“All right, we’ll just take it slow.” I crept forward and led them toward the alder tree. We had to go clockwise around this one. I peered up into the branches but spied no threats. The first orbit around the tree was uneventful, and I began to hope. But the second trip around put us halfway between the planes, and we saw what was waiting for us if we kept going: A semitransparent second world overlaid the one we were walking. And waiting there, in Tír na nÓg, one more circle around the tree, was the guardian we’d been expecting all along.
I should say, rather, that we expected a guardian—but not this particular guardian.
“Eep!” Granuaile squeaked, startled. Oberon barked at it. I raised Fragarach and watched it carefully. It smiled at us with three rows of jagged teeth but did not move, except to raise its tail. The end of it was blackened and bristling with what looked like very large cactus thorns. Except for the tail and the human face with an abnormally toothy grin, it had the body of a red lion. The face was framed all around by a magnificent mane, with the lush hair growing out from the neck reminding me of nineteenth-century American Romantic poets.
“If that’s what I think it is, then it’s not Greco–Roman,” Granuaile said, “and it’s not Fae either.”
“No, this guy would be Persian,” I said. “But I have no idea why he’s involved in this.”
<What is it, Atticus? I don’t like all those teeth.>
“It’s a manticore,” I said. “And it shouldn’t be in Tír na nÓg.”
Oberon growled low in his throat, a steady rumble of warning. <I don’t think it should be anywhere. That thing looks wrong. And hungry.>
“Can it attack us?” Granuaile asked.
I lowered my sword. “Not from where it currently is.”
“It’s right in front of us.”
“No, it’s in Tír na nÓg and we’re not quite there yet. We’d have to go around the tree once more, and then he could attack us.”
“Or he could go around the tree the other way.”
“No, that wouldn’t get him here. He can’t get out of Tír na nÓg without walking the proper path—it’s just as complicated from that side as it is from here. We had to take many steps to get this far, and he would have to take as many to get to us. And I bet you he doesn’t know the way. He can’t see the path in the magical spectrum like we can. He was placed there by somebody else, and he has to wait for us to come to him.”
“But he’s in Tír na nÓg, right? So if we get past him we’re golden, correct?”
“Well, yes. But getting past a manticore is next to impossible. Their venom is supposed to be a death sentence. Doesn’t matter if it comes out of the tail or from his bite. Even the claws are deadly, if reports are accurate.”
“Reports or myths?”
“Myths, you’re right; I’m sorry. There are no reports of people surviving manticore attacks, because they would have to survive to report it.”
“Couldn’t we break down the venom ourselves by unbinding it? I mean, we’re sort of immune to poison, aren’t we?”
“I suppose we are in some sense. But that takes concentration, and while you’re working on not dying from poison, he’ll spill your guts on the grass or bite your head off. And the third member of our party is not immune.”
Oberon stopped the barrel roll of his growling. <Wait. If this is a party, where’s the snack tray?>
The manticore’s face, a malevolent visage promising painful death, abruptly turned to one of earnest appeal. He raised a paw to beckon to us, indicating that we should come through.
“Okay, that’s really creepy,” Granuaile said.
“Yeah. It’s kind of a ‘step into my parlor’ kind of thing, isn’t it? Well, we’re not going to play his little manticore games. We have our answer now. The Morrigan was right—everything’s being watched. But it’s a bit staggering.”
“You mean, all this effort to kill us?”
“Yeah. It could be done in a simpler fashion, but whoever’s behind this wants to make sure no blame accrues to them.”
<I wonder what happens when this guy goes to the dentist.>
“Huh. Atticus, could every Old Way in Tír na nÓg be guarded without Brighid’s knowledge?”
I considered. “Probably not for an extended period of time, but for a short while I don’t see why not.”
“Well, I don’t see why. How can she be unaware?”
“She has to be informed, just like a president or a prime minister does. She won’t know there’s a problem until somebody tells her.”
“Okay, so that means she could conceivably be the one behind this, or she’s aware of it and complicit, or she’s flat-out clueless.”
“Don’t forget aware and incompetent. Conceivable, but doubtful.”
“All right. I want to talk about it some more, but let’s step away from those teeth first.”
<You know, he can’t floss without thumbs. Think of the halitosis.>
“Yep, good call. We need to move on.” We’d doubtless ceded some ground to Artemis and Diana during this little side trip, and we could ill afford to give them any more.
The manticore’s face melted into desperation once we began to backpedal, and then he gave up all pretense of pacifism and sprang at us, mouth agape and claws extended. It was entirely silent and phantasmaclass="underline" He passed right through me, not being quite on the same plane as I was.
<Ha! No Druid for you!> Oberon taunted him.
The manticore faded entirely from view once we stepped off the path. We agreed to resume our run and continue northwest through Germany until we safely cleared the Harz Mountains, and then we’d head straight west for the Netherlands according to the path laid out for us by the elemental Saxony. It was already somewhere around midday, and we wouldn’t get out of Germany before night fell.
“Can we run as humans for a while to save Oberon the effort of relaying our conversation?” Granuaile said.
I shrugged. It would be slower going, but we had a bit of a lead and we needed to talk. “Sure.” We adopted a ground-eating pace and trusted Saxony to guide us around developed areas as much as possible. With any luck, our streaking would go unnoticed. Or, if someone did see us, they might reasonably conclude we were running away from the very large dog behind us.
“So who’s in charge of the Old Ways on the Tír na nÓg side?” Granuaile asked. “Who would inform Brighid if there was a problem?”
“Ah! The rangers. I see where you’re going with this now. If Brighid isn’t responsible and no one’s told her what’s going on, then someone has suborned the rangers.”
“Exactly. And remember when we first went to Tír na nÓg together, and there was that one Fae lord who told us the rangers had reported all the tree tethers were malfunctioning throughout Europe?”
“Yes! Snooty, foppish type. I called him Lord Grundlebeard.”
“Right, and so he’s not a good buddy of yours. And he’s in charge of the rangers, or he wouldn’t have been reporting that at the Fae Court.”
“Gods below,” I breathed, realizing she was right.
“Yeah. Would Lord Grundlebeard have the power to do all this?”
I thought aloud for her benefit. “Use the rangers to organize some sort of obstruction at every Old Way throughout Europe? Yes. He could do that. But reliably divine your location the way that the Tuatha Dé Danann or other gods can do? That’s doubtful. And consider what we’ve had thrown at us in the past few months: dark elves, Fae assassins, vampires, and now the Olympians. You’d have to have vast resources and serious power to push all those buttons and still keep yourself hidden. Grundlebeard can’t have that kind of juice on tap.”