If what I remembered from my mother’s stories was true, Lugh was both a formidable figure and an artisan.
It was said that Lugh was born of the Aos Sí, begotten from gods. Not unlike me.
Lugh was a craftsman by nature, but he was skilled in swordplay and almost any task he set his mind to.
When Lugh had approached the Tuatha Dé Danann and asked for a place in the Tír na nÓg, the gods told him there was no room. He asked if they needed a craftsman, but they said no. Lugh persisted and listed his skills until the gatekeeper told him that no being in the Tuatha Dé Danann was as skilled as he was in all things. From writing, singing, to sorcery and smithing. Lugh was accepted to Nuada’s court, and it was Lugh who defeated Balor and the Fomorians. The first time, at least.
I couldn’t help but wonder why Lugh had left the Tuatha Dé Danann.
Manannán mac Lir had seemed horrified by the idea of wearing a physical form, though I knew that many gods were more accepting.
Perhaps the Aos Sí could offer things the Tuatha Dé Danann could not.
Food, for one. A change of company, besides the same eternal Quorum of bickering gods?
I had attended one meeting, and I would have gouged my eyes out rather than attend another.
“I know where we are.” Cormac sniffed the air. “Bluebells only flower in the Spring Court.”
“How do you know that?” My nose wrinkled.
“The youngling song.” He grinned.“In and out the dusky bluebells, who will be my master?” He sang. “From the Spring Court to the Summer, little wolf, run faster!”
“It must be a Mer song.” I rubbed my chin. “Though I didn’t play with others much, as a youngling.”
Cormac frowned. “What about school?”
I gave him a limp smile. “I had private lessons, but I wasn’t allowed to attend the school in the city. Not like the other younglings of the court.” I hated how pitiful I sounded. “What about you?”
“I attended lessons for most of my youth.” Cormac sounded distracted, as if he was still bothered by my own childhood. “My grandmother taught me the ways of glamour, though my father often told me I would never use it.”
“Youdon’tuse glamour.” I gave him a pointed look.
“I prefer the honesty of a blade.” Cormac shrugged. “Glamour is coated reality in a mask. It’s an illusion that goes just deep enough under the surface to affect touch, smell, and taste. But it isn’t real. It wears away. I could glamour a magnificent feast from a pile of river rocks, but when you had eaten your fill, you would still be hungry.”
“And full of rocks.” I joked.
“My father used to torture Fae. With glamour.” His gaze hardened. “Changing their reality. Leaving cell doors unlocked, and glamouring hallways to go on forever. I have seen the pain false realities can cause. So I don’t partake.”
“I didn’t think of it that way,” I murmured. “What about the Selkies? Their magic can bend reality.”
Cormac snorted and waved his hand dismissively. “Selkies are so entitled, they bend reality to their will simply because they believe they can. That kind of assurance can onlybe gained by time and remaining in one place. If you believe something long enough, reality will accommodate.”
“Glamour takes skill.” I surmised.
“And it is much more short-term.” He nodded.
The path seemed never-ending. Each bend produced more flowers, with just enough sunlight filtering through the tree canopy to see.
I held up the staff, shaking my head at the gnarled wood. “I wonder what this thing does?”
“Whatever it can do, I doubt it can defeat Balor.” Cormac exhaled heavily. “Otherwise, Dagda would not have pushed us off the edge of the world with a cryptic message and a smile.”
“Hmm.” I agreed wordlessly.
We walked, and walked, and walked.
Bare feet on bark, sodden leaves, and fallen twigs. Bleeding from dozens of tiny cuts, the air grew colder, and the forest grew darker the further we walked.
