Starbuck added.
“We need to wait here for a while,” he replied, “because we’re meeting someone. But I’ll keep making sure the smoke doesn’t bother us.”
I said.
“No, it’s going to be a bit of a hike to get there. We’ll move as quickly as we can and hopefully get there before sundown.”
I was just about to ask who we were waiting for when he showed up. He startled me and Starbuck by shifting planes from Tír na nÓg, causing us to flinch and yip in surprise. I recognized him by scent as much as by sight: Coriander, Herald Extraordinary of the Fae Court, smelled like a light puff of lime and cilantro that always reminded me of street tacos. Atticus told me that humans considered him to be a very pretty man, sort of like Legolas in the Lord of the Rings movies, his flawless features always ready for a high-definition close-up.
“Greetings, Siodhachan,” he said, addressing Atticus by his original Irish name. He held up a bottle of ink and a fine-tipped paintbrush one might use for detail work on a canvas. “I’ve brought the requested materials.”
“Excellent,” Atticus said, and laid his hatchet down on the boulder. “Apply it to that blade, if you please.”
Starbuck observed.
I said.
he wondered. MyBoston buddy tended to be suspicious of people who did not have any food for him and assumed that they must be allied with cats.
Coriander stepped forward but really floated since his feet didn’t quite touch the ground. He unstoppered the ink bottle and dipped the brush in there. I snuck forward to see what he was doing. He drew some squiggly knots on the blade of the hatchet and Atticus asked him about it.
“So this sigil that you’re applying here—how do I activate it?”
“It activates on contact with any denizen of hell,” the faery replied.
“There are no words required to initiate the unbinding?”
“None. Merely embed the blade in the flesh of your target.”
“Right.”
Coriander has drawn a Sigil of Cold Fire on my hatchet blade to unbind any demons we might run across.
Brighid, yes. She granted me that power. But when I use it, the unbinding weakens me to the point that I can hardly move. That’s suboptimal in the middle of a fire. This sigil will do the job for me.
They are magical bindings made with potent inks, but they are also painted swirlies. We’re going to paint some on you. Or your collar, anyway.
Well, Coriander is going to do it.
The faery discarded his brush—it was just wood and horsehair—and put the stoppered bottle of ink in a pocket. He removed a different one and produced another brush and came over to me.
“Hello, Oberon. Please remain very still while I apply a Ward Against Fire to your collar.”
I said, though I don’t think he heard me. Atticus told him I understood, though.
“That cold iron talisman you have dangling from your collar will protect you against hellfire,” Coriander explained as he worked, “because that has a magical origin. But this is regular old fire you’re walking into, so we need a bit of magic to protect you against that.”
