Free Trapped (The Iron Druid Chronicles, Book Five) by Kevin Hearne
Authors: Kevin Hearne
the other old people.”
“But I don’t want to make my own pancakes
now
,” Granuaile said. “Does that mean I’ll start wanting to make them when I’m old?”
“I don’t know. The point I was trying to make is that part of Tír na nÓg is very attractive to dead people.”
“What’s so attractive about it?”
“Mostly the lack of living people. They don’t like being reminded that they’re all dead. And there might be a pancake buffet. Twenty-four-hour keno. Concerts featuring Elvis impersonators. That sort of thing.”
Always
.
“You’re making Tír na nÓg sound like Las Vegas,” Granuaile said.
“Well, it might be. Because what happens in the land of the dead stays in the land of the dead. I simply don’t know and I’m not anxious to find out. Manannan and the Morrigan won’t tell you anything if you ask them either. They won’t even say how they decide who comes here and who goes to Mag Mell or the other Irish planes. It might not be their decision. But the point is, there is plenty of real estate left over for the living. And for the Fae and other curiosities. Check this out. I mean, in a minute.” I gestured to an oak in front of us. “Put your hands here and get ready to go.”
“How do you know where you’re going?” Granuaile asked.
“Can’t really explain until you’re bound and you can see things in the magical spectrum,” I said. “But, basically, every destination has its own unique sequence of knots. Think of it like airport codes back on earth.”
“Do I have to memorize them all?”
“Not unless you want to hate your life. The oneson earth are based on coordinates. Tír na nÓg is odd, though, as you might expect. You kind of need to know where you’re going or else you’ll appear in the middle of an ogre orgy or something horrific like that. We’re going to a popular destination here—there will be plenty of Fae around, but Flidais and Perun will follow.”
I cast a glance behind us and saw that Perun was now carrying Flidais, supporting her buttocks with his hands as she wrapped her legs around his waist and locked them behind his back. They were playing tonsil hockey already and making soft, muffled moans. Granuaile followed my gaze and flinched.
“Ew. How did she even find his mouth behind all that hair?” she wondered aloud.
“Honestly, I’m surprised at how much restraint they’ve shown so far. I expected them to slip off to a room in the castle somewhere. I don’t care at this point if we ditch them. Do you?”
My apprentice shook her head. “No, I think that would actually be good. I don’t want to listen to them.”
Foodgasms, yeah
.
We shifted to a well-traveled riverbank in Tír na nÓg, and I smiled as Granuaile gasped and dove for cover, while Oberon began to bark loudly.
Heh. Calm down, buddy, it won’t get us
.
“Oh, my God! Is that a
dragon
?” Granuaile said, peeking from behind the trunk of the ancient tree we’d used to shift.
“Yep.”
“Like, for reals? It’s not a wax replica or something like that?”
“No, it’s very much for reals.”
“Then how come it’s hanging in the air there and not moving?”
“It
is
moving. It’s just in a slower timestream. Welcome to the Time Islands, the source of all those stories about how time moves differently in Faerie than in the mortal world.”
We stood on the bank of a river not quite as wide as the Mississippi but doing very well for itself. In the middle, stretching both upriver and down,
“But I don’t want to make my own pancakes
now
,” Granuaile said. “Does that mean I’ll start wanting to make them when I’m old?”
“I don’t know. The point I was trying to make is that part of Tír na nÓg is very attractive to dead people.”
“What’s so attractive about it?”
“Mostly the lack of living people. They don’t like being reminded that they’re all dead. And there might be a pancake buffet. Twenty-four-hour keno. Concerts featuring Elvis impersonators. That sort of thing.”
Always
.
“You’re making Tír na nÓg sound like Las Vegas,” Granuaile said.
“Well, it might be. Because what happens in the land of the dead stays in the land of the dead. I simply don’t know and I’m not anxious to find out. Manannan and the Morrigan won’t tell you anything if you ask them either. They won’t even say how they decide who comes here and who goes to Mag Mell or the other Irish planes. It might not be their decision. But the point is, there is plenty of real estate left over for the living. And for the Fae and other curiosities. Check this out. I mean, in a minute.” I gestured to an oak in front of us. “Put your hands here and get ready to go.”
“How do you know where you’re going?” Granuaile asked.
“Can’t really explain until you’re bound and you can see things in the magical spectrum,” I said. “But, basically, every destination has its own unique sequence of knots. Think of it like airport codes back on earth.”
“Do I have to memorize them all?”
“Not unless you want to hate your life. The oneson earth are based on coordinates. Tír na nÓg is odd, though, as you might expect. You kind of need to know where you’re going or else you’ll appear in the middle of an ogre orgy or something horrific like that. We’re going to a popular destination here—there will be plenty of Fae around, but Flidais and Perun will follow.”
I cast a glance behind us and saw that Perun was now carrying Flidais, supporting her buttocks with his hands as she wrapped her legs around his waist and locked them behind his back. They were playing tonsil hockey already and making soft, muffled moans. Granuaile followed my gaze and flinched.
“Ew. How did she even find his mouth behind all that hair?” she wondered aloud.
“Honestly, I’m surprised at how much restraint they’ve shown so far. I expected them to slip off to a room in the castle somewhere. I don’t care at this point if we ditch them. Do you?”
My apprentice shook her head. “No, I think that would actually be good. I don’t want to listen to them.”
Foodgasms, yeah
.
We shifted to a well-traveled riverbank in Tír na nÓg, and I smiled as Granuaile gasped and dove for cover, while Oberon began to bark loudly.
Heh. Calm down, buddy, it won’t get us
.
“Oh, my God! Is that a
dragon
?” Granuaile said, peeking from behind the trunk of the ancient tree we’d used to shift.
“Yep.”
“Like, for reals? It’s not a wax replica or something like that?”
“No, it’s very much for reals.”
“Then how come it’s hanging in the air there and not moving?”
“It
is
moving. It’s just in a slower timestream. Welcome to the Time Islands, the source of all those stories about how time moves differently in Faerie than in the mortal world.”
We stood on the bank of a river not quite as wide as the Mississippi but doing very well for itself. In the middle, stretching both upriver and down,
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