“Can we get a haggis in Scotland?”

“Ugh. We can try.”

We shifted across the Atlantic to a wee place north of Dumfries, where I found one of those small country hotels that doubles as a pub near the bound grove of trees we used. They did not have haggis—a small mercy—but they did have some lamb ready to go, and a camouflaged sneak into the kitchen gave us a much-needed repast. They had an herb garden in a greenhouse out back, and it was doing all right but could be better. I spent some time mending the soil there as payment for our food. They would never recognize that they’d been paid, but it was a salve for my conscience: I already had enough evils clinging to my back and didn’t need to carry around petty theft as well.

Bellies full, we shifted south to a grove near Windsor Castle, where I followed the instructions Hermes had given me to summon the West Wind if I wanted to get in touch with Olympus. The globetrotting was wearying, especially when I needed a few days more to heal, but I felt that neglecting this duty before traveling to Svartálfheim would be an egregious error.

Little Lord Ankle Wings himself streaked out of the southern sky after about an hour, coming to a halt some five feet off the ground.

“Hermes,” I said, nodding to him.

“Druid. What do you want?”

“I’d love to set Diana free if she will agree to terms,” I said. The Roman goddess of the hunt had been cut into sections and imprisoned in rock because she had vowed never to rest before she killed both Granuaile and me. Artemis had agreed to live and let live, but Diana held on to one hell of a grudge. “But I would like Jupiter to be present. We agreed we’d visit her monthly, and at this point I’m a bit late and don’t want to let it go any longer. I know Mercury usually delivers such messages to Jupiter, but would you mind relaying the request? I’m about to leave the plane tomorrow, and I would hate for Diana to miss her chance at freedom.”

“Wait here. I’ll deliver your message.” He flew away without any further pleasantries.

In another hour, as the sun was sinking red into the west, Jupiter struck the earth as a thunderbolt nearby and startled Oberon and me out of our skins.

“He didn’t have to make his entrance like that, right, Atticus?”

No.

“So he’s kind of like one of those cats that walks up and takes a swipe at your nose with his claws just because he can?”

Yes.

“I don’t like those cats.”

Jupiter was fully armored—or at least armored by Roman standards, which left the legs somewhat vulnerable, though he did have greaves. His dark oiled beard jutted out below his helmet like a column of basalt, and lightning sparked in his eyes and in his fists. I thought we might be in trouble.

“Don’t worry, this show isn’t for you,” he said. “It’s for Diana. I want her to see how very displeased I am.”

“An excellent idea.” In my Latin headspace I called to the elemental of England, Albion, and requested that he bring Diana’s various parts up out of the earth so that we may talk to her. I continued to speak to Jupiter in the other. “May I offer a suggestion that might also urge her to accept a truce?”

The Roman god of the sky nodded, and I continued: “I’ll remain out of sight and you talk to her. Please relay my offer that the Druids will speak to Gaia and take special care of the grove in which the dryads live—we will be sure the trees flourish, in other words, and their dryads along with them. I sincerely regret the unpleasantness and want to make it right, so long as I secure her pledge not to hunt me or have others seek my death.”

“Understood.” He nodded once and then asked, “What news regarding this Ragnarok business?”

“We are still in the opening moves of the chess match. I’m leaving tomorrow to try to secure a new ally—the dark elves of Svartálfheim. It’s why I wished to do this now—I’m not sure when or even if I’ll be back.”

The earth parted between us and Diana emerged, severally. I stepped back behind her head—or, I suppose, at the top of her head, where she couldn’t see me. She had an excellent view of Jupiter, though, which must have been very intimidating.

“Welcome back to the light, Diana,” he said. “I hope it will be permanent. The Druids are offering concessions and I hope you will consider carefully, because it specifically addresses the injury you claim to be fighting for.”

Diana’s confident voice contained a bite of scorn. She had not been cowed by nearly two months of solitary confinement in the darkness. Mortals would have broken in mere days, but not an Olympian. “Go on, then,” she said.

“They will protect the dryads and their groves and make sure that they flourish with the strength of Gaia. And they sincerely regret inspiring your anger. All that they ask is that you allow them to live and do not conspire against them.”

The goddess of the hunt did not answer, and Jupiter eventually had to prompt her, eyes flashing.

“Well? What say you? You go free and the dryads will be better off.”

“I … accept.”

The thunder god’s expression softened and the lightning in his eyes faded. “This pleases me. Swear to me that you will abide by the conditions of your release. You will no longer hunt the Druids and will not seek to bring them harm by any other means.”

“I swear all this in your name.”

“Good.” His eyes flicked up in my direction and I asked Albion to set Diana free. The chalky soil native to the area crumbled away, allowing Jupiter to reattach Diana’s limbs and head to her torso. From there the divine healing abilities of the Olympian immortals took over, and in minutes she was whole again. Jupiter helped her up, she brushed some dirt and dust off her arms and clothes, and then turned to see me standing there with Oberon.

She clenched her jaw and then her fists, and I immediately regretted not casting camouflage, as the mere sight of me was a clear provocation to her. Such a provocation that a cry of rage ripped loose from her throat, and she charged me barehanded. I drew Fragarach, which set off spasms of pain all down my back, tried to set myself on a gammy leg, and warned Oberon to stay out of the way.

“Diana!” Jupiter shouted. “You swore!”

She kept coming. I readied a low swing at her midsection, something she couldn’t duck. And then Diana exploded into golden ichor and organ chunks, and Oberon and I both got covered in her viscera and cut up with little pieces of bone shrapnel. A crack of thunder accompanied the explosion and explained what happened: Jupiter had obliterated her with a thunderbolt rather than see her break her word.

“Ow! Auughh! Dang it, I just had a bath!”

Oberon, do not lick any of that off! Ichor is poison to us. Let it sit and we’ll wash you as soon as we can.

Jupiter growled a few choice curses in Latin and then apologized in English. “Sorry about that. I thought she would keep to her word.”

“Blech. I thought so too.”

“I’ll deal with her on Olympus,” he said, for she would re-spawn there after a while. The Olympians had a pretty sweet immortality deal compared to most other pantheons: They really couldn’t die. Get rid of their bodies and they’d come back in new ones. Most other pantheons just got a long life in one body, and after they shuffled off their original mortal coil they could manifest every so often for short periods of time, like the Morrigan did, depending on the power they derived from their believers.