The day dawned with a grey spring drizzle, the ground slowly metamorphosing into a cold mud.

“The weather is truly always horrendous here,” Lady Herela grumbled. “I remember now why I never visit.”

“It's not always so bad,” Sou Yuet said distractedly. They jumped when Lady Herela's skull appeared directly in front of them.

“Just sleep, child. It will be over by the time you wake.”

Sou Yuet smiled, the dark bags under their eyes creasing. “I don't think I could, Lady.”

They were moving up the long grey hillside towards the Aiteann Court, the monotony of winter's dead grass relieved by the first hints of green spring growth and tiny flower like bright jewels. Through the mist, Sou Yuet could just make out the shapes of the standing stones.

The people around the monk seemed ill at ease, and Sou Yuet wasn't sure why. When they tried to question the ankoù, he simply shook his hatted head wordlessly and smacked the korikaned on the hand as it tried to pull on the tail of one of the Hunt's steeds.

“Better I 'it you now, than you be kicked.”

As they grew nearer, the shapes of other people began to appear between the stones.

Rigani snorted angrily. “They've started early. Quickly, child.”

Sou Yuet broke into a glide, although they had to touch the ground more frequently than usual, their whole body trembling with exhaustion. Still, it was only a few moments before they were standing in the Court, and what they saw almost made them pass out from anger.

The mages of the Aiteann Court stood in a circle around the necromancer, who lay curled on the ground at its centre. His hair had been carelessly chopped very short; Sou Yuet could see patches of dried blood. With his face pressed into the ground, he shook incessantly, although whether from cold or something else, the monk could not tell.

Sou Yuet cleared their throat.

Most of the mages turned at the sound. Sou Yuet bowed and said, “Apologies for my lateness. Has the trial already begun?”

A scowl crossed Spindle's face, but the other druids greeted the monk with varying levels of enthusiasm.

“Where are the villagers?” Sou Yuet asked.

“The details of the criminal's actions are too much for them to be hearing,” Spindle said harshly. It was Elder Hawthorn's turn to scowl.

“But this trial regards their... well, how are the villagers related to this matter?”

“They're relatives,” said a familiar voice, and a familiar face emerged with it. Spideog's sunburn was much improved in the Iriu climate. His orange moustache jumped like a small, angry animal. “And I agree, they should be here to see justice! What is this about, Mage Spindle? Where is the local lord? The senchaid? What kind of trial is this?”

“Ye think yerself smart, Bhard Spideog, but when they say the words of the poets and the druids are dark, do not think us equal. The bhards mislead with pretty phrases. The druids speak beyond human understanding. Stand back.”

Spideog's face flushed an ugly red. Whatever he had been expecting, it had not been this.

“What is a senchaid, Bhard Spideog?” Sou Yuet asked mildly. “And why should the local lord be here?”

“Trials of this magnitude will always be needing the presence of the local lord, at least, and a historical recorder, a senchaid,” Spideog spat out, before Mage Spindle could silence him. “And the bhards are brehon too, druid. Together we keep the law. Don't ye start pretending ye're better than us.”

“I agree that Lady Goirmín Searraigh should be here,” Elder Hawthorn interjected casually. She and Mage Spindle exchanged looks of barely veiled hatred. “As for a senchaid, the Lady has one in her employ, does she not? Let us summon them.”

“The trial has begun, Elder Hawthorn,” Mage Spindle hissed. “It is too late to-”

“Well, it will take some time for the villagers to arrive,” Sou Yuet said mildly. Their tongue felt loose and unstable, so they spoke slowly. “If we request their attendance now, and send a fast horse to the local lord, I'm sure it will be fine.”

“I hate to be saying this, Sir Monk,” Elder Hawthorn admitted. “But Lady Goirmín Searraigh lives in a town over a day's ride from here, even with the fastest horse. We-”

Sou Yuet raised a hand politely. “Let me deal with that, Elder.”

Lady Herela's voice crept into the monk's mind. We shall return before the sun has fully risen. And Sou Yuet's keen hearing picked up the sound of several horses galloping away.

The young Mage Coll tripped on down the hill towards the village to gather the villagers, leaving Spideog, Hawthorn, and Spindle glaring at each other. The remaining druids stared into the fine rain.

A small muscle twitched under Sou Yuet's eye. They pressed a cold hand to it, wishing for some fleeceflower.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Spindle turned his attention on the prone necromancer. “Why did ye do it, death-speaker? Why did it have to come to this?”

“You are aware of the circumstances?” Sou Yuet asked.

“I could ask ye the same,” Spindle retorted. “Don't tell me ye believe ye know this thing? Ye've observed it for a year, so there's trust between ye?”

His accent grew stronger the more excited he grew.

Sou Yuet blinked mildly. “Do you know them?”

“I know their kind,” Spindle responded, quickly and proudly. “Ye cannot trust them, ye cannot thank them, ye cannot apologise to them. Ye cannot give them yer name, ye cannot accept their gifts. Cold iron will hurt them, and they will hide their true face under a glamour.”

Sou Yuet paused. They mentally considered each one of the warnings that Spindle had given, and came to a conclusion that brought a somewhat self-conscious smile to their face.

The expression on the Grand Mage's face grew dark, and his grip on his staff tightened.

“What happened to... the accused?” Sou Yuet asked conversationally, trying not to look at the crumpled shape in the centre of the circle. It took everything they had not to rush to the necromancer's side and carry him away.

“T'is tradition to shear the hair of criminals,” Elder Hawthorn said.

“Ah, yes, the same is done in the Four Kingdoms. What I meant was, they seem...”

Crushed? Destroyed? Not once had the necromancer looked around at the sound of Sou Yuet's voice.

I'm here. Pang Yau, I'm right here.

Another name almost made it's way to their lips, but they swallowed them back down.

“It was found this way when we removed it from the cave.”

“The cave?”

The cave.

Sou Yuet planted their feet and breathed. They felt as though they would fly away into the grey sky, light-headed. Rain trickled down their face.

The first villagers were beginning to crest the hill, Mage Coll at the fore.

“Well then,” Sou Yuet choked out. “It's only fair that the accused's family is also present.”

Spindle sneered. “Another delay? Ye wouldn't happen to be trying to stall for time, would ye?”

As a person of Iriu, Spindle was a man of the forests, of the trees. Wood energy was in his blood and his bones, and when Sou Yuet turned on him with eyes sparking pale green light, he somehow knew this small, unassuming figure could pluck power from him like plucking a leaf from a branch. And as the Great Mage of the Aiteann Court, he was both afraid, and angry.

“Then it's lucky for you,” Sou Yuet said cordially, “that I have already brought them.”

Rigani emerged from the fog.

The villagers had gathered by now, and they had walked straight into a situation beyond their comprehension. They huddled together fearfully as one by one, fey figures appeared. Tall Rigani, her eyes pure black and her large teeth bared. The Hunters, their red-eyed horses and snarling hounds like shadows. The Ankoù, with the korikaned and Bugul Noz hanging off his dark sleeves like naughty children. Sou Yuet had even tried to reach the sphynx and the scapegoat, but there simply wasn't enough time.

Surely, this would be enough.

“W...What is the meaning of this, monk?” Spindle demanded, the effect ruined by the shrillness of his voice.

“Child,” Rigani called to the necromancer. “My child.”

The figure in the circle stirred feebly.

“Lady, ye -”

Rigani's roar blasted Spindle into silence. “Ye dare to tell me what I can and can't do, mortal!”

The villagers flinched.

“M... Mam...”

The necromancer had a voice of dust and bloodied thorns. They remained pressed against the ground, their words crawling across the resurrecting grass.

Sou Yuet swayed, but held themselves upright.

“Do ye be the accused's mother?” Elder Hawthorn asked carefully.

“Indeed,” the Ankoù spoke up, eyes glowing like two stars under his hat. “And I am their cousin.”

Sou Yuet walked shakily to the necromancer, crouching down far enough away that those watching could see that they were not touching. Still, if the monk reached out their hand, their fingers would graze that curled back.

“Necromancer... Pang Yau. Can you hear me?”

“... Yuet...”

“Your family is here. Your mother and your cousins. You... Whatever you decide, they're here. What do you want to do?”

The sidhe waited silently, patiently. The humans shifted fearfully, anxious in their confusion.

The necromancer twisted his head, very slightly. One eye sought Sou Yuet's face. It was horribly bloodshot, but the bright green iris glowed faintly.

“I... want to live... in this world, Yuet. Not in... some high off place... Help... Help me end this...”

As Sou Yuet listened, Spindle gestured to one of the other druids and murmured something in Adhmaid. The monk caught part of the words, but could not understand them. They glanced over at the gathered sidhe, who were watching Spindle narrowly, but also made no indication that they had heard exactly what he had said.

Spideog, on the other hand, stepped quickly before the mages, blocking their paths. He spoke angrily in Adhmaid, and everyone's attention swung towards him. Unable to understand what was being said, Sou Yuet pressed their hands to the ground, and the grass below the necromancer grew lush and soft. The monk felt something trickle from their ear. They wiped away the blood and stumbled back to where the sidhe stood, swaying. A black horse sidled casually up beside them, and they leaned against it, gratefully, no matter that it was cold as stone.

“We cannot wait for Lady Goirmín Searraigh's arrival,” Spindle was arguing. Other than Elder Hawthorn and Mage Coll, the other druids muttered in agreement.

Spideog was fuming. “A case like this... The High King himself should be here! And yet ye cannot wait for the Lady?”

“This has gone on enough, bhard. Let us begin!”

“Yes, let us begin.”

Into the Court trotted Lady Herela, her massive steed snorting, with two more of the Hunters in tow. On each horse, behind the Hunters, sat two humans – a nervous-looking rotund man clutching a bag with sheets of planed wood, and a pale-faced but grim-looking woman, her golden hair shot with silver. Judging by the quality of her clothing, this had to be Lady Goirmín Searraigh.

Indeed, as she slid down to the ground, the villagers all bowed low, and the druids of the Aiteann Court nodded respectfully. She returned their salutations as her pale eyes took in the strange assembly. Seeing the sidhe, she bowed as deeply to them as the villagers had bowed to her.

Rigani strode forwards and examined her carefully, nodding with satisfaction.

“Now that the Lady is here,” Spindle said darkly, through apparently gritted teeth. “May we begin now?”

Spideog looked ready to say something else, but he closed his mouth and looked away.

“Then-”

“”

These words meant nothing to Sou Yuet, but evidently Spindle understood them, for he turned pale as the youthful Macnia strolled between the stones, his dogs excitedly rushing to greet the Hunters' hounds and Sunny. At this moment, the mage that Spindle had spoken to earlier came scuttling back, his hands filled with ivy leaves.

The gathered sidhe stared at the leaves in the druid's hands, who looked to Spindle for direction. At a few terse words from the Grand Mage, he hurriedly spread them before Spindle.

Macnia's handsome face split into a smile that promised nothing short of murder. “I am here as the accused's airechta. The trial can now begin.”