46. The Old Man in the Tree
Chapter 46
The Old Man in the Tree
CAILEáN
T he Holly King is not pleased to be woken at two-thirty in the morning. However, he stops complaining when I tell him about calling down the moon. And the moon answering.
I leave him and his knight to dress and go to find my consorts. I did manage a few hours of sleep, sandwiched between Law and Rhodes. Law rose about an hour ago and dragged Luca, protesting sleepily, with him. Rhodes snuggled me back to sleep and I didn’t realize until I woke again that the Cait hadn’t returned.
I find all three of them on the brick patio overlooking the garden. Didrane is still in her tree. But now she looks down over rank after rank of silent Cait who stretch all the way back to the Trophy House where Law and I had our first date.
When I step through the doors, Law turns to face me. He’s still barefoot and bare-chested, wearing just his leather pants. Despite him claiming not to be a schoolboy anymore, he looks so young, his high cheekbones and smooth chest silvered by moonlight. My heart seizes for a moment at the idea of leading him and his brother and Rhodes—to say nothing of his people—into a conflict with the oldest living fae.
He tucks one hand behind his back and bows very formally to me. “My queen. The Cait stand ready.”
“Law—” A tear rolls cold down my cheek.
Kathu stalks along the edge of the assembled Cait, with her three wolves in tight formation around her. “My wolves are here, too,” she says as she steps up onto the patio. “I don’t dare bring them too close to your cats, so we’ll follow you.”
I force a smile for her. “Thank you, sister.”
Luca moves to my side and takes my hand. Rhodes slips in behind me, his arms circling my waist.
“Call the souls of the Cait. It’s time, Caileán,” Luca murmurs.
I nod, fill my lungs with cold, night Air, and reach. I’m prepared to rip open the Veil and step into Ceòfuar to retrieve the sleeping souls. But I don’t need to. I carry Faery within me. As soon as I reach for them, they rise, billowing out of me like black mist. Filling in the ranks of Cait with their ancient spears, glinting armor, and gleaming eyes.
I look over them carefully. Several are in their warrior forms, so it’s hard to tell, but I don’t feel drawn to any of the wraiths. No, my consorts’ souls are not among them. Either they’ve moved on, or they’ve merged into the men standing around me. I reach out to Law. He immediately steps into me, tucking my arm around his waist.
“Lead us, my queen. We’re yours to command.”
Tears threaten again. My army. I never expected to have one person stand beside me, much less an army. I objected to Law summoning the living Cait, but I see now that I was wrong. Having them here, ready to follow us into the fray, means so much to me in this moment. I fumble for Law’s hand and when I grasp it, raise our joined hands over my head. Together, we look out over the assembled Cait.
“It’s time for the Oak King to answer for his crimes against the Cait,” I say, my voice ringing out into the cold night. “I march on Ivywhile to call down the Mother’s Justice on the high fae. Who is with me?”
Hundreds of heads tip back. From hundreds of throats rise the Cait’s roar. The howling of Kathu’s wolves echoes from the distance.
Out of the corners of my eyes, I see wild fae appearing out of the night mist. White-antlered, black faced dynion ceirw ; thorny tree nymphs; dripping river nymphs; hundreds of bwg, their caps dyed red; my distant cousins, the cyhraeth, their shrouds gathered tightly around their skeletal frames; thousands of will o’ wisps, swirling in their dizzying dances. They raise their faces to the night sky. Their throats vibrate with their cries, barely heard over the roar of the Cait and the howl of wolves but felt: a thunder that shakes the ground under my feet, which makes the Veil tremble.
I pull their cries into my Element, wrap the sound into a knelling bell, and store it in my chest. It will be the last thing the Oak King hears.
As the wild host’s call fade into the night breeze, I look around for the Holly King. He’s standing with Hraena, who is holding hands with Klaya Blackmaben. I smile at my sister and nod at the Holly King.
The Holly King steps back and puts his mailed hand against the wall of Cait House. His namesake rustles up the wall in an explosion of vines and unfurling leaves. The holly creates a huge circle on the wall, wide enough for a half-dozen to walk abreast, framing a black, shimmering space.
Holding tight to my consorts, I walk toward the portal.
“You’ll step out straight into the Oak King’s grove, Caileán,” the Holly King says. “So be ready.”
I nod at him and step through.
The Oak King is not alone. His druadh ring him like burnt tree stumps. They’re all slumped over. Two are snoring. Do they stay with him even in their sleep? That seems unhealthy. Or perhaps they’re exhausted after some ritual. Maybe they called the moon tonight, too. I wonder, did She answer?
I squeeze Law and Luca’s hands, my palms slick with the fear that I’ve brought them to their deaths.
In whispers, of breath, of feathers, of fur, my army files through the portal behind me. Didrane alights on Luca’s shoulder. Hraena and her Storm Lady take position beside Law. Brangwy’s boar snuffles the jewel-bright grass at our feet. Kathu and her wolves pad into silent ranks to my left, as far away from the Cait on my right as they can.
I don’t expect Aranthann and Aehelwen to follow us through, but they do. With a few muttered “pardons” they edge to the front of the crowd. I look expectantly at the Holly King, but he bows his head to me as if to say, “this is your show.”
I give him a quick smile before I step forward. “Gwyn ap Nudd. Oath-breaker and kin-slayer. Wake and face the Mother’s Justice.”
The leaves and branches of the oak grove flutter as though a storm wind had ripped through them. Ten pairs of black eyes blink open. The druadh stagger to their feet, shaking out their robes. Beneath one, I see a crumpled form, her tattered winding sheets torn to expose too much skin, a small, pale face with her mouth stretched open in a final scream no one heeded. A cyhraeth the Oak King killed instead of me. Another bean sidhe no one cared enough to protect.
They were doing a ritual, but they weren’t calling the moon. The Mother doesn’t demand blood sacrifice. But I know who does.
“Did the Green Man listen, Gwyn?” I demand, pointing at the broken body. “Will he protect you from the Mother’s judgment?”
“Silence!” Emnyre and a phalanx of Darkswerds stride toward the ancient tree from the far end of the grove, splitting the circle of druadh. “You have no voice here, carrion-eater. You have no rights here, in the seat of the high fae. Begone!”
I tip my head back and look up at the crescent moon that shines down on the grove. “But I do have a voice. It carries as far as the crow’s call. All the way to the moon. I call Her down. Mātīr .”
“Mātīr,” I repeat, and my sisters call with me.
“Mātīr,” I repeat, and my army calls with me.
“Silence!” Emnyre bellows and looses an arrow of fire from a bow strung with wind.
Law lunges in front of me, his hands wreathed in spirals of flame. Is a wild fae faster than a high fae’s enchanted arrow? I have a second to wonder as the arrow arcs toward me.
But I never find out.
A small figure, shrouded in mist, cloaked and cowled in moonlight, appears in the middle of the grove. She reaches out her hand and catches the arrow. It disintegrates between her fingers. She flicks a cloud of ash to the ground.
“Would you deny the Mother’s justice, Knight of Oak?” The Mother’s soft voice drops like a stone into the utter silence following her appearance. I don’t even hear anyone breathing.
“No, Mother.” Emnyre’s voice is strangled.
“Oak King, do you not rise to greet your maker?” The Mother asks.
Bark creaks and splinters. The Oak King struggles into a pained crouch, the bare branches over his head waving like they’ve been caught in a hurricane. “Mother.”
“Son,” she says, low and gentle. “Seventh son of my seventh son. Sūnús gerlós. Sūnús juwōn. Sūnús aiwós . I entrusted my second children to you. The children of Fire and Air. I left Faery in your hands. What have you done?”
“Mother,” the Oak King repeats, an entreaty.
“Ask for my forgiveness, son.”
“The Mother’s forgiveness is moonlight,” the Oak King whispers.
Yellow leaves shower down from the oaks of the grove, drifting into piles at the Mother’s feet.
The Mother scuffs her bare toes through the leaves, shaking her head. “Come forth, vassals of the Oak King. Come and greet your Mother.”
A dozen fae shimmer into shape around the Mother. Some, like Callan, I recognize. Some, like Koitre, High Lord of Rowanfury, I know only from legend.
Callan, who is wearing tartan pajamas and looking like he was dragged out of bed, is the most ordinary-looking among them. Wile of Baelboggan, his spangled skin glimmering in the moonlight, his spiral horn longer and sharper than any unicorn’s, is the most exotic. He has competition, however, in Leathan of Linkester, whose ice-skin shimmies and cracks constantly, dripping black blood into the grass, and Hew of Willowroth, whose features and limbs are nearly obscured by the iridescent vines sprouting from his head.
The fae lords take in their surroundings, bowing first to the Mother and then to the Oak King.
“Is this all of you?” The Mother asks. “All of those oathed and bound to the high king?”
The silence of the grove is absolute until it’s broken by a deep, familiar voice. “No, it ain’t.”
The Cait, flesh and shade, part to let the demon, his eyes, crown, and wings blazing, step into the clearing around the Mother.
“I ain’t one of yours,” Jou says. “Maybe I’m not welcome in your sight. But you can taste the truth in my words. The Twittering Throng’s given oaths, spilled blood, broken bone with my kind. If you’re gonna judge these, judge those, too.”
The Mother tilts her head like a bird and holds her small hand out to Jou. He bows and plants a courtly kiss on her knuckles. She strokes his crimson dreadlocks.
“All are mine, son of Earth and Fire,” she says. “None are unwelcome in my sight. I recognize you, D’Asmodei. I taste the truth in your words. I call those who have given oaths, spilled blood, and broken bone with the Oak King to stand before me and submit to my judgment.”
The Mother steps back and a spinning disk of fire opens in the spot where she’d stood. A towering demoness, her white horns rising higher than Emnyre’s, her skin-tight leathers running with a green liquid that scorches the grass, steps out of the portal. She’s followed by a much smaller figure in a long gown that glistens like pearl in the moonlight. When I see the light glint off her horns, so like the tiny horns on the skull in the tin tucked into my mantle, I realize who she is.
If Mordeh is a small shock, the last figure that emerges from the portal is a much bigger one.
“Row—” I suck in a breath as I realize it’s not Rowan, or not Rowan as I know him. His hair’s no longer a graying russet, but a plume of red flame sweeping up from his forehead. His sharp features have lengthened into a fox’s pointed muzzle. His silk robes hang loose over his gaunt body, except for his swollen gut. A greed-demon’s belly. He folds long arms over the bulge of his stomach, his middle fingers blackened to bone from stirring poisoned cups.
“Reynard,” I name him. “Ruadhán. Trickster. You’ve escaped justice all these years. You were too slippery to be caught in Hraena’s net.”
“Or yours,” he sneers back at me. “What a pathetic sight you’ve been: a crow chick fallen from its nest, floundering flightless at the base of an old oak, toyed with by kittens. They’ll tire of playing with you soon enough. I certainly did.”
I shake my head at him. “How many have died because of your treachery?”
Ruadhán smiles, showing small, pointed teeth all along his muzzle. “Many. You’ve rummaged among their bones for long enough. Didn’t you count? Ah, but you might have missed one or two. I’ve had to feed since coming to Bevington.” He rubs his sunken belly. “I’m hungering again. Will your Water mage taste as sweet as his teammate, I wonder? Will his screams as I rape his dreams fill me as full? I hear his own kin carved words of power into his skin. Surely that’s inspired a night terror or two?” His red tongue lashes across his teeth. “I’ll savor each one.”
“I’ll carve Yan’s name into your skin before I drown you in your own bile!” Rhodes roars over my shoulder.
“Enough,” the Mother says quietly and all voices fall silent. “I do not judge any for their natural hungers. But appetites created by murder, fed by oath-breaking, those I will judge. Is this all?”
“No,” the Oak King says in a creak of branches. “My Darkswerds?—”
“ My Darkswerds.” The Mother’s voice blows cold through the grove. “It was from my hand that the first sword passed to Thetis to arm her son. My hand that guided the blade to Niniane to bring light back to the Fair Isle. My hand that distributed the blade that was broken among the gwragedd annwn and bade them leave their lakes and don the white armor. Take not into yourself what belongs to me, Gwyn ap Nudd.”
The oaks shiver. “The Mother’s hand is cleaved.”
“Better my hand than my tongue,” the Mother says. “I ask again, is this all?”
“No, Gaia.” Mordeh steps forward in a rustle of her pearly gown. Her voice is low but rings over the silent crowd. “Three waited on the Thunderer’s victory. Three fled and found refuge with my mother when the Thunderer fell. I name them: Melephesius, Alugiel, and foul Sariel.”
The Mother bows her head for a moment, then places a gentle hand on Mordeh’s shoulder. “Child of Tethys, you are the most wronged here. You have suffered the longest. I weep for your pain, but I cannot give you justice. I do not command the Void. I cannot compel its creatures. I can take the memories from you. I can free you from the past. But I cannot bring Sariel to his knees as you deserve.”
A crimson tear carves its way down Mordeh’s shell-pale cheek. She shakes her head. “I am made of memory. Take what makes me and I unravel.”
“You are more than your past,” the Mother says. “You are more than your suffering. When my judgment is done, I would honor your loss with you. I will help you entomb your daughter’s bones and bring forth new life from her grave.”
“My daughter’s bones—?” Mordeh’s head whips around. She stares at her mother. “You’ll return Cythoe’s bones at last?”
Licyssa sneers at her daughter. “Not even if you swore to abandon Hell and walk the mortal world alone and friendless for the rest of your days, traitor child.”
The Mother holds up a hand between mother and daughter. “There is no cut deeper than a wound between parent and child. I have no power to condemn you, Lady of Bile. This is a conflict you both sought. You’ve both dealt each other terrible blows. But if you have any love left for your child, I beg you abandon this battle now. Return freely what you’ve taken. Give your daughter the kiss of peace, so you both can find it.”
“Not even if the alternative is you striking me down here and now,” Licyssa drawls.
The Mother bows her head. “So be it. I pity you your nature, Acid Queen.”
“Don’t,” Licyssa snaps. “I don’t need your pity, nor your effort to reconcile me to this traitor to my blood. You called me here as part of your judgment of Gwyn ap Nudd. Let us name his crimes. He is a kin-killer. He is an oath-breaker. He is a schemer and a liar and a rapist and a murderer. He is all of those things. But above all he is your son, mighty Gaia. He is what you have made him.”
The Mother lifts her head and smiles sadly at Licyssa. “I gave my children the gift of free will the moment I cut the birthing cord. Unlike you, I do not seek to control my children long after they leave my breast. I can only watch, and guide, and when called upon, judge.”
The Mother turns to me and holds out her hand.
I take two shuffling steps toward her, dragging my consorts, until Rhodes’ grip on my waist prevents me from taking another step. “Rho,” I huff.
The Mother laughs softly. “You are well-loved, young crow. It gladdens my eyes, darkened by the evil before me. Give me the treasure you’ve recovered.”
I drag my hand out of Law’s—although his fingers immediately wrap around my wrist—and retrieve the tin of bones from my mantle. Since there’s no way I can cross the grove to hand it to the Mother with my consorts nearly strangling me, I waft it to her on a breath of Air.
She cups the tin between her hands and bends her head over it. She murmurs a short blessing before handing the tin to Mordeh.
The demoness’s pale, pupilless eyes flick to mine. “You found Cythoe’s bones? Where?”
“In Charybdis’ oubliette,” I explain. “She gave them to me freely and bid me return them to their mother. Baron Ash and my consort realized you were likely she.”
The look Mordeh shoots her mother blackens the grass in a circle around the two demonesses and causes a fresh fall of yellow leaves.
“Charbydis,” she spits. “That’s where you hid them? With that poor, trapped creature? Did you do it to taunt her because she’s been childless all these centuries?”
Licyssa smiles and the blood in my veins turns gelid.
“I do most things for more than one reason, as you should recall.” She holds out her taloned hand. “Those belong to me.”
Mordeh clutches the tin to her chest.
“No, Lady of Bile,” the Mother says. “I have no power to condemn you, but I can judge a deal struck and fulfilled. You have no further claim over Cythoe’s bones, nor the bodies, living or dead, of any of your daughter’s children.”
Licyssa folds her arms and taps her talons on her upper arm with a rat-tat-tat of bone on leather. “Very well. I’ll accept this for now. But I’ll remember it when you next come crawling to my door, faithless one.”
“I’m not the faithless one here, mother. Which you’d know if you believed your flesh and blood instead of listening to the bile you poured into another’s ear flowing back to you.”
Licyssa scoffs. “Black Empyreans cannot lie. You, however, can.”
“While I don’t wish to come become embroiled in the dispute between you two esteemed ladies,” Callan interrupts. “Black Empyreans can lie. When they’re compromised by love. I have four children and a broken heart as proof. If the Black Empyrean you speak of is Sariel, and he’s the father of that poor babe.” Callan dips his bright head at the tin Mordeh’s still clutching. “Then I swear to you that falsehood was well-within his capabilities.”
More blood-tears run down Mordeh’s cheeks but neither she nor Licyssa respond to the Thistle Regent.
“If tonight goes some small way to rectifying such an old wrong, then I am pleased with the outcome, whatever else occurs,” the Mother says. “Lady of Bile, you’ve named my high king liar, oath-breaker, rapist, and murderer. Do you attest to these crimes?”
The demoness slants a cruel smile at the shivering tree trunk of the Oak King. “Except for the rape, I have witnessed them firsthand. But I think we can all smell him on that sad bag of spent flesh.” She nods at the cyhraeth’s body, still lying at the feet of one of the druadh. He’s flicked the hem of his black robes over her, as though to hide her from sight. As if those assembled didn’t have other means of sensing her death.
“She was willing!” The druadh protests. “She offered herself to the king!”
“That’s a lie!” One of my distant cousins screams, her voice drawing a flurry of snow down out of the clear sky. “Not one of us would offer ourselves to that monster. We all fear being split on his stump. We came to you at mid-winter and begged for aid in finding our missing sisters and you stood on the ground where you’d spilt their blood and lied! How many have you sacrificed to your uncaring god?”
“Silence!” Emnyre bellows at the banshee. “You will not speak in the court of the high king, washerwoman. Nor will you question the high king’s druadh. If he says it is so, it is so. Your sister gave her life that our king’s strength might return. There is no more noble end. Go back to your streams. Go back to your woods. Go back to your bogs and fens, all of you. You are not fit to stand before the king.”
A few of the wild fae slink away in face of the Darkswerd’s fury. But to my right, the Cait rumble. To my left, Kathu’s wolves growl. Sharp caws sound out of the trees where, unnoticed while all eyes were riveted on the Mother, hundreds of crows have gathered.
“We will not be silent any longer,” I tell the high fae. “Not in life. Not in death. Her shade can answer the question of whether or not she was willing.” I raise my hand, still clasped in Luca’s, toward the cyhraeth’s body.
The druadh snatches the limp form off the ground and wraps it in his robes as though that would stop me from summoning her shade. “Necromancer! Stop her before she does dark magic on the king!”
Blades and bows are suddenly in everyone’s hands but mine.