Gareth’s eyes went wide in the flickering amber light of the flames. “That’s not what I— Please, Niall. Tell me why you stayed.”

Now he wanted to hear Niall’s side of the story? For a musician, Gareth’s timing sucked. “We can hash it all out later, all right? For now, help me get him out.” Niall scrabbled at the coil of chains with the broken sword, wishing for something with a longer handle—but Govannon had never, in all the years Niall had spent as his minion, forged a single spear. The heat traveled up the metal far too quickly, warming the hilt until Niall was forced to drop it with a clang against the stony cave floor. “Shite.”

Gareth’s forehead wrinkled in a frown. “You’ll never get him out that way, not if he doesn’t want to come.”

Niall whirled on Gareth, the sense of urgency, of time slipping by, underlined by the now continual tremors in the stone under his feet. “Do you have a better idea?”

Gareth’s mouth quirked. “Happen I do,” he said, letting his accent broaden, the same way he’d done in the past when he and Niall had masqueraded as Yorkshiremen for some lark or other. He moved back until he was standing next to the anvil, motioning Niall to join him.

Niall glanced at Govannon, who was still crouched sullenly in the flames. What do I have to lose? He joined Gareth, who’d begun to drum a soft cadence on the anvil—nothing too loud or heavy, since the anvil wasn’t the ideal drum—but a definite counterpoint to the rumbling in the ground.

Then he began to sing. Welsh words, ancient words, words that stroked Niall’s spine with a longing that he found hard to resist—the desire to approach Gareth, the solace he promised, the peace at the end of the day.

Niall edged toward him, swaying to the rhythm of Gareth’s fingers on the iron, to the timbre of his voice, the ache of the melody. Mesmerized, he barely registered a clink and drag of metal, the stentorian breath of the god behind him. Then Gareth’s voice died away, and Niall’s heart cried out at the loss.

“There,” Gareth whispered.

Coming out of the music coma, Niall realized that Govannon’s breath wasn’t emanating from the fire anymore, but from right beside him, above him, next to Gareth, as if he too had felt the siren pull of that voice.

Of course he did. Gareth was singing to him. I was simply caught in the fortunate undertow.

“You.” The manacles on Govannon’s wrists fell away and clattered to the ground. “The only one who has ever sung that song was my brother, Gwydion.”

“Not the only one. He taught it to me, because I too have brothers that I love.”

Govannon laid a huge hand on Gareth’s shoulder, dwarfing him. “Thank you. I had not thought to hear it again, with him vanished to the stars and me banished to the depths.”

“You’re welcome.”

Niall watched as Govannon’s flesh healed under his eyes. Guess godly flesh is an advantage. I’ll have to tell David—

No. Regardless of whether he and Gareth were able to repair the damage to the spell, Niall had no illusions that he’d ever be welcome again in the Kendrick family. If he was lucky enough to survive the mangled Convergence—if any of them were—he’d stick to the Keep, out of Gareth’s sight, out of his life. I protected him from my father for two hundred years. I can protect him from myself for the rest of time.

But first, he needed information. “Govannon, who chained you? I didn’t think anyone had the power.”

“A spell from the before-time. The magician had it, although he has no notion of what it is he does.”

“The magician. You mean Fionbarr? I thought— Isn’t he the architect of the Convergence spell?”

“He thinks he is. However, the working was laid before ever the Tuatha Dé set foot on the land. But he seeks to subvert it. To move backward, not forward as was intended.”

“You mean Bryce was right? This is the evolution the elder gods expected? Are the lesser fae to be elevated too?”

“Elevated?” Govannon studied Niall as if he were speaking an unknown tongue. “What mean you by that? Their size is one of their advantages—they can live in burrows and bowers that larger fae cannot.”

“Right. But I mean granted equal rights. Not relegated to second-class citizenship.”

Govannon’s bushy eyebrows drew together. “Class is a political notion, not a natural order. All fae were created to serve the gods and assist the druids in preserving balance. Greater fae are larger. Lesser fae are smaller. That is the only difference.”

Niall blinked. “Wait a minute. You mean ‘lesser’ and ‘greater’ refer to size, not rank?”

Govannon peered down at him as if Niall were a complete idiot. “Yes. And in longevity. The smaller bodies burn energy faster and so must be replenished and replicated.”

Gareth shared a wide-eyed stare with Niall. “I think the whole class hierarchy of Faerie just imploded.”

“I knew it.” Niall punched his palm. “I knew the lesser fae were more than servants and chattel. But why doesn’t anyone know this?”

“The truth can be lost over the ages, or hidden, when there is advantage to be gained.” Govannon sighed, stirring eddies in the dust. “Time is long, Niall MacTiarnach. When the elder gods retreated, abandoning their creation to spin on its way alone, they left the door open for change, and for corruption.”

“You know . . .” Gareth took a step closer to Niall, “I’ve often wondered what concessions the Queen had to make to forge the Unification treaty. She was certainly willing to sacrifice you for its sake. I wonder if she sacrificed the fate of the lesser fae as well.”

Niall thought of Tiarnach, retreating further into power-madness and paranoia over the years. Suppressing the truth was certainly to his advantage. He remembered the revolutionary murals painted by lesser fae in their Keep hallways. Maybe that was how they kept the memory alive from generation to generation, as their freedoms had slowly been eroded.

“If yon magician,” Govannon said, “continues on his path, if he is able to complete his abomination of a spell, he will do more harm than he knows, subvert the true order, the true balance. To accomplish what he wants, he must power the spell with magic not his own.” He eyed both of them with something like sympathy. “His first intent was to use you.”

Niall’s shoulders slumped. “So Bryce was right. The spell requires a god-touched fae.”

“Not only god-touched, but one who had shown loyalty and steadfastness. You were his first choice.” Govannon’s gaze slid sideways to Gareth. “But not his only one.”

Fear skated across Niall’s skin. “No. If the only way we can fix this is with my sacrif—”

“You don’t understand. His spell is not intended to converge the spheres and heal Faerie—it’s intended to break it apart. He is a fanatic. A follower of the old ways.”

“If that’s so, why did he chain you in the fire? You’re one of the old pantheon. For that matter, why did you stay in the fire when you could have walked out at any time.”

“A spell. I had to be called out by one of my own.” He inclined his head at Gareth. “Which the bard did, by singing my brother’s words. I doubt the magician expected such a thing. As I am of Dôn, not Danu, to him, I am a false god, one to be cast aside if he is to return the Tuatha Dé to power above the ground.”

“In the Outer World?” Gareth asked. “That makes no sense. Ireland isn’t the same as it was back then. How does he expect to overcome modern weaponry, governments, technology.”

“How else? Magic, and the ascendance of the supernatural.”

Gareth frowned. “That would never work. The population of the Outer World is vast, more than he could ever hope to control.”

Govannon merely looked at them with something like pity, and the other shoe dropped. “The spells last summer. The ones Bryce tried to stop, the ones that threatened the Outer World water supply. He plans to reduce the population. Return it to the levels of the ancient times.”

Niall paced across the cavern and back. “But that would be a slow process. If he’s intending this coup to take place now, tonight—”

“The destruction of Faerie will cause devastation across the Outer World,” Govannon rumbled. “More than you can imagine. He thinks to strike two hares with one arrow—eliminate the inconvenient folk while bringing his own chosen sovereign to power.”

Gareth looked up. “How do you know all this?”

Govannon narrowed his eyes, and for the first time, Niall realized what it must have been like to face him in battle. “First, the two who took your place here did not bother to hold their tongues in front of me. Second, the mage could not resist gloating, after his trick trapped me in the flames.”

Niall stopped mid-pace. “There’s no possible way he could have done that, I don’t care how powerful a mage he is. No way—”

“Unless you allowed it,” Gareth said gently. “Niall spoke of your guilt. Believe me, I know how it feels to betray a relative.”

Niall cringed, remembering Gareth’s words about how he’d treated his brothers, all because he’d believed Niall human and kidnapped. “I think this may be irrelevant in any case. It sounds like we can’t simply waltz in and allow him to power the spell with my heart—”

“No!” Gareth’s shout stopped Niall in his tracks, and for a moment, Niall believed that Gareth might still harbor some feelings for him that hadn’t been tainted by his deception. “I mean, it would be counterproductive anyway.”

Of course. It has nothing to do with me. “As far as we know. But what other choice do we have? Bryce said the calculations for that spell were incredibly complex. We can’t just invent one on the path between here and the Stone Circle.”

“You don’t need a spell,” Govannon said. “You have a bard. A bard trained by my brother, with all the old songs only my brother knew. And those songs can only be truly accompanied—”

“By his own harp,” Gareth said, a defeated slump to his shoulders. “But I don’t have the harp anymore.”

Niall met Gareth’s gaze. “Where is it? You had it in the Keep before the feast.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw you there. I had . . .” Niall swallowed, acutely aware of Govannon’s dark gaze on him. “I had only that morning found out you weren’t—that Tiarnach hadn’t murdered you. I wanted to talk to you, but . . .” He shrugged. “I didn’t think it would go well.”

Gareth’s laugh was tinged with hysteria. “No. I don’t imagine it would have, given the later events.”

Niall forced himself to walk over and face Gareth. “I should have done it anyway. I’m sorry I didn’t then. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth from the beginning. But—”

“But you paid for that too, Niall MacTiarnach,” Govannon rumbled. “Every year, for two hundred years, you refused the King’s demand that you kill the bard. Every year, you chose the lash over that betrayal. Surely if I’ve atoned for my sin, you have as well.”

“Wait a minute.” Gareth grabbed Niall’s arms in a steely grip. “Do you mean to tell me your brother brought you here to—”

“No.” Niall sought Gareth’s eyes, willing him to understand. “You mustn’t blame Eamon. He was only doing as I’d asked. When you and I were together, I had been exiled from Faerie until I completed a task. I had a brilliant notion of how to fulfill that task without . . . without—”

“Without killing me?” Gareth said gently.

Niall nodded. “But I couldn’t get back into Faerie on my own. I needed Eamon’s escort. He tried to intercede, as I understand, but—”

Gareth clenched his eyes shut. “Goddess, I’m an idiot.” He raised shaking hands to his face. “The first time I met Eamon, he was a monster. Someone told me—was it Alun?—that he’d been cursed for disloyalty to the King.”

“He tried to convince Tiarnach to listen to me. Apparently Tiarnach wasn’t in the mood for conversation that day—or any day for the last two centuries. But the first thing Eamon did after deposing the King was to come here and release me. So please, don’t hate him. He saved me.”

“And you saved me.” Gareth stepped closer. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m not interested in your gratitude, Gareth. And I’m not interested in having this conversation now.” Gareth jerked at the harshness of Niall’s tone, but didn’t push for more, thank the Goddess. “You had the harp at the feast. Where is it?”

“I hid it in the ceilidh glade in the Seelie realm. I had intended . . . I planned to sever my connection to the One Tree, to live in the Outer World as a mortal. Because I couldn’t—”

Govannon stood; at his full height his head nearly brushed the jagged teeth of the rocks on the roof of the cave, although Niall knew for a fact he didn’t always appear that tall. He must want to make a point. “Niall MacTiarnach is correct. This conversation must wait. For now, you must hurry before the mage adjusts his spell to drain all the lesser fae.”

Niall gritted his teeth. “Right. Let’s go.”

“Hold on a moment.” Gareth glared up at Govannon. “I have no idea what I’m supposed to do here. Can you give me a few more instructions?”

“No.”

Gareth threw up his hands. “Wonderful. I could end up doing just as much damage as this rogue magician.”

“You are a bard. With the harp in your hands, you will know what to do.”

“And what is that, exactly?”

Govannon peered down at him, a perplexed scowl on his face. “Heal, of course.”

Niall grasped Gareth’s arm, but released it at his startled glance. “Sorry. I . . . ah . . . if it makes a difference, I have full confidence that you’ll manage it. You’ve never given a performance yet that didn’t reach the audience in exactly the way you intended.”

“You didn’t see last night’s concert,” Gareth muttered.

“But that proves my point; you were angry and you didn’t want to be angry alone. Gareth, I may not believe in much—I’ve always been the fellow who’s tried to prove the opposite point just out of obstinacy—but I believe in you.”

Gareth glanced down, his throat working, but he nodded.

Niall nodded too. “Good. In the meantime, I intend to make sure that Tiarnach and Fionbarr and Fionbarr’s candidate for the new dictatorship don’t have a chance to repeat this little experiment.” He strode over to the pile of scrap metal in the corner and began sorting through it. He’d seen a better attempt at a sword in here somewhere when he’d been searching for something to free Govannon with. Now where—

“Those will not do.” Govannon picked up the bellows and handed them to Niall. “I will forge you another weapon. One that will strike true. One to save Faerie, not destroy it.”

Niall took the bellows. “Do we have time for this?”

“Do you wish to hurry off to your own execution? With no weapon, you’ll have nothing to hold off the mage while the bard weaves his spell. Would you leave him vulnerable, all for want of a little patience?”

Niall glanced at Gareth, who looked away. Was it the fires in the forge, leaping higher now that Govannon was back at his post, that washed Gareth’s cheeks with red? “Of course not.”

Niall took his old post and worked the bellows, falling back into the trancelike state that had allowed him to toil all day, every day, for so very long. As Govannon worked, the weapon taking shape in his hand, Niall faltered for one moment.

A spear.

The one thing the god had never forged since the day he’d killed his nephew. Perhaps he’d come to his own healing after all.

The hiss as Govannon plunged the spear point into the barrel of water next to the anvil startled Niall from his work-trance.

“That was . . . fast,” Gareth said, his eyes wide.

“Was it?” Niall glanced down at the bellows in his hands, at the spear point cooling from molten gold to red to black. “I didn’t notice.”

“Well, it’s the fastest I’ve ever seen, and I used to hang about in the armory and smithy in Annwn whenever I got the chance.”

Govannon handed the spear to Niall. “This will find its target always. So be very certain before you cast it that you know at whom you aim.”

Niall accepted it, testing its perfect balance. “Don’t worry. I know who needs to die.” Tiarnach, first and foremost.

Govannon closed his hand over Niall’s on the spear’s shaft. “I should tell you, Niall MacTiarnach. This spear will never kill one of your own blood, so if you have that thought in your head, dismiss it.”

“But—”

“You should think twice and thrice about whether you wish to shed any blood yourself at all. By right, you are neither judge nor executioner. Perhaps you should leave sentence and punishment to those entitled to such duties.”

Niall glared up at the god. “I’ll do whatever I need to do to save my brother, the Queen, Peadar, and the rest. If the spear won’t rid the worlds of Tiarnach, I’ll do it with my bare hands, but I won’t let him threaten Gar— anyone again.”

“You cannot save the worlds with the blood of kin on your hands. It cannot be you who strikes the blow.”

Govannon reached up into the dark recesses of the cave and retrieved a curved horn, strapped with gold-studded leather. Niall blinked. That hadn’t been there before, nor in the years he’d spent in this very cavern—and he’d had plenty of time to study every single cranny.

Niall accepted it reverently. “This . . . this is Herne’s horn.” With this, I could summon the Wild Hunt. And once on the trail, Herne and his hounds never fail to bring down their prey.

“Yes. If you would rid the worlds of those who mean them harm, leave the punishment to him.”

“I’ll— Thank you.” Niall wasn’t sure whether he’d be able to resist ending the men who’d planned this kind of destruction, but the more options the better.

“Go now.” Govannon turned his back on them, staring into the flames.

“If we go—” Niall approached him, but didn’t touch him. One didn’t touch a god without permission. “You won’t go back into the fire, will you?”

He glanced down, his lips easing. Not quite a smile . . . rather the retreat of solemnity. “No. Besides, if you fail, I shall be destroyed quite sufficiently without any further effort on my part.”

Lovely. Nothing like the rock-solid confidence of a god to send them merrily on their way.