“Perhaps more than a bit.”
Granuaile’s mouth tightened in prim disapproval, and she turned narrowed eyes on the hunters. One began to inspect his boots, and the other found something fascinating up in the sky. Herne abruptly decided that now would be a good time to pet his horse. They might speak Middle English, but it appeared they could follow Modern well enough, and Granuaile’s body language needed no translation. “I know all you boys are old school,” she said, waving her finger around to include me while looking at the hunters, “but let’s try to remember what century this is, shall we? Any ass you can kick, I can kick better, and so can Flidais.”
“Aye!” Herne barked, and glared at his men as if they had been the only ones laughing. Then he turned to us, smiled, and said, “Honored Druids, you are welcome to my forest.” His old diction sloughed away. “I have learned to speak Modern English over the years, so be at ease. You are my guests. Hunt or rest as it pleases you.”
Once he called us his guests, I finally understood what the Morrigan intended. Herne would take little to no convincing to join our side. His honor—his raison d’être—demanded that he protect both his forest and his guests.
“Is my hound a guest as well? He likes to hunt with us.”
“Aye, he is.”
I thanked him and said, “It is more likely that we will be hunted than have time to hunt anything else.”
Herne’s friendly smile disappeared. “Hunted? By whom?”
“Olympians. At least one is plaguing Albion even now—either Pan or Faunus.”
“The goat-footed god? He has passed through here recently.”
“And because of that we cannot shift to Tír na nÓg. He spreads pandemonium and upsets the order of Gaia, distresses the forest. He keeps us here so that Artemis and Diana can slay us.”
Herne scowled, and the cobalt eyes flared brighter for a moment. He dismounted and squatted, pressing the fingers of one hand into the earth. I noted that this process made no noise whatsoever—no creak of leather, no thump of foot on the forest floor. He and his companions made noise only when they wished to. After a few seconds of contemplation, Herne said, “It’s true. It’s not visible, but it can be felt. The goat disturbs my forest.” He looked up at me. “And they come to hunt my guests?”
“Aye. And it is not only your forest they disturb but all forests in Albion.”
“It shall not stand,” Herne vowed, rising. “My guests are few, and none have dared trespass on my goodwill for some time. No one attempts to hunt my forest anymore.”
That was more likely due to protections laid down by the Crown Estate than anything else, but if Herne wished to believe it was due to his badassery, I wouldn’t disabuse him of the notion.
“If any attempt it now, they shall feel my wrath. Rest now and recover your strength. Should Olympians appear to despoil my forest, day or night, we will ride.”
“My thanks. Um … forgive my ignorance, but do you have power to wound the corporeal?”
Herne stared at me in silence for a time, unable to believe I’d asked him, but then withdrew a knife from a sheath at his belt. It was barely visible, and its outlines were suggested only by reflected light. Stepping forward slowly, he raised it casually and pressed the point into my chest just enough to draw blood.
“Do you feel its bite?” he growled.
“Yes. Fair enough. I am answered.”
He nodded—a rather dangerous gesture when one is sporting antlers—and returned the knife to its sheath. I triggered my healing charm to close up the small wound.
One of Herne’s hunters spoke up suddenly, his voice surprisingly high and nasal and amused. “Ha! What means your hound to sniff thus?” he said. Herne and I turned our heads to discover Oberon with his nose snuffling at the rear end of a bewildered ghost hound.
I sighed. “Oberon, you’re embarrassing me.”
<Huh,> Oberon grunted. He raised his snout and swung his head around to look at me. <Can you believe this, Atticus? Scentless asses. What will they think of next?>
Chapter 22
Together we left the Home Park and ran southwest to the proper Windsor Forest, which was only a mile or two long these days. On the northeastern side of it there was an amusement park, which struck me as an odd juxtaposition. To a Druid, the forest was the amusement park.
Herne left us near the edge of a field in the middle of it, far from prying eyes, and told us he and his hunters would leave us for now.
“Again, you are welcome. Call my name if you need me,” he said. “Otherwise, rest or prepare yourselves as you will.”
We thanked him, and he faded out of sight as slowly as he had originally appeared. As soon as they were gone, Oberon flopped onto his back and said, <The royal hound’s belly demands rubbing. Step lively, humans, neglect me not.>
Granuaile laughed and knelt next to him to oblige. I smiled and took a look around. This wood was a comfortable place. Not sensual comfort of any kind—merely a quiet spot where we could repair and nurture those parts within us that had been damaged or neglected during the run. I approached an old beech tree twined with ivy, plucked a couple of strands, and plonked myself down on the ground next to Granuaile and Oberon. My hound twisted his head to see what I had in my hands.
<What are you going to do with that?>
“Arts and crafts,” I replied.
<So you’ll be at it for a while?>
“I guess so.”
<Good. Thanks, Granuaile, the belly is sated.> He rolled over and pulled himself closer to me without getting up. Using my lap as a pillow for his giant head, he stretched himself out on his side and sighed in contentment. <Ahhh. Nap time.>
Granuaile shook her head. “You slept all day.”
<Not all of it. We woke before sundown. And now it’s, uh, after sundown. So there.>
She smiled, got to her feet, and then addressed me. “What are we going to do now?”
“Relax while we can. There are a few hours before dawn.”
“Shouldn’t we be preparing to meet two very pissed-off huntresses? Building booby traps or something like that?”
“Probably. But there is some time to be creative—or at least some time that I can steal—and so I’m going to take it. Ever notice how you never have time to do something until you decide that you do?” Granuaile peered at the twisted strands of ivy in my hands and looked doubtful that they could serve as anything beyond compost. “Come on. Sit back down for a sec.” I patted the ground next to me, on the side where Oberon wasn’t stretched out. She sighed and sat in the indicated spot, resting her staff on the ground. I smiled at her. “There. Isn’t this nice?”
She looked at the canopy above, with the moon peeking through the leaves, and listened to the soft whisper of the night from grasses in the nearby field. “I can’t argue the point. It’s lovely.”
“Gaia has left us wonder wherever we go, if we only open our eyes to it.”
“Oh, I agree.”
“Now, I know I am not much of a craftsman,” I said, busily knotting the vines into a circle, “but greatness is in the act of creation and not necessarily in the finished product. Creating is the yin to the yang of our consumption and the doorway to beauty that we all want to walk through. Creating is how I tell the world I love it.” I handed the completed wreath to Granuaile, and she smiled as she took it.
“You’re very sneaky, you know.”
“Am I?”
She placed the ivy wreath on her head. “I thought you were being philosophical, and then you pivoted to mushy.”
“I have +20 verbal dexterity.”
Granuaile leaned in for a kiss, but Oberon interrupted.
<Stop now or I will yak on your lap.>