Page 146 of Cathmoir's Sons

The Holly King nods at Emnyre, who looks so sour he might have eaten a whole lemon. The Holly King strides forward, leading our procession between the black-robed high fae, who give way with glowers.

The grove of the Oak King is a green lawn, dotted with white and yellow flowers, that leads to a crescent of five oaks, ancient, gray, and knotty. Silver bells chime in the distance as we cross the grass. The moonlight is as bright as a summer noon, except for its silver quality, touching every leaf and blade of grass with luster. Misty arms weave around the oak bark, stroking, picking off tiny imperfections and letting the bark fall to glitter between the exposed tree roots. The central tree, squat and bare branched, is wound around with so many arms I can barely make out the king. He’s almost fully entombed in the tree: thick bark wrapping him in a sitting pose. All of his exposed skin is the knotted gray of bark. His once-golden hair is barely a haze among tangled twigs. His rack of horns merge into the upper branches.

“Brother,” the Holly King says as we approach.

Black eyes blink open between runnels of bark. The bare branches rising above the Oak King’s head rustle.

“What ill wind blows three crows off their course?” A thready voice asks in a snapping of twigs.

Caileán’s smile is feral. “The same wind that ruffled your leaves a thousand years ago. I see you, Gwyn ap Nudd. I see you bound in your bark while my sisters and I fly free again.”

The oak tree shivers and shifts on its roots.

“Autumn’s harvest feeds spring’s planting,” the Oak King replies.

Silvery threads shimmer through the air between the three Crow Queens, who stand in a rough triangle. The threads cross and recross, knot and ravel, dripping magic into the grass below, which scorches in a pentagram, filling the grove with the scent of smoke.

“The seeds you planted so long ago have certainly borne fruit,” Hraena says. “It’s time to reap what you sowed, kin-killer.”

“Sharp words from sharp teeth. They tear the mirror of the past into fragments,” the Oak King mutters.

“Do the fragments reflect the faces of my murderers?” Caileán asks. “Do you remember their names, Gwyn? Dáithi. Ferran. Odhrán. Dominik Iron Hand. Vile Ruadhán. Do you remember? Because I do.”

“The flesh falls away.” A yellowed leaf, the only discolored leaf in the whole grove, drifts to the ground by Caileán’s feet.

“No, the flesh is reborn and stands before you again,” Didrane says, a low, brassy caw. “The flesh bears the memory of its former form. We remember, Gwyn. We remember your sins. We bear witness and call on the Mother to judge you.”

The grove falls into silence.

A hair-ruffling creaking issues from the oak trees. “The Mother’s memory is moonlight,” the Oak King wheezes.

“No, the Mother remembers,” the Holly King says. He reaches into the magickal vortex between the three Crow Queens. His flesh burns away, leaving a long, fused blade of bone sprouting from his elbow. “Admit your treachery. Confessto your court. Submit yourself to the Mother’s judgment, else this blade will dig through your bark until it finds your shriveled heart.”

A great rushing surrounds us, black robes flapping, silver blades flashing.

A screaming wind pushes the Oak King’s servants back. The black-robed fae are pressed down to their knees while Emnyre and four other Darkswerds slash vainly at shades which circle around them like smoke.

“The Mother cries for justice, Gwyn ap Nudd.” Caileán raises her hands to the moonlit sky. I feel the tug on my power, a strange swirling in my chest like heartburn, and then lightning slashes down out of the clear sky, followed by a burst of rain that soaks everything in seconds. A low moaning comes from the oak trees, which curl away from the rain. “Do the Mother’s tears burn your bark, Oak King? They should.”

“I owe nothing to scattered feathers!” the Oak King protests in a creak of wood.

“You owe me a life!” Caileán’s voice booms like thunder. “You owe me a thousand years with the men I loved! You owe me the children we would have had together! You owe me for the pain the Cait suffered in my absence! You owe meeverything!”

“I owe nothing!” The trees sway and screech. “I am king! I am the Mother’s chosen!”

“Submit to Her judgment or ready your court for war,” Caileán yells back.

“Truth is the first casualty of war,” the Oak King mutters, barely audible over the wind and rain.

“Your lies are thicker than your bark,” Didrane caws.

“Your seeds fall on fallow ground,” Hraena calls.

“War it is,” Caileán says. “And you will burn, Gwyn ap Nudd.”

“Begone, crow,” the Oak King snarls as roots writhe up out of the grass toward us. “The courts are closed to you.”

Leaves slap against my cheeks, cover my eyes. I bat them away and when I can see again, we’re standing in a snow-covered field with steam rising from our feet. Law wraps Caileán’s feather mantle around her shoulders. Aehelwen drapes the Holly King’s silk robes over his king and bends his helmeted head over the king’s ruined arm.

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