The draugr growls its agreement. Memories flash behind my eyelids, of baby Goodfellow’s constant crying, of his ill temper and the uncontrollable tantrums. As he aged, of the village children’s cruelties to him, of the human villagers’ refusal to trade with his father, of the growing whispers of witchcraft and devil-worship when strange tricks befell those who had treated him cruelly. And underneath it all, the seed of the draugr’s fury—the wish that it was Goodfellow who had died, not his mother.
“He let Goodfellow wander the Wylds, hoping he’d go missing or die. Instead, Goodfellow found other Sluagh, other fae. He learned how you led the Unseelie rebellion and established a separate Court. He learned about magick and he grew angry at his father’s ruse. Eventually, they fought over exposing their powers, and Goodfellow won.”
The memory sharpens, drives me through with pain low in the gut, as if Goodfellow just plunged a knife into my belly. I’m trapped in that moment I saw while facing Dreher at Krigsmöte, with a younger Goodfellow stabbing the blade into me over and over. My blood stains his clothes, his body, his face. He works me until there’s nothing left but a sense of emptiness when my small quantity of magick drains away with the last of my blood, soaked into my son’s skin. The memory starts to splinter, but not before I see Goodfellow standing at the hearth, his bloody fingers smearing over the bricks, muttering to himself, Robin. Robin. And such a good man. Such a good fellow. Robin—
“Lugh,” Keiran barks.
Too far. Too deep. I surface and shove the draugr’s memories back into the darkness where they belong. Keiran doesn’t offer to assist me and his expression doesn’t change, even when I give an unsteady nod and keep going. “Goodfellow learned from murdering his father that bloodletting gave him his victim’s power. He’s been using it to gain enough power to claim the Courts.”
“His mother was abandoned and he suffered for it,” Sláine says. “It’s no wonder he killed Oberon and Titania.”
“Or why he comes for us now. He wasn’t allowed to fit in either Court, so he’ll create his own.” It’s the closest I can come to condemning my mother’s actions without facing severe consequences.
Nevertheless, her eyes narrow and her lips press tightly together.
“He’s strong,” I tell her, desperate to make her understand our enemy. I need her to see how she helped create him, how her actions have shaped this war from the beginning. “He learned from you and has made his army up of the youngest Sluagh, those who view their people’s suffering as proof that death would be better than continuing on in such a way. And now that he has the Green Man’s power at his disposal, can use that to bolster his troops, he won’t stop his advance. He’ll know he has to use it before it fades.”
“Which is why we should wait to attack,” Roark says, louder this time. His pale eyes are fixed on Mother’s face, trying to read her through her glamour. He’s the only one of us who ever could. I wonder what he sees now. “The sealing holds. We’ll wait him out, then finish him off.”
“No.” The single word crackles with Mother’s power. “Our sealing weakens every day. We do not know how long it will take for his stolen power to fade. He routed the Summer Court, and I will not wait for him to break through our barriers and slaughter us in our beds. He is camped on our shore with a paltry band of Sluagh. Every moment we wait, his army comes closer and his threat to our people grows. It is wiser to risk facing his magick than facing an army of that size, with such deadly weapons, in the halls of this sídhe. We attack. We kill him. We end this here and now, no matter the cost.” She points at me. “Your Sluagh will fight beside us.”
“They aren’t mine,” I tell her.
“No, they aren’t.” Keiran stands and faces her. “I command the Sluagh forces.”
“You?” Mother scoffs.
He bears her scorn with the resignation of a man used to facing such cruel doubt. All her statements about him—her derision at his humanity, her doubt of his strength—come back in a miserable rush. His subtle avoidance of Mother and his discomfort in speaking about her make sudden sense. How he keeps his tone polite as he answers, “Yes,” is beyond me.
“How?” She gestures to me. “Did you betray my son for his title?”
A muscle in Keiran’s jaw tightens. “No. I earned my own.” He lifts his chin. “I am thegn and my warriors will follow no one else.”
Keiran
Queen Mab’s lip curls in disgust when I make my declaration. I’d expect no less from her, though I can’t deny how much it hurts when she waves her hand at Lugh and orders, “Lugh, speak to him.”
So dismissive. So disgusted by my daring she refuses to acknowledge me further. I’m little more than a misbehaving hellhound in need of a firm hand.
Lugh stares at her, eyes narrowed and jaw clenched, even as he steps closer to me. “It wouldn’t change anything. I’ve pledged myself to his service. His commands are mine.”
Prince Lyne and Prince Sláine exchange wary looks. Smith watches Lugh with something akin to fascination.
“You’ve pledged yourself,” the queen muses darkly. She taps a finger against her throne. Lugh doesn’t justify himself. He leaves the truth at her feet and waits.
At long last, she asks me, “What is the cost for your warriors’ support?”
The about-face is hard to follow. Days of conversation with my huscarls, their desires and wishes, spin through my mind. I must stand for them. I need to prove myself an equal to the other powers here.
But I’m human. No matter what I do, or how eloquently I plead my case, the queen’s view of me won’t change. Aage’s voice whispers his advice from Krigsmöte. Do not believe her poison.
I faced down Goodfellow. I won the Sluagh’s support. I will earn their trust now and not quail to bring forth their greatest hopes. I lift my chin and answer, “Equality. Acknowledge us as a Court, with the same rights and safeguards you won after your war for independence from the Summer Court. It will grant us access to other pantheons’ goods, provide security through the Accords, and protect our lands’ boundaries. F
ighting against Goodfellow at your side is deserving of such a prize.”
Her finger stills. “And if I refuse?”
I smile, bitterly amused by her attempts to deal. Does she truly think me so stupid I would forget all the lessons I’ve learned from observing her over the centuries? She worships balance. She will do anything to maintain it, and Goodfellow threatens the natural order. Her only hope lies with the strength of my warriors, and we both know it. “If you refuse, then we will sit on the edge of the battlefield and watch your world burn.”