Rügen turns out to be a lovely place, with expansive fields and rolling terrain. Orlaith and I stretch our legs and run across to the northeastern tip, passing hikers and campers and a shepherd with a small flock of sheep.

“Fluffy meat,” Orlaith comments.

The remains of Jaromarsburg rest precariously atop chalk cliffs that crumble into the sea a bit more every year. There are no handy signs telling me which way to go to find Świętowit, so I squat down, close my eyes, and reach out to the elemental of the region, which is associated with the lake plateau of the nearby mainland. It’s called Mecklenburg.

//Greetings / Harmony / Land is beautiful// I send to the elemental, and he—I don’t know why I’m assigning it a gender, but Mecklenburg just feels masculine—responds with joy.

//Greetings / Harmony / Welcome Fierce Druid//

I’m not sure how to proceed. I can hardly ask Mecklenburg if he saw a white horse go through here a thousand years ago. Elementals wouldn’t notice what color a horse was. They do tend to notice gods, however, since gods often warp existence around them and bend the rules a bit. Their magic leaves traces and therefore can be tracked.

//Query: any gods here?//

//Sometimes. Not now//

//Query: gods with horse?//

//Sometimes//

//Query: near my position?//

//Below. In ground//

That is perplexing. Why is the horse in the ground? Maybe the horse is dead? Or else there is a space underneath Rügen. I ask Mecklenburg to show me, and through my tattoos it guides me to a spot a few hundred yards away from Jaromarsburg, in a churned-up field lying fallow for the winter, past a lighthouse. The ground opens up in a square, showing me a flight of stone steps leading down into darkness, and I shake my head from the déjà vu. “Nope, nope, nope! I’m not doing that again,” I say aloud. I didn’t need another encounter with a creepy trickster god in a subterranean chamber. Though this is somewhat different from that pit in India: These steps are permanent, and the chamber is already excavated. It’s not an abandoned archaeological mystery but more of a secret underground lair, the entrance to which is disguised by a chunk of nondescript turf.

//Query: horse is down there?//

//Yes// Mecklenburg says.

//Query: which god visits horse?//

//Earth god Weles//

Oh. That would explain the location of the horse, at least. //Gratitude / Harmony / Will return later// I say, and urge Mecklenburg to close up the hole in the ground.

“Back to the ferry, Orlaith,” I say. “Weles might not be down there now, but I don’t want to face him alone if he comes back. We need backup.”

“Atticus and Oberon?”

“No, I think they’re busy doing something else. We need Perun. He would know best how to deal with Weles.”

“I don’t remember Perun.”

“He’s friendly. Atticus told me he likes to play with hounds. Oberon wrestled with him.”

“Did Oberon win?”

“They wrestled for fun and succeeded in having plenty of fun, so I think they both won.”

“Best way to play,” Orlaith observes.

Perun is not difficult to find in Tír na nÓg. A couple of inquiries at the Fae Court and I’m told right where to go. He’s with Flidais, of course, and I catch both of them partially hammered down by the river.

“Granuaile!” he says, all jubilant and hairy. He raises a bottle to the sky. “You know what time is it? Is time for vodka!”

“No, thank you,” I say, and notice that the two of them are somewhat disheveled yet wearing blissful, post-coital grins. I thank fortune for not arriving much earlier or I might have caught them busy with each other. “I’ve come to talk to you about Weles,” I explain, and his expression falters.

“Weles? What about Weles? Is dead. All my peoples dead now. Is only me and Flidais and vodka now. Have vodka. Here.” He thrusts the bottle at me and I wave it away.

“No, no, he’s not dead. That’s what he wants you to think. He’s working with Loki. He’s the one who let Loki into the Slavic plane.”

“What? Say this again. No: Explain.” He drops the bottle, and his good cheer evaporates. The shadows underneath his brow darken, but little sparks dance in his eyes. The air begins to crackle and hum, and I realize that I am not wearing my fulgurite talisman that protects against lightning.

“All right, but easy with the electricity, okay? I’m not protected, and neither is my hound.”

“Oh. Is easy fix. Here.” He dips into a pouch at his belt and produces two new fulgurites, blessed by him to protect against lightning. “This way if I lose temper you no get hurt.”

“Thanks.” I wedge one of the fulgurites in Orlaith’s collar and tell her not to scratch at it, since it’s protection, then hold mine in my hand. Any skin contact will do. Safe from accidental strikes, I tell him what I pieced together with the Polish coven and that the white horse of Świętowit is hidden underground on the island of Rügen, visited on occasion by Weles. “I didn’t want to go down there, since I know nothing about him.”

“Is good you did not go,” he says. “He would have traps there for certain. And snakes.” A few stray fingers of lightning arc around his mane of hair, which is charged and standing out somewhat. His fists are clenched tightly, and I can tell he is barely maintaining his control.

“Snakes?”

“He like snakes very much. When I am eagle, I eat snakes very much. You know Weles is sometimes snake?”

“Uh—no. Are you saying you want to … eat him?”

“No. Am saying we are not friendly.”

“Ah! That’s a relief.” Flidais chuckles at this, and Perun is distracted by it. The charged air dissipates and I’m grateful to Flidais for dispelling the tension, even if that was not her intention.

“Would you like me to show you where this white horse is being kept?”

“Yes. Let us go.” He pats Flidais on the thigh and she shakes her head.

“I cannot go with you,” she says. “I’m in charge while Brighid is away.”

She does not appear to be in charge of anything except sprawling on the riverbank, and Perun guesses what I am thinking.

“Brighid and Atticus are in Svartálfheim,” he says. “Flidais must be emergency person now.”

I want to ask why Atticus would go to the land of the dark elves, but I refrain; I’ll catch up with him later.

“Then it’s you and me, Perun,” I say.

“And me,” Orlaith adds.

Always, sweet hound, I tell her privately, giving her a scratch behind the ears. We move off a few paces so that Perun can say his farewells and get his weapon, but Flidais does briefly accompany us to earth, simply to shuttle Perun there—I can’t bring Perun with me without another headspace, and I don’t know him well enough anyway.

When we take the ferry to Rügen this time, nobody wants to pet Orlaith, despite her being just as adorable as before. I take a wild guess that the scowling thunder god holding an axe next to us has reduced our approachability. Perun wanted to fly at first, but I protested that Orlaith would not enjoy it.

“So,” I say, “tell me what should I expect from Weles besides snakes. What does he look like?”