Page 170 of Cathmoir's Sons

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.

---