just as I was about to introduce the topic of crocheted superhero plushies and their excessive cuteness.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready, Siodhachan,” she said. “The trick is winning the favor of an iron elemental. As I have said to you before, I am unskilled in the arts of currying favor. If I curry anything, it is fear. But I cannot scare an elemental into binding cold iron to my aura. All I can do is scare them away.”

“But I thought you were making progress with one. The last time we spoke of this, you were feeding it lots of faeries and it was pleased with you.”

“Yes. Well, shortly thereafter I lost my patience and it fled. The same thing happened with two others. What is that American game you like so much, where a player gets three chances to succeed?”

“Oh—I think perhaps you mean baseball.”

“Yes. Baseball. I have struck out, Siodhachan—is that the correct phrase?”

“It is.”

“I have witnessed a couple of those games in crow form, because you find it so fascinating.”