47. The Sound of Vengeance
Chapter 47
The Sound of Vengeance
LAW
A fight starts with a snarl, escalates to a scream, and ends with a whimper.
A battle has no symmetry. Battles are marked by strange silences. What starts with shouting breaks for a breath before a charge. What’s risen to a roar dies to a hush after heavy percussion. Battles are uneven, lacking syncopation, with too many moving parts and too much uncertainty.
This is my fourth real battle. The long moment of silence after everyone draws their weapons still rattles me.
The stillness is broken by a scream. The little banshee who bravely accused the Oak King’s vizier of lying blasts the grove with the kind of scream that Kellan used on the demon spiders. I know it’s not a weapon most banshees can wield at will. It’s the passing of her sister that draws it out of the small fae now.
The king’s druadh don’t explode like the spiders, more’s the pity, but blood explodes from their cowls. Several fall to their knees. While they’re reeling, the banshee charges across the grove, a black dagger clenched in each fist.
She dies with a flaming arrow through her chest before she’s even half-way to the circle of druadh.
But she’s not alone. Dozens of her sisters run after her, daggers raised, their combined screams making the air ring so profoundly that hot wetness seeps from my ears. Flaming arrows tear through them, lifting their thin bodies off their feet and hurtling them over the heads of the red-caps who have run after them, to land lifeless in the grass. Stag men and nymphs, blurring in my sight as they weave in and out of the World Wood, follow in a thundering rush, only to be met by the enchantments of the druadh which twist their bodies into unrecognizable shapes before they collapse into black ash.
The first of the druadh goes down under a tide of mist and moss, screams and slivers of sharp darkness. The Darkswerds draw their swords and weigh in, the swords ringing like crystal bells when the banshees’ screams hit them.
I turn my head and nod at my Cait. Our wildest cousins have led the way. They will not face the druadh and Darkswerds alone.
My warriors drop to their paws, snarling. I’m about to join them when the Mother turns and holds up her hands: small, pale palms toward me. Her lips move but I can’t hear her over the banshees’ screams.
Then her voice rings over the battlefield like a bugle. “Stop.”
The Mother’s command makes my heart seize. The combatants cower, clutching at their ears and chests.
When my heart lurches back into a thudding rhythm, I grab Caileán to make sure her heart is beating. She looks up at me as I press my hand to her breast. The love in her eyes nearly stops my heart again. She kisses my cheek and draws me back to her side.
The Mother walks over to the first arrow-shot banshee. She picks up the small body, plucks out the arrow, and cradles the body like she would a child.
“Kneel,” she commands.
The wild fae, and many of my Cait, fall to their knees. Caileán tugs at my hand. She picks up the long skirt of her mantle and folds to her knees. I follow her down and those clustered around us join us.
Only Emnyre and his Darkswerds remain standing on the far side of the grove. Even the demons have taken a knee at the Mother’s command.
The Mother picks her way across the battlefield, her bare feet and the hem of her robes staining crimson. At each body, she pauses, crouches, closes eyes devoid of starlight, and whispers goodbye.
When she reaches the druadh who is still clutching the murdered banshee, she lays the body she’s carrying at his feet.
“Give her to me. I do not need to compel her spirit to speak. I am her Mother. Or do you dare call my power necromancy?”
The druadh offers up the banshee’s body silently. The little fae hangs in the Mother’s arms: limbs dangling, head lolling. Deep purple bruises on her wrists and ankles put the lie to the druadh’s claims.
“She was willing,” the Mother says. Muttered outrage among the surviving wild fae chases her words, as do sighs of relief from the high fae. “But only because her mind was broken during days of captivity, leaving her susceptible to a powerful compulsion.”
Another stuttering, fragile silence descends.
The Mother lays the dead banshee at her sister’s side. She straightens and faces the druadh, who pull into a tight cluster in front of the Oak King. “You are the high king’s druadh. His most trusted. Is this how you use your power? To abuse your little brethren?”
The druadh mutter. The oak branches above them sway and creak.
The Mother turns and walks back to where the dozen high fae and handful of demons kneel in a loose crescent. “I know the lives of wild fae mean less to you than those of your own court. I know the word of a wild fae means less to you than the word of a Tylwyth Teg. These beliefs are abhorrent in my sight. As the deeds of the high king and his druadh are abhorrent in my sight. Speak now, lords of the Seelie courts. Speak and tell me your truths, that you may not be judged with your king.”
No one speaks.
Finally, Callan lifts his head. “Mother of All, Great Mother, I mean no disrespect, but I cannot speak my truths. I gave the high king my vow. I pledged to obey him and keep his secrets for as long as I held the Thistle Throne in his name. I believe that to be true of all his vassals assembled here.”
The Mother steps over to him delicately. She puts a hand on his shoulder and bids him rise.
“Callan, son of Annadark, son of Woodlock, son of Dáithi, I greet you.”
He takes her hands and bows over them. “My lady.”
“I see your heart, Regent of Thistlemist. It is proud and honor-bound, but true. You have heard the claims against your king. Do you still honor your vow to him?”
“His crimes don’t relieve me of my vow, my lady.”
Several of the kneeling high fae nod at Callan’s words.
Callan clears his throat. “But neither can I pledge my support to a king who murders our kin without care or consequence. True, the word of a wild fae holds less weight among us, but that doesn’t mean it is without value. I believe the banshee. I believe the Crow Queen and owe her a thousand apologies for the part my grandfather played in the destruction of her court. I believe those gathered here to demand justice. I cannot stand against them, and I cannot support a king who does.”
“A true heart.” The Mother slips one of her hands out of his and touches his bent head. “Call your son.”
Callan doesn’t say anything, but a call rings out like silver bells across Faery.
The air around Callan shimmers. With a faint crack and a roll of distant thunder, four figures step out onto the grass. Princess Teddy’s wearing a “Bevington Athletics” T-shirt that reaches down to her knees, so old the logo only remains as a serpentine shadow over her belly. Gabe and Charlie are bare-chested and groggy, rubbing their faces. Darwin’s fleecy shirt has milk-stains on each shoulder.
Despite their disorientation, they immediately regroup, shifting so Darwin is closest to his father and Teddy’s in the middle with Gabe and Charlie bracketing her in a triangle.
Kind of like Luca, Rhodes, and I are surrounding Caileán.
“Father?” Darwin asks quietly, into another of those post-percussive silences.
“Son. The Mother stands in judgment of our high king. His crimes have been witnessed. The Mother calls on the king’s vassals to speak, but I cannot do so while honoring my vow as his Regent.”
Darwin sucks in a sharp breath.
“I’ve called you here as my son and heir. I relinquish the throne. I abdicate my Regency. The thrones of Faery call their own kings, but I know in my blood and bones that it will call you. Not as Regent, but as Thistle King.” Callan places a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Wear the mantle well, son.”
Darwin’s mouth works but no sound comes out.
Instead, it’s Teddy who speaks. “Well, fuck me. What’s the use of Time-Walking if I don’t get a head’s up on shite like this?”
Charlie’s snigger sparks off quiet mirth throughout the grove. If a few chuckles are high pitched with tension, no one remarks on it.
Callan turns slightly to face the crescent of fae lords. “Although I leave Thistlemist in the capable hands of my son and his mates, I don’t take the abdication of my Regency, or breaking my silence, lightly. I wouldn’t do so for any reason less than this one. There is no greater crime among us than the killing of kin.” He twists off one of his silver rings and holds it out to Koitre, who is closest to him. “This is my great-grandfather’s ring. It contains his memories of the high king’s order to murder the youngest Crow Queen and destroy her court in retaliation for the queen’s protection of our darker cousins. I warn you, it also contains his memories of carrying out that order in the most brutal fashion. I offer this not because the word of our wild brethren is insufficient, but because of the wrong my family did. I cannot do enough to make up for my grandfather’s crime. I only ask, Mother of All, that if you judge the Dùbhghlas family by Dáithi’s actions, that the punishment fall on me and me alone. My son is innocent.”
“Father.” Darwin breathes an objection but Callan waves him to silence.
The Mother reaches out and takes the ring from Callan’s fingers. “It is an evil thing to burden the child with the crimes of their ancestors. Remember that, proud son of Thistlemist, when your own court judges you.” She sweeps her gaze across the assembled fae lords. "You have supported the high king. I do not hold you accountable for his crimes. But I hold you accountable for your bigotry against my wild children and turning a blind eye to the actions of your sovereign. Your punishment is to be burdened with the memories of the king’s treachery and its execution.”
She waves the hand holding the ring. Several of the high fae lords clutch their heads, moaning in pain and horror. None of them collapse and stop breathing the way Evan Lords did, but the memories aren’t from the victim’s perspective, either. Still, the Mother’s punishments aren’t gentle. I edge closer to Caileán and wrap my arm around her.
“The Mother’s not going to judge Ruadhán,” she murmurs to me. “He doesn’t leave this grove alive.”
“Yes, my queen,” I whisper back as I touch Luca’s mind to make sure he’s heard the plan. He pushes warm reassurance back to me.
The Mother waits until the high fae stop writhing from the memories she’s inflicted on them.
“Do any of you doubt your high king’s culpability in the murder of the Crow Queen and her court?” The Mother asks.
No one speaks. Several shake their heads.
“Do any of you contest my right to judge him?” The Mother asks.
No one speaks. Not even the druadh and Darkswerds at the other end of the grove.
“Then I—” The Mother begins.
“Mother, mercy,” the Oak King groans. “Mother, show your son mercy. Mother, Mother, mercy.”
The Mother bows her head, and my heart stops for a second time. She wouldn’t, would she?
“A mother is merciful,” the Mother says. “But a mother who forgives her child anything merely facilitates her child’s wrongdoing. Forgiveness without consequence is corrosive. Your bigotry and inflexibility have resulted in your current form. I could leave you to the consumption of your bark. Perhaps any other sentence is the true mercy here. But leaving you for another century or two only permits your evil to spread. It has already corrupted those closest to you.”
The remaining four druadh shiver and huddle closer to their king.
“I cannot excuse your actions, son. I cannot forgive you. I sentence you to death. I sentence your druadh to death. I sentence your Darkswerds to death.”
“No!” Emnyre roars. “I’ve followed orders. I’ve been a good and faithful knight.”
“Orders that you knew were wrong,” the Holly King shouts back, pointing an accusing finger at the knight. “I warned you he was leading us away from the Path. I begged you to question him. He listened to you, Emnyre, but you were too scared of losing favor to add your voice to mine.”
The Darkswerd howls in frustration as he grabs another flaming arrow out of the quiver on his back and looses it at the Holly King.
A dozen hands rise. A dozen spells flare. Aehelwen leaps in front of his king.
The flaming arrow burns through spell after spell as it arcs toward its target. The spells aimed at Emnyre blow him off his feet with a crash of armor.
The arrow hits the shield of Air that Caileán and Luca have thrown in front of the Holly King and his knight. It quivers, stuck in the shield, burning. The tip pierces the shield in a burst of flame.
I stretch out my hand. Yes, I am Cait. I will always choose my teeth and claws over my magic. But I am a Fire mage. Fire is mine to control.
Instead of fighting Fire with Fire as others have tried, I call my Element to me.
The arrow bucks, resisting. The shaft wriggles through the shield. Only the fletching sticks in the shield.
Caileán squeezes my hand and feeds power into me.
Fire unravels from around the arrow in long streamers, arcs across the distance, and circles my hand. It bites into me, this magic that’s not my own. Emnyre’s Fire is angry, bitter, spiteful. It shreds my fingers. Blood drips onto the grass.
I am Cait. I do not flinch. I do not falter.
The last tongues of Fire unwind from the arrow and slash my arm open to the elbow. Rhodes’ hand lands on my shoulder. His healing energy washes through me. It should feel like poison or drowning, to be invaded by an element anathema to my own. But Rhodes’ energy is familiar. His touch is pure comfort. It spreads a soft balm over the wounds.
I flick my fingers at the arrow and it crisps. Ashes flutter to the ground as Caileán releases the shield.
“Mother?” Caileán asks.
The Mother, who made no effort to catch this arrow, turns to my queen.
“Child?” The Mother asks.
“I beg your leave to take my vengeance.”
The Mother’s shoulders rise under her robes then fall slowly. “Yes, young crow. I give you leave.”
I expect Caileán to command the Cait to attack. Instead, she caws harshly. Her sisters join her. Hundreds of metallic cries answer.
The moonlight dims and dapples. The air fills with the flap of hundreds of wings.
The Oak King, his druadh, and his Darkswerds disappear under a swirling wave of blackness.
Caileán leans into me. Rhodes presses against her back and wraps his arm around me. Luca’s a warm tingle in my mind that spreads down my arm as Rhodes continues to heal me.
A sharp elbow finds my ribs. I yelp.
“That’s for your lass there,” Princess Teddy grumbles. I hadn’t even noticed her foursome edge around the high fae, so focused on stopping Emnyre’s arrow. “Just go to war without us, why don’t you?”
Caileán chuckles. “You elbowed your way in anyway.”
“Ha ha,” Teddy retorts.
“ Queen Teddy,” Caileán says, with as much of a courtesy as our hold on her allows.
“Feck off, Queen Caileán.”
Caileán giggles. I know it’s more a release of tension than true humor, but I feel a tickle in my own chest. I reach out and slide my arm around Teddy’s shoulders. She leans into my side.
“The Mother, huh? I don’t remember that from the meetin’. Did I miss a memo?”
“You snooze, you lose.” I shrug.
“It’s after three in the morning,” Teddy grumps. “Once you have kids, you’ll realize how totally unreasonable doing anything at three in the morning is.”
“And she wasn’t even doing the two-thirty feeding,” Darwin says. He’s standing with this back to us, watching the battlefield. He’s dragged his father over and has a death grip on Callan’s arm. The former Thistle Regent looks so shell-shocked that he’s not objecting to his son’s hold.
A thin scream rises through the cacophony of caws and beating wings at the far end of the grove. I can’t tell who it is.
But I know who it isn’t.
I press a kiss to Caileán’s temple. “My queen, I beg your leave to take your vengeance.”
“Together?” she asks.
“Together,” I agree.