Goddess, Niall, what are you doing? Gareth crouched in the trees, frozen, as Rodric Luchullain grabbed Niall’s arm and towed him toward the altar where Fionbarr was gloating, brandishing his fucking enormous knife. The crowd outside the Circle, all lesser fae or nonhumanoid Unseelie, muttered and keened in distress.

Think, think. He needed a diversion, something to disrupt the ceremony, distract Fionbarr, until he could figure out what he was really supposed to do.

He was a bard, damn it, not a soldier or a mage. He knew nothing about strategy or tactics or monumental magic.

But I know how to sway an audience.

The throng of fae gathered for the ceremony wasn’t any bigger than the crowd at a Hunter’s Moon concert. But they weren’t properly contained in a circle, damn it, so he couldn’t make them dance.

If I can’t make them dance, could I get them all to sing? Their combined voices would make one hell of a distraction. A song, a simple song, one that they all knew. An old song, too, one that called to the heart of Faerie.

The first song. An ode to change, to growth, to rebirth. To the joy of song itself.

He began to sing the Middle English version, since for many, that had been the last time they’d visited the Outer World.

Svmer is icumen in

Lhude sing cuccu

Groweþ sed

and bloweþ med

and springþ þe wde nu

Sing cuccu

The song spread in a ripple through the fae on the outside of the Circle: trows and duergar picked up the ground, a bass line and rhythm as solid as anything Tiff or Hamish could lay down. The brownies and bauchan followed Gareth’s lead on the round, with dryads, bwci, wights, and redcaps joining in. He caught the echo of it from the lake at the foot of the tor, the river that wound through the woods: glaistig, nuckalavee, kelpies.

Inside the Circle, Rodric gestured wildly at Fionbarr, his face contorted in rage and his mouth moving, although his words were drowned by the wall of sound rising from the throats of nearly all the fae present. Fionbarr raised his hands, but he could do nothing against a true bard and the combined fae chorus.

Then Niall took up the song in his strong baritone, despite being restrained by Rodric. I’d recognize his voice anywhere. That booming bass must be Eamon. Niall’s brother. Not my enemy.

The power rose around them, from them, an almost palpable presence on the plateau. Gareth knew, beyond any doubt, that with Gwydion’s harp, he could harness that power and do anything with it—including stopping Rodric’s heart and sending Fionbarr to the flames of the Abyss where he’d chained Govannon. Anything at all.

“Go on, boyo. Do it. Just like Gwydion did. Take what you want.”

This isn’t about what I want. Gareth had to concentrate to sing while arguing with the Voices.

“Then what Niall wants. What your brothers want. An end to Rodric Luchullain and no questions asked. An end to all of them—the Unseelie.”

This is not about me. There’s no longer a ‘them,’ no matter what you want me to believe. The only ’them’ I want to end is you.

So Gareth did it—he harnessed the merest tendril of the combined power and nipped the connection at the root.

He couldn’t be sure, but for a single instant, as they dispersed into nothing, he thought he detected relief from the Voices who’d done nothing but torment him for most of his life. They were trapped too—without Annwn, without Caer Ochren and their bones, they had no anchor but me. He peered up through the rustling leaves. Be free. Be at peace. But be gone.

He glanced down at the harp. This isn’t my battle. It’s ours. Remaking Faerie didn’t depend on the power and desires of any one person, fae or human. Remaking Faerie needed them all, working together as one.

So he set down the harp. And altered the lyrics:

Seelie and Unseelie all

I sing with you

With all speed

In word and deed

We’ll Faerie make anew

As our home too

Not his finest poetry, but this wasn’t the time for cleverness and plays on words. Simple and direct, accessible and singable by all, it fit the tune and fit the spell. The fae nearest to him picked it up, and it spread more quickly than the original round. Miraculously, despite the sheer numbers, the variations in physiology and musicality, no one sang out of tune, their counterpoint precise.

And Faerie answered.

The ground trembled, the stones spoke as the spheres aligned, moving under his feet. Around him, the trees reached up, branches no longer drooping, leaves uncurling.

And inside himself, Gareth felt his aspects becoming one—the self who hated how he’d been trained with the self who loved music so much he couldn’t count the cost; the self who demanded strict adherence to the rules with the self who could compromise and forgive.

Inside the Circle, a deafening crack reverberated through the air. When Gareth finally shook off the residual euphoria of the song enough to be aware of his surroundings, Mal was holding Fionbarr at swordpoint, and Rodric lay on the ground at the foot of the shattered altar, Alun looming over him. Gareth frantically searched for Niall. There. He had Tiarnach backed against one of the trilithons, Govannon’s spear at his throat.

“Niall! Don’t!” Gareth shouted, but his voice was lost in the deafening cheer from a pack of trows.

The spear might not kill Tiarnach, but if Niall spilled his kin’s blood in the Circle, with the spear that Govannon himself had warned him not to use for that purpose—

Gareth sprinted for the Circle, all the fae, Seelie and Unseelie, making way for him with obeisance he didn’t deserve. You did it—all of you did this yourselves. As Gareth sped by, he noticed Eamon helping the Queen to her feet.

“Niall, stop,” he panted as he fetched up next to the remains of the altar. “You can’t do this!”

Niall’s gaze never wavered from his father’s terrified face. “Why not? If it weren’t for him—”

Gareth placed his hand over Niall’s on the spear shaft. “If it weren’t for him, we might never have met.”

“For that, I could almost forgive him. But he told me you were—” Niall’s throat closed up with remembered grief. “He told me you were dead.”

Gareth chuckled, a sound so incongruous in this setting that Niall tore his gaze away from Tiarnach’s wild-eyed face. “He’s not the only one inside this circle who’s bent the truth for his own purposes.”

Niall’s belly plummeted to his feet. After all this, if Gareth wasn’t ready to forgive him . . . “I thought . . . in the throne room, when we—” He stepped away from Tiarnach, letting the spear point fall. “Never mind. It’s all right.” No it wasn’t. It would never be all right, not if Gareth wouldn’t forgive him. “I’m sure Eamon can find enough to keep me busy in the Keep for another couple of centuries so I won’t bother you—”

“Hey.” Gareth closed his fingers on the back of Niall’s neck. “I’m counting on you bothering me frequently, from now until the End of Days.”

“You mean . . .” Niall faced Gareth, not caring when Tiarnach scuttled away. “You forgive me?”

Gareth nodded, his fingers trailing from Niall’s neck, across his jaw, to brush his lips. “Yes.”

“You might,” Mal growled from his spot in front of the altar’s remains, “but I’m not sure I can, nor Alun either. You suffered through all the bloody hells after he—”

“Enough, Mal.” Gareth cast one quelling look over his shoulder. “It’s time for you and Alun to let me fight my own battles.”

“Gareth—”

“I agree that brothers should stand together, and if I need your help, I’ll ask for it. But for this . . .” He held Niall’s gaze, and Niall’s breath stalled. “I’m good.”

“Niall.” Eamon’s panicked voice cut through Niall’s preoccupation with Gareth’s eyes. “Something’s wrong. Caitrìona—she’s not recovering.”

Niall grabbed Gareth’s hand—he wasn’t about to let him go now—and hurried to where Eamon was still kneeling on the ground, the unconscious Queen cradled against his chest. Her fingers had transformed completely into leafing twigs, and only her neck and face were still pale-skinned, although the bark-like mottling was creeping up her throat as they watched.

Niall dropped down next to Eamon, Gareth at his side. “But the Convergence is complete. Everyone in Faerie must be able to feel it.” The surge and sparkle of renewed energy was intoxicating—witness the chain of trow snaking around the outskirts of the plateau, pulling random fae of all races into their earth-shaking line dance, the words of Gareth’s song still on their lips.

Gareth’s song. His grip tightened on Gareth’s fingers, and he brought their joined hands to his chest. “You can do it. You can restore her if you sing.”

Gareth shook his head. “If the combined will of the fae couldn’t—”

“I don’t mean the Convergence song.” He kissed Gareth’s knuckles. “I mean the songs you sang to heal me in the Outer World.”

“I—” Wide-eyed, Gareth’s gaze bounced from Niall to his brothers, then to Eamon, who nodded. “All right.” He choked on a half-laugh. “Maybe I was too hasty setting aside the harp.”

“You don’t need the harp.” Niall kissed Gareth’s lips softly. “Only your voice—and your heart.”

Gareth closed his eyes for a moment, then released Niall’s hand to take the Queen’s. He started to hum, and Niall recognized the same song about talking to the trees that Gareth had sung on their first abortive attempt to reenter Faerie. But then he changed to a minor key and began to sing in Welsh.

Goddess bless, the power in that voice. It swirled in the air around them until Niall could swear it was corporeal, something he could reach out and twine around his fingers. It invaded his chest, filling him with a wild golden joy, lifting his heart until he was convinced he could do anything. But while every fae inside the Circle swayed in time, and even the raucous line dance outside the Circle changed its rhythm, bark crept another inch up Caitrìona’s throat.

Gareth broke off. “I can’t—”

“Bollocks,” Mal said. “You can do anything. I watched you heal your own hand when— Ah, shite.”

Gareth blinked at Mal, the muscles in his jaw bunching. “You saw that? You told Arawn I was a bard?”

Mal nodded miserably. “I’m sorry. I only wanted to keep you safe.”

“When will you and Alun realize I can take care of—” Gareth carded his fingers through his hair. “Never mind. It’s all right. From what I’ve learned lately, it was all part of the elder gods’ plan. How else could I have led the chorus today? But . . .” He glanced at the Queen. “I can’t reach her. There’s something canceling out my voice—like a harmonic that’s wrapped her in some kind of shell.”

“Not a harmonic. A pulse.” Niall leaped to his feet and strode over to where Mal was looming over Fionbarr. “It’s the binding stone, isn’t it? This is your doing.”

Fionbarr bared his teeth, seeming unconcerned about Mal’s sword at his jugular. “Yours too. If you’d taken responsibility for once in your life, sacrificed for the good of all—”

“Good of all?” Niall grabbed the front of Fionbarr’s pretentious robes. “Don’t you mean the good of you? And it looks like I wasn’t the only sacrifice you’d planned. Stop the spell.”

Fionbarr glared at Niall. “Why should I? Magic has its own momentum, and since you and your histrionics blocked the second half of the binding, you’ll need to live with the consequences.” He glanced toward the Queen, a sly smile on his face. “Although you might want to move her to a more convenient location. Once she takes root, there’s no going back.”

Niall let go of Fionbarr and spun to face the Kendricks. “We have to find the stone and neutralize it.”

Mal eyed the pile of rubble that used to be the altar. “How do you propose we do that?”

Niall dropped to his knees. “We dig.” Gareth started to rise, but Niall motioned him to stay put. “Not you, love. Keep singing. Leave the stone to us.” Niall began to sort through the debris.

Fionbarr cackled. “What do you imagine you can do, even if you find it? It’s beyond any fae intervention now, even mine.”

“We’ll see about that,” Niall muttered. But Danu’s tits, the altar had been huge. It would take hours, maybe days, to unearth the tiny stone. He’d need an army of—

“Master?” Peadar touched Niall’s elbow. “If you will permit?”

Niall’s eyes widened at the flock of lesser fae at Peadar’s back. “You’re all right? All of you?”

“Yes, Highness. And willing to serve our true Queen and King.”

“Then let’s do this.”

Peadar beckoned to his fellows, and the lesser fae moved forward in orderly rows, each carefully taking a single piece of the shattered altar, then moving aside for the next rank. Even though their burdens were small, there were so many of them that the pile diminished amazingly fast.

They’d cleared only a quarter of it before a brownie cried out, backing away and pointing to the sullen glow of the binding stone. Niall reached out to take it.

“Don’t touch that!” Mal barked. “It’s a bloody Druid’s Glass. If it can turn the Queen into a tree, who knows what it’ll do to you?”

Niall rounded on him. “How are we supposed to neutralize it if we can’t even touch it?”

“You can’t touch it. But a druid can.”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, we don’t have a druid in attendance, so unless you’ve got one in your pocket—”

“It happens I do.” Mal sheathed his sword. “Bryce.”

“Bryce isn’t here.”

“No.” Mal pressed his fist to his chest, over his fae center. “But he’s here. And that’ll do.” He caught the attention of a nearby Daoine Sidhe and pointed to Fionbarr. “Watch this blighter, would you?” He joined Niall, staring down at the stone. “Being a druid’s familiar isn’t a one-way street, boyo. I get as much out of it as I give.”

Niall cast a harried glance at Gareth, who was still crooning over the Queen. The bark had grown halfway up her throat. Alun had joined Eamon, his muscles bunching as he held the Queen’s legs away from the ground. Oak and bloody thorn. Her feet were throwing out shoots, attempting to root—through Alun’s thighs. “Then you’d better get as much as you can—right bloody now.”

Mal’s eyes popped wide. “Shite. Alun—”

“Don’t worry about me,” Alun said between clenched teeth. “I can handle pain. But hurry. If the bark covers her mouth and nose—”

“Right.” Mal flexed his hands. “We need to geld this bloody thing somehow. If I had the least fecking clue—”

“Pitch,” Niall said, earning a what-the-blazes-do-you-know-about-it glare from Mal. “Bryce said the other stone was coated in it.”

“Grand. You happen to have a bit of that in your pocket?”

“No, wise arse, but a forest-dwelling fae could fetch it instantly. A dryad or a—”

“Master?” Heilyn popped up at Mal’s elbow, their children clinging to their shoulders.

“Bauchan.” Niall saluted Heilyn, who bobbed their head in response.

They held out a palm, offering Mal a ball of black goo that smelled strongly of tar and pine. “Will this answer?”

Mal shook his head with a low chuckle. “Always on the spot with the necessities, you are. Brilliant, mate. Thanks.”

Score one point in his favor—he’s not an arsehole to the lesser fae.

Stooping, Mal used the sticky pitch to pick up the binding stone, then shoved the stone into the center of the ball with a twig. As soon as the stone was completely encased, he accepted a maple leaf from Heilyn, wrapped it up, and stowed it in his belt pouch. Niall shivered—he wouldn’t want the miserable thing that close to his own bollocks, not after it had been activated. Apparently Mal was made of sterner stuff.

Behind them, Eamon cried out and Alun uttered a muffled curse. Ah, shite. Were they too late? Niall turned, fully expecting to see his brother bowed in grief, but instead, Eamon’s smile was as bright as a new day—echoed as it was by the Queen’s. She was conscious again, and though she was still decidedly tree-ish, the bark was receding, her fingers once more pale and graceful, her feet no longer attempting to burrow into the earth through Alun Kendrick’s flesh.

Gareth continued to sing, his voice rising in strength and volume, and the Queen’s recovery accelerated until she was fully fae again.

Eamon clutched her to his chest and buried his face in her hair. She raised a barely trembling hand to his cheek, and it was as if every fae on the plateau held their breaths as Gareth’s final note died away.

“Damn,” Mal murmured. “I still can’t get over it. Her Majesty in love. You’d never have caught her petting Rodric Luchullain that way. She—shite.” He tensed, scanning the fae who were clustered around Eamon and the Queen. “Rodric. He’s scarpered. Alun, how could you—”

Alun stood, wincing, blood staining his breeches. Good thing his husband is an achubydd. “I had a choice to make, Mal, as did you. Besides, I note that Fionbarr is missing too.”

“He is? But I told that bloke to—” Mal ran a hand through his hair. “Shite. Handed him right over to one of his minions, didn’t I?”

Niall moved past Mal to stand next to Eamon. “Tiarnach’s gone as well. I suppose we all made our choices tonight.” He smiled tiredly at Gareth. “I can’t say I’m sorry, although I don’t trust those bastards not to make trouble again.”

“You’ve all done more than I could hope, so please, no self-recrimination.” Eamon helped the Queen to her feet.

She tottered a moment before Peadar handed her a staff to lean on. No, not a staff: Govannon’s spear. She blinked at it once before planting it firmly in the earth. “The traitors may have escaped, but that is of little consequence. We all live. Faerie lives. As we are united, we can await another day for justice.”

Gareth cleared his throat. “As to that . . .” He unslung Herne’s horn from his shoulder and held it in his palm for a moment, head bowed. He slanted a glance at Niall with a wry smile, then held the horn out—to Eamon. “We have another option, Your . . . Your Majesty.”

Niall caught his breath. If Gareth was willing to accept Eamon as King, as someone worthy of fealty, as someone to trust with Herne’s fucking horn, then he must truly have forsaken his Unseelie prejudices. And truly forgiven me.

Eamon took the horn. “Is this—”

“Herne’s horn.” The Queen ran a finger down its burnished length. “If we sound this, we call up the Wild Hunt. Those we mark as its prey will not escape. Your father, Eamon—”

“I know.” Eamon caught Niall’s gaze and raised an eyebrow. Asking permission. Niall nodded. “But I’ve given him chances enough. Let Herne deal with him, with all of them. Traitors and conspirators are his rightful prey.” He raised the horn to his lips and blew a long, echoing note.

Before it died away completely, a disturbance arose in the woods. All the fae who’d been dancing scuttled away, creating a clear path to where Eamon stood with the Queen. In the shadows under the trees, Niall could make out a tall figure, taller than Eamon and made taller yet by the antlers on his head. His eyes glowed gold, and behind him, the underbrush was lit with dozens of pinpricks of red light—his hounds, the Cwn Annwn, awaiting his command.

“You summoned me.” Herne’s voice, impossibly deep, reverberated in the Circle. “Such things are not done lightly.”

The Queen stepped forward, Govannon’s spear still in her hand. “We call you forth in full knowledge of what we ask.”

Herne tilted his head back as if scenting the air. “Treachery in the air. It calls to me, more than the horn. But . . .” He leveled his amber gaze at them. “A former king? My powers do not extend so far.”

Niall stepped forward to stand next to the Queen. “Her Majesty holds the answer to that. A spear, forged by Govannon himself, to strike true against any adversary.”

The hounds growled until Herne raised a hand. “Govannon hasn’t forged a spear since the death of Dylan of the Waves.”

“He did this time.”

The Queen flipped the spear with practiced skill. “Will you accept our charge?”

When Herne nodded, she flung the spear toward him. He caught it easily. “You’ll see me again when the deed is done.” He turned and vanished into the trees, followed by the hounds. A moment later, the pack bayed, the sign they’d caught scent of their prey.

Niall gripped Eamon’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. I know you loved him in your way—”

“You mistake. At one time, I felt I had a duty to him, but that ended the day he condemned you.” Eamon glanced at the Queen. “My love and devotion is granted only to those who deserve it. For now, we have a new world to celebrate, and it begins with a handfasting. My lady, if you would?” He held out his hand, and she took it. The two of them paced in a stately procession down the path opened by Herne’s arrival, the assembled fae falling in behind them.

As Alun limped after them, Mal took his arm. “Looks like you could use a little of David’s attention. Shall I fetch him for you?”

“I’d like to say I can handle this, but if you wouldn’t mind.” Alun glanced at Gareth. “Perhaps you could request Hunter’s Moon to join us too? That is, if Gareth is willing to perform at the ceilidh?”

Gareth wrapped his arm around Niall’s waist. “I’d be honored. But now that the gates are realigned, I’ll fetch them myself. You two go on.”

Niall leaned into Gareth’s embrace—an embrace offered with no lies between them—until they were alone in the Circle. Eamon had found his partner, Gareth his full confidence. Both of them had claimed their true place in a united Faerie. Someday, maybe I’ll figure out what my true place is.

“Will you help me?” Gareth’s breath ghosted against Niall’s neck. “To collect the band?”

“I’ll come if you like, but they’re your mates.”

“Yes, but the last time I saw them, I was a dick. It didn’t end well. I could use a little backup.”

Niall smiled and brushed Gareth’s cheek with his knuckles. Maybe Faerie is irrelevant. We’ve forged our own true place—with each other. “I’ll always have your back, love. Now let’s go bag ourselves a band.”