“Oh.” Anxiety had her reaching over to grip Marco’s hand. “I didn’t realize.”
“Only speak truth if the taoiseach asks of you. You may refuse to speak. You may leave.” Minga set a hand on Breen’s shoulder. “I hope you won’t.”
She walked over to sit with the council.
“Don’t be nervous,” Marco whispered.
“Easy for you to say.”
“Hey, I saw it, too. He could ask me.”
Not much comfort there, Breen thought, so focused on the chair. The Chair of Justice.
She wouldn’t have called it a throne, though there were faint hints of one, as its back speared high in front of the dragon banner.
Deeply carved, its wood dark and gleaming, it looked ancient and impressive. But, she admitted, not royal.
More …sober.
She imagined her grandmother sitting there, her father.
Her father, she thought again, bringing justice to and judgment on the men who’d helped Odran abduct her.
She looked back at the portraits and felt a new shock as she saw her grandmother—young, vibrant in white. And the pendant, the dragon’s heart stone, the gold chain. The pendant she’d seen in dreams and visions glowed around Marg’s neck in the portrait.
“The pendant,” she began, only to break off when Keegan strode in.
All in black again, with a vest—or maybe it was a doublet—over his shirt. He, too, wore a dragon’s heart stone, on a black cord around his neck.
It gleamed there as the room fell silent, and he walked to, sat in the Chair of Justice.
Catching movement out of the corner of her eye, Breen shot a glance over and saw Shana, dressed in ruby red, take a seat beside a man with silvery hair who patted her hand, then nodded—though his brows drew together when the brown-haired man in black sat on Shana’s other side.
Others came now, down the aisle between the benches.
Breen recognized the little girl—she’d seen her sleeping on a pallet in a dark, locked cell when she’d looked into the balefire on Samhain.
Her hair, walnut brown, fell down her back. She gripped the hands of the man and woman who walked with her.
Her parents, Breen decided. And the elf who’d carried her out of that cell walked behind them.
They took their seats on the first bench. Others followed to fill in the witness area.
Still no one spoke.
Brian came through a door in the front, and Marco squeezed Breen’s hand. Behind him came other men—prisoners, she thought, as their hands were bound, their eyes downcast.
Eleven, she counted—with the spy from the valley among them— led to benches on the side of the room where Brian flanked one side, a woman the other, and Mahon with two more stood behind.
She jolted when Keegan brought down the staff.
“This is the Judgment. I am taoiseach, and I sit in the Chair of Justice. These eleven are accused of crimes against the Fey, against Talamh, against the rules of law so written. I ask the hand of the taoiseach to speak these crimes.”
Tarryn rose, walked out to stand and face the prisoners. She, too, wore black, slim pants, tall boots, a long open coat.
“You who await judgment are accused of the abduction of children. You are accused of blood sacrifice of children and of other Fey. You are accused of the murder of innocents. You are accused of treachery against Talamh in the name of Odran, the damned god.”
Murmurs spread through the benches. Tarryn merely held up a hand to silence them.
“You will, one and all, have the choice to speak to these accusations, to explain, to deny, to rebuke. You will hear the account of witnesses to the accusations brought against you. Before the taoiseach renders his judgment, you will be given the right to speak to your innocence or to plead for mercy.”
She stepped back, turned to her son. “This is the law of Talamh. This is the law of the Fey.”
“This is the law,” he said, and waited until his mother took her seat again.
“Alanis Doyle.” He looked at the little girl, smiled at her. “You are safe here. Will you stand? Your ma and da can stand with you.”
They stood together, hands clutched tight.
“I only ask you to tell your story, and speak it true.”
When she pressed her lips together, her mother leaned down, murmured to her, kissed her cheek.
“Taoiseach, I was gathering the last of the autumn berries, for my ma and sister would bake a pie. And the man came.”
“Is the man here?”
The girl pointed to the second prisoner on the left. “He’s there, and he came and he said there was a puppy, and the puppy was hurt, and would I help. I heard the puppy—I heard it crying, so I went with the man to help. I’m not supposed to go beyond the berry bushes, but …”
“You only wanted to help,” Keegan finished.
“Aye, aye, to help. And then … I don’t know. I was somewhere else, and I had bad dreams. I couldn’t wake.”
“Can you tell about the dreams?”
“The men in the robes would come, and it was dark and cold. The man there with the puppy, and this one there.”
She gestured to Toric.
“They made chants, and I felt sick when they did. And they said, or the one there—not the one with the puppy, the other—said—he said—” She pressed her face to her father’s leg.
“Taoiseach, may I speak for her?” Her father crouched down to stroke her hair. “May I speak the truth she spoke to us? Please.”
Before Keegan could agree, the girl shook her head. Tears spilled, but she turned back to Keegan. “He said on Samhain, we will wake her after she is bound to the stake on the pyre. And then her … her screams will rise as she burns. And the crackle of young flesh and bones will honor Odran.”
She swiped her face with her hands. “I was so afraid. Taoiseach, I wanted my ma to come. I wanted my da. But I couldn’t call out.”
“Anyone would have been afraid, little sister.”
“You wouldn’t. You’re taoiseach.”
“I would’ve been afraid. And can only hope as brave as you are now to speak these words. How did you get back to your family?”
“She came.” Alanis turned, pointed at, smiled at the elf sitting on the bench. “I could see a little, like a dream, and she came and picked me up, and carried me. She ran fast, fast. She’s an elf, you see, is Nila, and talked to me all the while, saying I was safe, and all was well, and saying my name.”
She knuckled more tears away, but continued her story.
“And I wasn’t so afraid, and started to wake. Truly wake. And then I was home, and everyone was crying and hugging me, and hugging Nila, who said she couldn’t stay for ale, thank you, because she was needed, but she’d come back when she could.”
“You’ve done well, Alanis. You may stay, of course, through to judgment, but if you like, there are other children you may wish to meet, and as your parents have agreed …”
Brigid came through another door, a wriggling spotted puppy in her arms.
“This bit of a girl here needs someone to look after her and give her a home.”
Tears vanished in joy as the girl reached for the puppy. “I can keep her as my own?”
“Sure she’s been waiting for you. Show them where they can run around a bit, won’t you, Brigid?”
“A thousand thanks.” As Alanis left with giggles, her father’s hand on her shoulder, her mother turned to Keegan, laid a hand on her heart.
“Bright blessings on you, Taoiseach.”
“And on you.”
He waited until the door closed behind them.