“You thought killing me would help?” I ask him. When Dreher doesn’t respond, I chuckle and reach out to pat his cheek. “My death may prevent the gods’ mouth from moving, but it will not stop them from speaking.”
“You’re worthless,” Dreher claims. His shrill words, mangled from Keiran’s hold, climb in one final, desperate effort to turn the crowd’s minds in his favor. “The gods have no need for you. Our people will go on without you, in spite of you. Your words have no power over us!”
“Oh? So you wouldn’t like to know what’s coming for you?” I ask. He stills in Keiran’s arms. He may speak bravely, but tradition and old beliefs are not easily forgotten. He fears what I will say. Now’s the perfect time to follow Aage’s advice and remind the Sluagh who I am. I let my voice climb so everyone around us can hear. “I can tell you what the gods have told me.”
Keiran digs his fingers harder into tendon and bone, forcing Dreher to release his hold on the dagger. Without his weapon, the anger in Dreher’s gaze is replaced with doubt and fear. I stretch my glamour further, focusing it on Dreher alone, and create a shifting vision of my helm with its wide antlers. I imagine them weighted with shedding velvet, the fine skin hanging in lank, bloody strips from bright bone. Dreher whimpers and the crowd around us murmurs at his strange response and draws farther away. Only the Hunt remains, unforgiving and unmoving.
“I’ve seen him. Your shadow man.” I lean closer, until I can watch the whites of Dreher’s eyes flashing as he searches for my face in the illusionary shadow of my hood. “He can’t save you. And when he finds you out there, he’ll bleed you dry, just like the others.”
Dreher cries out, a ragged, brutal exhalation, and fights against Keiran’s hold. My guess must have hit a little too close to the truth. I look toward Boros and his compatriots. The traitors have paled, and I stare at them until they bow their heads to me.
At the sight of their surrender, Breoca steps forward. He keeps his expression blank and gives me a low bow. “Seidhr.”
“This is the gods’ promise,” I tell Dreher. “Your betrayal has sealed your fate.”
I gesture to Keiran. He releases Dreher, who crumples to the ground. The former clan head lies there before his people. His sobs cut the air around us. I bow my head to Breoca and intone, “The thegn’s justice be done.”
I don’t stay to watch Dreher’s banishment commence. Instead, I lead the Hunt toward the hall. Aage’s call to assembly remains, and the Horned King’s testimony will not be denied.
Chapter Eighteen
Lugh
The hall has become a battlefield and the clans have divided to occupy opposite sides. Even with Resnik, the only Mainlander who dared side with the Northerners, the odds are severely out of favor should a brawl break out. And one hovers in the air.
“For a peaceful assembly, I see a lot of weapons,” Armel mutters to Cybel before wiping his watering eyes.
I remind myself to breathe steadily, ignoring the warning burn in the back of my nose that urges me to start sneezing. No weapons have been drawn, but the sheer volume of iron in this space makes my skin itch and my lungs ache. Even Cybel and Armel, less powerful Unseelie fae, can’t ignore their bodies’ reactions. Of our Hunt, only Keiran shares the Sluagh’s lack of affliction, though he keeps a close eye out as we enter to take our places near Aage’s chair at the end. After Dreher’s attempted attack, Keiran is taking no chances. It was his idea to make Drest pack up our rooms and ready our horses so we can leave if something goes wrong. His distrust, when the Sluagh are more our family than the fae of my mother’s Court, was painful to witness in our chambers.
Now, feeling the punishing weight of the Mainlanders’ stares as I settle into my seat, I think I understand his cynicism. For every dark glance the Sluagh on that side of the hall exchange, our Northern friends bristle. Hands find their way to hilts, teeth are bared, and violence is written in every careful, slow shuffle of another body resettling on the benches to ensure the best position for attack. Despite my best efforts to quell its influence, the draugr hums its contentment with the rising tension.
Aage sits on a simple chair facing the three accused clan heads. Breoca waits at his back. They face Bouchard, Chayka, and Boros, who stand alone in the center of the hall. The traitors’ handful of retainers have all taken seats on the edge of the Mainlanders’ side, nearest the door. Several of Aage’s people stand near them, clearly on guard against weapons or other mischief.
Defending themselves will be difficult. The Sluagh measure each other by their actions, on the legend built. You can’t easily worm your way out of anything with archaic loopholes or carefully planned misdirections like you can in the Courts. It’s why Aage doesn’t waste any of our time with useless pleasantries. He simply lifts a hand toward the three accused and states, “You stand before the assembly to defend yourselves. You are accused of plotting insurrection against the rightful thegn with the aid of a hostile power, of ignoring the plight of the people inhabiting your lands, and of upsetting the balance of the Wylds in a bid to gain greater power over your fellow huscarls. Begin your defense.”
The moment his hand drops, Bouchard steps forward to speak. “We need no defense, not when these are baseless accusations. Tell us, what hostile power have we been plotting with? What sign of Winter or Summer Courts have you found in our lands? You cannot produce evidence of this. Your erroneous charges of treason prove nothing but your pitiful attempt to hold on to your title in the face of a new age.”
Bouchard’s speech must inspire Chayka. She steps forward, but doesn’t bother to look at Aage. Instead, she turns to the Mainlanders. “We have not ignored the plight of our people. My lands lie near the Summer Court’s sídhe. Our poor harvests and struggles with humanity’s encroachment have left us weaker than in our past. The thegn has a point. My people lack food and some of the pleasant fripperies that make life seem more civilized. But what is more important? Worrying about how pretty our villages are in a vain effort to mimic the Summer and Winter Courts? Or should we be finding ways to defend against the warring factions of those same Courts, whose battles have begun to spill over into the Wylds? Battles our thegn refuses to defend us against while he lounges in the splendor of Eyjar? Do you not find it odd that he clings to neutrality and self-reliance when we’re strong enough to take both Courts ourselves? We should be the leaders of Faerie, not their cast-offs!”
Most of the Mainlanders nod and murmur. Some of the younger Northerners look thoughtful, but their opinions matter little to me. I’m busy watching their elders, those I’ve known the longest, the tried-and-true huscarls who have always lived near Mother’s lands. They’re familiar with her strategies through the stories their elders shared about the first Faerie Civil War. They know what breaking neutrality with the Courts would bring. They know Mother’s wrath would overspill her lands and break over them like a rogue wave on the shore. They know the cost they would suffer if she considered them a threat to her power. They may want recognition as a Court, but trying to wrest that distinction by force will only lead to bloodshed and misery. Aage’s desire to secure peace and grow steadily until they can’t be ignored, to prove the Sluagh worthy of recognition by their own merits, will take time, but won’t risk his people’s lives. Chayka hasn’t given a good enough reason to side against Aage.
Strangely, Boros doesn’t speak. He stays near the door, glowering at Aage without making any effort to defend himself. Bouchard and Chayka speak for a few more minutes, repeating their points again and again with slightly different wording, trying to plead a case they clearly can’t defend and simply want to drag out. It’s frustrating and annoying as hell and I’m surprised Aage lets it continue on. What purpose is there to politicking and lying to save your own skin when there are people—good people—suffering for your greed or pride? How many people will starve this winter because these two pretend they’ve done nothing wrong instead of asking for aid or support? How many more young Sluagh like Ingjaldi have left home to follow after the shadow man and his promises of a better life because their huscarls have failed them? How many other shades are being created as we sit here and do nothing?
The brush of Keiran’s hand against the outside of my thigh jolts me out of my thoughts. I’ve been bouncing my leg up and down. My jaw aches from how hard I’ve clenched it. My glamour shields me, but the vibrations from my fidgeting would still travel through the shared bench to Keiran. He doesn’t look away from the accused as they drone on. He doesn’t drop his hand either. He keeps it there, steadying me, until Bouchard and Chayka finally fall silent. Both sides of the hall look up toward Aage, waiting for him to present his evidence.
He sits a little straighter in his chair. His expression is solemn, his hands clasped lightly in his lap, nowhere near the hilt o
f a blade. “You say I have nothing to support my claims of your treason,” he says quietly. “You clearly have no idea how a true thegn behaves. How a true thegn guarantees the security of his people by removing the corrupt from power and ensuring procedures exist to keep his own office in check. I took the weight of the Iron Crown on the solemn oath to protect all my people, and I do not take that promise lightly. I have not come here empty-handed.
“The gods have spoken,” Aage says. “They have shown us proof spanning the breadth of the Wylds. They have shown us the growing darkness festering in your lands and how it has begun to spread, threatening everything our people have worked to create. They have shown us the work of the murderer you now pledge your allegiance to. They have seen your greed and willingness to raise war when you should have secured your people’s lives for the coming winter, and they demand recompense for your actions.” He points to me and I stand, nervous under the intense scrutiny of both Sluagh galleries, of the accused, and of the thegn who gave me a place among his people. “Seidhr, begin your testimony.”
I open my mouth to speak, to weave my testimony into the story of the Wylds’ decay, but a booming knock from the main door cuts me off. Aage’s retainers are beaten to the door by Boros, who looks far too triumphant when he swings it open. A hooded man steps forward into the hall and the galleries leap to their feet, weapons at the ready.
I wince against a sharp pain that pierces my temple. The shades whisper, their unintelligible warnings mixing with the rising noise from the hall and the draugr’s keen.
The intruder walks down the center hall as if he owns this space and never bothers to look at anyone except Aage. Breoca takes a half step in front of the thegn, sword drawn in warning, but it doesn’t seem to deter this man. He stops a few steps before the chair and says, “Sorry I’m late.”
I know that voice. I’ve heard it before. Where?