Page 169 of Cathmoir's Sons

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.

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