Moving through the underbrush silently was not an easy task. Luckily, Niall’s ability to move stealthily—a requirement in his days as a free trader—hadn’t deserted him. He crept through the trees until he was directly behind the northernmost menhir, with a clear view of the altar. Fionbarr was standing atop it, as if he hadn’t moved in all the time Niall and Gareth had been gone—and perhaps he hadn’t. Time moved differently here, so their few days in the Outer World might have been mere minutes to the throng on the plateau.

Keeping low, Niall slipped out of the trees and threaded his way through a huddle of lesser fae.

“Highness.” The feeble croak stopped him. He looked down. Peadar was huddled on the ground amid a cluster of the other Keep staff. Heilyn lay unconscious next to him along with three of the bauchan’s young. Shite, were they still breathing?

Niall dropped to his knees. “Peadar. What’s going on?”

“Bad things, Highness. Very bad.”

“Where’s Eamon? The Queen?”

Peadar pointed one shaking finger. “Yonder. The mage, he did something. Looked for you, he did, but you weren’t there. Turned to us, asking no leave.”

Niall scanned the lesser fae. Nearly every third one was crumpled unconscious. The bloody bastard’s draining them. “Magic not his own” my arse. Not on my watch. “Hold on, my friend. I’ll fix this.”

“You can’t, Highness.”

Niall forced himself to grin in his old insouciant manner—although considering how the blood was pounding in his temples with the rage surging through him, he wasn’t sure how reassuring it was. He gently disengaging Peadar’s hold. “Would you like to place a little wager on that?”

Niall motioned to a nearby duergar. It wasn’t one that he’d drunk with, but that didn’t matter—a debt owed by one was a debt owed by all. “You know who I am?” he murmured.

“Aye. The iron-bellied prince.”

“I’m calling in my favor. You and your lot protect Peadar and the others there, and I’ll call us square.”

The duergar nodded and gestured to his mates as Niall picked his way through the huddled crowd until he reached the barrier. Here, he could see what the altar had hidden from him before: Eamon, sitting with his back against one of the inner ring of bluestones, with the Queen sprawled across his lap, her eyes closed and her face as pale as new snow.

The Kendrick brothers stood guard in front of them. Thank the Goddess Eamon has the support of men of integrity. But what could the two of them do against the rest of the host assembled inside the Circle? Seelie and Unseelie both shifted with unease, as if they were trying to decide which side to take, which path would gain them the most advantage.

One of the binding stones lay on the altar next to Fiaonbarr’s feet. Its outer coating was gone and it pulsed with malevolent life. Fionbarr glared at Eamon. “I tell you again, Eamon MacTiarnach. Give me the stone.”

Eamon cradled the Queen closer to his chest, and Niall could see that her fingers were no longer as white as her face, but brown and mottled, like the bark of a tree. “No.”

“Then you give me no choice.” He gestured to Rodric. “Take it.”

Rodric Luchullain swaggered to the front of the altar, flexing his silver hand, and though it didn’t seem to be very mobile, it sparked like captive lightning. “With pleasure.”

Niall strode forward, breaching the barrier. “Hold up. I believe you were looking for me.”

“Niall, no!” Eamon cried, “Run!”

“I’ve tried that, and it didn’t turn out so well. But it looks like this party isn’t turning out as you’d planned either. For instance, I don’t recall Tiarnach being invited, nor Rodric Luchullain either.” Niall took a stance next to Mal Kendrick, adding another body between Fionbarr and Eamon. “As I recall, they were supposed to be confined to the dungeons. How is it that they managed to escape, Fionbarr?”

The magician looked down his nose. “I don’t answer to you.”

“Who do you answer to then? This blighter,” Niall pointed to Rodric, “who’s failed to usurp two other thrones? You really think he’s up to the task of taking on another? How many times does he need to prove he’s not able to—”

“Jack himself off in a sack,” Mal muttered.

Niall grinned at him. “I think I like you.”

“Can’t say the feeling’s mutual, Niall,” Mal growled out of the corner of his mouth. “Because seriously, why aren’t you dead? For that matter, why aren’t you human?”

“Long story.”

“When we’ve gotten rid of this blighter, I may take care of the death matter myself, to pay you back for breaking my brother’s heart.”

“You’ll have to get in line for that,” Alun said. Although he didn’t take his attention off the group by the altar, his voice held more menace than a troop of redcaps.

“Let’s table that discussion, shall we?” Despite the Kendricks’ hostility, Niall still felt safer at their sides than with anyone else in the inner Circle. “Fionbarr, we need to talk.”

“I have no desire to match wits with you, Niall MacTiarnach.”

Mal gaped at him. “Niall MacTiarnach? You’re a bloody Unseelie prince?”

“Not really the most pressing issue now, is it?”

“I’m going to kill you twice, you bloody liar.”

“I’ll put it on my dance card, which is getting quite full of people who want to do other things with me than dance. Take Fionbarr, here. Why don’t you tell our lovely friends what you intended for me, eh? Not much point in hiding it anymore, this being past the eleventh hour and all.”

Fionbarr’s lips twisted in an evil smile. “You sound as if you don’t need the information.”

“I don’t. But Eamon does. So do the other fae who’ll be affected by your little world-building plans. The humans might have a stake in it too, but I note none of them have been invited to share their opinion.”

“Their opinion doesn’t matter. It’s the dawn of a new age—the return to the golden age of the Tuatha Dé.”

“Fuck me backward,” Mal muttered. “Not this again.”

“What—” Eamon glanced between Niall and Mal. “Niall?”

“I’m afraid your pet mage doesn’t have your best interests at heart.” Niall replied. He glared at the nobles. Some of them looked as bewildered as Eamon, but others clearly knew Fionbarr’s plan. “He’s not offering you the freedom you imagine, you know. Didn’t you hear him? He wants the pure-blood Tuatha Dé to rule. How many of you can count yourselves among that number?”

“I do,” Rodric shouted. “All the Daoine Sidhe do.”

“So you’ll be the overlords, then?”

Rodric glared at Niall. “I’m not some paltry overlord. I am the rightful king, as this proves.” He thrust his silver hand in the air.

“All that proves,” Mal said, “is that you’re a traitorous wanker who’s just as likely to electrocute his own dick as piss into the wind.”

Alun didn’t take his eyes off the group by the altar. “Mal—”

“Aw, don’t make me stand down, Alun.”

“No. You should be precise, however. Rodric Luchullain is an irredeemable, narcissistic sociopath and mass murderer. He’s racist, classist, and motivated entirely by his own self-aggrandizement. Those who imagine anything different are only fooling themselves.”

Despite the gravity of the situation, Niall grinned. “Well, damn, Lord Cynwrig. Tell us how you really feel.”

Alun’s sword point dipped toward Fionbarr. “That includes you, Fionbarr. He’s not Nuada Airgetlám, so don’t expect him to behave in any way honorably.”

Tiarnach scuttled forward and clutched the hem of Fionbarr’s robe in one clawlike hand. “You promised to return my crown.”

Fionbarr glanced down. “No. I promised to crown the true king, not an incompetent half-Fomorian tyrant.” He raised his hands palms out, and a collective moan rose from the lesser fae.

“Enough!” Niall called. He caught a movement in the trees outside the ring of menhirs, a flash of a pale face under honey-gold hair. Gareth. He edged toward where Eamon was sitting. As he’d hoped, Fionbarr’s adjusted his stance to face him, away from where Gareth lurked. “I propose a bargain, Fionbarr.”

“A bargain?” Fionbarr scoffed. “With you? I’m not such a fool. Besides, I need not parley with you. I hold all the cards in this hand.”

Niall pulled the velvet bag out of his pocket. “But you don’t have the other binding stone.”

“Niall, no!” Eamon cried.

Fionbarr’s eyes blazed. “Luchullain! Seize it!”

Rodric barreled toward him, but Niall upended the bag, showing that it was empty. “Ah ah ah. Call off your goon or you’ll never have it—and besides, that’s not how you want me to end, now, is it?”

“Stand down,” Fionbarr ordered. “Where’s the stone?”

“Oh no. I’m not stupid enough to turn it over without a few guarantees.” Niall hoped Gareth was ready, because he was about to play his last card. “I’ll give you the stone, but only if you let them all go. The lesser fae. Eamon and the Queen. All of them.”

Fionbarr sneered. “If you know so much, you know why I’ll not do any such thing.”

“You only needed them because you didn’t have me. Well, I’m here now. If it takes my heart’s blood to save Faerie—” He ripped his shirt open from collar to hem. “—then take it.”