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rebellion in his name, lots of stockpiled magical weapons abruptly found their way into angry hands, and a whole host of Fae had died. Many—if not most—had been Aenghus Óg’s spawn, but I’m sure there were other factions represented as well. That meant tension among the Tuatha Dé Danann—and I had caused all of it.
    Well. Maybe not all of it. The Morrigan had her tensions with just about everyone, but especially with Brighid, and I had not caused that so much as exacerbated it. Regardless, I couldn’t look for the same favor in Court that I might have enjoyed in the past. I might have even created some new enemies here, and until I could verify who was content to let me live and who would rather serve me a cold dish of revenge, suspicion was the best policy.
    The crowd of Fae ended abruptly about twenty yards from Brighid’s throne. It provided a nice little area for subjects to feel small and weak during their audience. It also provided some space, to either side, for some VIPs to sit and offer catty remarks or snide questions. To Brighid’s right sat the Tuatha Dé Danann, and to her left sat representatives of the various Fae factions.
    A quick glance at the Tuatha Dé Danann showed me that nearly all of them were present. Manannan Mac Lir, wrapped in his cloak of mists, winked at me from underneath his bushy black eyebrows. His wife, Fand, sat next to him, small and delicate and ethereally beautiful in a white sheath with the same sort of knotwork designs Flidais had embroidered around the neck; since she was Flidais’s daughter, perhaps it was a family thing. There was a liquid grace to her, even when she sat still.
    Ogma was there, tall and tanned and sporting a shaven head these days, along with two large gold hoops in his ears. He wore a golden torc around his neck and a kilt—nothing more. He’d always been a bit vain about his six-pack. His expression was one of polite interest, but you got the feeling it was a façade for his indifference. Next to him sat Goibhniu, the master smith and brewer who had made cold iron amulets for the Morrigan, Granuaile, and Oberon. Unlike Ogma, Goibhniu was riveted by the spectacle of an old Druid approaching Brighid with his friends. He sat on the edge of his seat, grinning with anticipation, his elbows resting on his knees and his hands clasped together between them. Brighid was his mother, and he was therefore probably one of the few people who thought it was funny to watch her get worked up. His brothers, Creidhne and Luchta, lounged next to him, quietly exchanging words and not even paying attention to our passing.
    There was another row of seats behind them, and a couple of these were empty. One seat was presumably for Flidais, and I noted that the Morrigan was conspicuously absent.
    While most of the Tuatha Dé Danann had dressed modestly and with very little ornamentation, Brighid had gone out of her way to look like a model for a Frazetta painting. Conscious of how it set off her red hair, she wore a sheer green sleeve on her left arm, bound at the top of the biceps and at the wrist with a circlet of gold. She had a golden belly chain holding up another sheer cascade of cloth between her legs, but it highlighted rather than concealed what was there. Aside from these purely ornamental accoutrements, she was naked, the tattoos on her right side—among other bits—proudly on display. She also had two wolfhounds lying at her feet, their heads up and watching our approach closely. They were black hounds with glossy coats.
    No commentary now, Oberon , I warned him. Remember, she can hear you .
    I received the mental equivalent of a grunt in reply.
    The last time I’d seen Brighid, she was similarly provocative. She’d asked me to be her consort, I refused, and then she tried to kill me when she found out I’d had sex with the Morrigan. Fragarach had helped me out of that fix, but I didn’t have that sword to get me out of this. Brighid’s eyes flicked down to