Point of fact, I said, holding up a finger. It was left with me because whenever I gave it back, or one of the fae tried to claim it, it returned to me.
Beauclaire leaned forward, and said, So how is it that you do not have the walking stick now?
Is it the Gray Lord or ap Lugh who wants to know? I asked.
He sat back. It matters?
I didnt say anything.
The Gray Lord is too busy with other matters to chase after a walking stick that encourages sheep to produce twins. No matter how old or cherished that artifact is, said Beauclaire after a moment. He gave me a small smile that did not warm his eyes. Even so, had I known where it was before this, I would have been here sooner to collect it.
Which was an answer, wasnt it?
The Gray Lord would have gotten the short answer, I told him. Much good as it would have done him.
That mobile eyebrow arched up with Nimoylike quickness.
Or me, I continued. Because the Gray Lord is not going to be happy in any case. The son of Lugh might understand why I had done what I had done because he would understand that the need to fix what I had broken was more important than that the walking stick was a lot more powerful than it had been. The Gray Lord would only be interested in the power.
He didnt say anything, and I drew in a breath.
The walking stick killed one of the otterkin, I told him. But saying I killed the otterkin with it would be stretching the truth. I did use it to defend myself when the otterkin swung a sword at me. His magical bronze sword broke against the walking stick, minor artifact that it is. He almost smiled at the bite in my tone, but lost all expression when I continued. And then the silver butt of the walking stick sharpened itself into a blade, a spearhead, and killed the otterkin. In case he didnt understand, I said, On its own. Without its intervention, I would not have survived.
The long fingers on Beauclaires left hand drew imaginary things on the tabletop as he thought. I worried that it might be magic of some kind, but hed promised no harm, and I could have sensed magic if he were using it.
Finally, he spoke. My fathers artifacts acquire some semblance of selfawareness as they age. But not to alter, so fundamentally, their purpose. The walking stick was a thing of life, not death.
Maybe the walking stick is the first, or even the only one. I am not lying to you. My voice was tight. Maybe I shouldnt be telling him all of this. But he scared me, this Gray Lord who wore a lawyers suit and seemed so cool and calm. I was under no illusions about the civility promised by the ohsoexpensive suitthe fae were masters at donning the trappings of civilization to hide the predator inside. I needed him to understand why Id given the walking stick away, or there was a very real chance hed kill me.
Maybe not, he conceded after too long a pause. But there are many kinds of lies.
Before the otterkin died, we fought the river devil, a primordial creature that came to destroy the world. Most of the work was done by others. It was a hard fight, and we almost lost. Those who fought to kill it, all of them, except for me, died. For some creatures, death was less permanent than for others, but that didnt mean they hadnt died. I had lost my last weapon. I was desperate, everyone was dead or dying. The walking stick came to my hand, and I killed the river devil with it.
Beauclaire didnt say anything, but his attention was so focused it felt electric on my skin. You think it was quenched in the blood of this river devil. He sneered on the last two words.
River devil was the name given to it by other
people, so dont blame me for it, I told him. But yes. Because after the river devil died, the walking stick changed. It killed the otterkin and it was aware.
Beauclaire just watched me, and his eyes reminded me of Medeas when she crouched outside a mousehole. Waiting.
Id broken it, I admitted frankly. And I didnt know what to do about it.
You gave it to Siebold Adelbertsmiter, Beauclaire said, his voice cool, his body ready to rend, and his eyes hungry.
It wouldnt let him take it when it first came to me, I told him. It wouldnt have gone with him, so I didnt even try.
Uncle Mike? That would have bothered him less.
No. Not Uncle Mike, either. I told you it wouldnt go with him. What do you know about Native American guesting laws?
He looked at me for a moment. Why dont you explain them to me?
So I explained how Id given Lughs walking stick to Coyote.
Lughs son looked at me in patent disbelief. You gave it to Coyote ? Because he was your guest, and he admired it.
Thats right, I agreed.
He shook his head and muttered something in a language that sounded like Welsh, but wasnt, because I speak a few words of Welsh. There are more British Isles languages than just Welsh, Irish, Scots, and EnglishManx, Cornish, and a host of extinct variants. I have no idea what language Beauclaire spoke.
When he was finished, he looked at me, and asked, Can you retrieve it?
I can try. I smiled grimly. I have a better chance of retrieving it from him than you do.