"I... I..."

"Speak up, Spindle." Elder Hawthorn sneered at him. "I'd be very interested to hear too."

Mage Coll looked askance, but the old druidess shook her head. "Let's hear it from the mouth of the man himself."

"Hawthorn," Mage Spindle hissed, "what do you know?"

"Enough. But I'd like to hear the details."

Mage Spindle shut his mouth.

"Not talking? I'd hate to be prying it out of ye," said Macnia, sounding conversely enthusiastic.

The gathered villagers were shifting anxiously and murmuring amongst themselves, like reeds in the wind.

Still, Mage Spindle maintained his silence, although he began to shake.

Macnia raised his voice. "People of the mortal lands, whose sun rises and sets, who look upon gods and Aos sí who are forever... How many of ye have envied that word, 'forever', ye jealous, small people?"

The silence was absolute, but it spoke for them.

"I'll tell ye a story - and Mage Spindle, if ye wish to cry 'Hearsay!' I'll be happy for me cousin Rigani to tell her story."

Seeing the druid remained grit-teeth silent, Macnia planted his feet and lifted his hands.

“Nearly two score years ago, a woman walked into a village surrounded by aiteann, by gorse. Alone, she settled in an abandoned house on the village outskirts. She had a fey look to her, needed no-one, wore scars like the stripes of a horse.

“Ye called her witch and wise-woman, ye begged her to cure ye of yer little ills. And when one day she birthed a child, and she turned all her love upon them, ye resented that little thing.

“It weren't hard, were it, Spindle? To convince the suffering villagers that the best thing would be to take away that which had the witch distracted, right? That if they just took her child, everything would return the way it was.”

More and more eyes turned towards the mage. He swallowed. “That's a nice story, Lord. But ye have no proof.”

“Ye'll let me finish it though? I'm told I can spin a grand story at times.” Macnia's even white teeth flashed. Animals show their teeth to warn others. His smile did the same. “So when ye at last got yer hands on the child, none were really interested in what ye did with the poor beggar, just that now the witch had to go back to looking after them, no? Damned fools, of course that changed nothing. If anything, it made it worse. But ye had them running to and fro, when all ye needed was a child with the blood of the aes sidhe to test yer ideas on.

“Ye told the villagers that this child was not human, that it was a spirit that could take their hardships if only the right rituals were performed.

“Darkness. Rope and iron. Ink and blood. A mistletoe crown and a hazel whip – Should I keep going, human druid? Because I know everything. We all know. But that child, they turned away from their birthright, and played 'human', and ye were spared because of it. Ye escaped with yer life when ye should have died with the rest of them, and we didn't hunt ye down only for the wishes of that child.”

All eyes were on Spindle now. The unblinking gazes of the aes sidhe clawed at his face.

“When the village chieftain's son tried to take his own life over what he had witnessed being done, you took the rope marks around his neck and passed them on to that child. Did he finally die with relief, when the village crumbled around him? When a falling rock in the mountains crushed the chest of one of the best hunters in the village, ye had her brought to the cave and ye gifted her wounds to the child too. When the fairest of the young lads was found one day, violated, bleeding to death... Ye passed it all on.”

The watching villagers were still not entirely sure what they were hearing, but a stunned silence had settled over them. Many had tears streaming down their faces, although they could not tell you why.

Lady Goirmín Searraigh's brows had drawn closer and closer together as the words continued, until they were knitted painfully. Arms crossed, she unconsciously clutched her elbows until her knuckles turned white.

The aes sidhe no longer had defined, humanoid forms. They wavered in the visions of the watching humans, dark shapes that shifted and stared with glowing white eyes. They faded into the mist and rose out of it again.

“Congratulations, Mage,” Macnia said. “Ye did it. Ye made an immortal being who can take the hurts of others on themselves, as long as it's willingly given. So what's next? Could it be...?”

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His dogs stirred restlessly and began to howl. The hounds of the Hunt took up the call, and Sunny joined in last, her call more akin to a harsh roar, that shook the listeners inside-out.

“Do ye wish to be immortal, human druid?”

The dogs had fallen to silence. They crowded around Macnia, staring hungrily at Spindle, a multitude of eyes.

“Ye have no proof,” Spindle said again, face wooden.

“And you have no proof that the defendant here is one and the same as that child. So why don't ye go ahead and get telling us us all why ye're determined that they're the same person?”

Slamming the foot of his wooden staff imperiously on the damp ground, Spindle gestured to the man with the silver band around his neck, who stood beside where Lady Goirmín Searraigh sat.

He approached slowly, a stocky man with a large dark red moustache and long hair of the same colour. Silver hairs peeked through. His brown eyes met the Lady's, then Spideog's, then swept over the villagers, before looking to Mage Spindle.

“The current chieftain of Aiteann Village will speak,” Spindle croaked flatly.

The man trembled a little, but he raised his head bravely to look at Macnia. Taking a deep breath, he spoke. “My name is Muir Halfhand. I am the chieftain of Aiteann Village. And... I was once the husband of Lann... the son of the last chieftain.”

“Halfhand... I see.”

Muir seemed to be chewing his tongue. He looked directly at Macnia. “Is it true, Lord?”

“Halfhand, just say yer piece,” Spindle snapped.

Macnia shrugged. “As ye can see, we've simply thrown about hearsay so far. Mayhap if that druid of yours produced some evidence... Well now, he might get a present of some of our own, ye know?”

“Lann was troubled, but he wouldn't tell me why. Nothing would make him speak. One day he said I should pack up and go visit me family in the next village. The look on his face... it's been years, but I remember the desperation. I tried... He all but drove me out the door with a sword!”

Muir screwed his eyes shut. “Great Mage Spindle told me t'was the doing of the witch-child.” When he opened his eyes again, they were watery. “But... I'd never seen Lann so clear-headed as he was then.”

“Halfhand-”

“You shut yer gob, druid!” Muir snapped, rounding on Spindle. “Perhaps ye're right, but there's always been a mighty big strangeness to yer words.”

“Who protects this place, Halfhand?” Spindle hissed. “Do ye have such little trust in me?”

“What ye mean is, stay down like a good dog or the village will suffer, isn't that right?” Macnia laughed. “Just say what ye mean, ye snake.”

“Ye-”

“- have no proof. For sure. For sure. Pray continue, Muir Halfhand.”

But before he could speak, the prone form of the necromancer stirred. He propped himself up on his knees, although his head remained on the ground.

“Lann... They brought him in with the rope still around his neck.”

“Hearsay!” Spindle cried. Everyone ignored him.

“It was one of the last...” The necromancer shuddered and swallowed convulsively. “T'wasn't quick... I couldn't breathe...”

With his fingers, Macnia pulled down the collar of the necromancer's tunic. The thick black rope around his neck writhed plainly against his white skin.

“Yuet... Where's Yuet...?”

“The Ankou's sent them for a kip, Cousin.”

“... Good. Don't let them hear...”

“Alright, alright,” Macnia said, looking amused. Sunny nuzzled against the necromancer and he pushed his face into her side, breathing laboured.

“Who's next?” With a grin, Macnia turned to the rest of the villagers. “Who wants to hear what gifts their relatives brought my lovely cousin?”

“So ye admit yer co- the defendant and that child were the same person?” Spindle announced triumphantly. The expressions turned towards him were summarised neatly by Macnia's, “I would think that's the least of yer concerns, druid.”

Spideog strode forward, clapping a hand to Muir's shoulder. “I have no personal connection to all this, but I came to this town on my wanderings a good score of years back, and the stories made me curious.”

“Imagine,” Macnia said drily, gifting Spideog a lazy smile.

The bhard almost lost his tongue, but recovered valiantly, proving himself worthy of the title of Bhard. “A village that had once been a grand, peaceful place, more prosperous and safe than any other, suddenly became a place of secrets. Overnight, these people gathered here lost contact with their relatives, were turned away at the gates. There were whispers of a witch's curse and the brave druids battling against her... So ye're the witch, Lady?” Spideog asked, looking to Rigani. She immediately looked at Macnia, who shrugged, still grinning to himself.

“Yes, Bhard. I once gave my gifts to this village.”

Spideog walked to her, knelt and pressed his forehead to her hand. “I've met a few of yer people, Lady. Seeing so many at once is... well, I'll admit I'm shaking in me boots here.”

“Ask us not for gifts or curses,” Rigani said, “and ye will be safe.”

“And that's the whole problem, isn't it? If it's as ye say, Lord,” Spideog said, standing and turning. “Then t'wasn't even merely an ask. It was a demand.”

“Ye two-faced viper,” Spindle hissed.

“Like you can talk, ye poxy gowl,” Spideog snapped back instantly. “I'm glad ye don't have any brains, otherwise we might be in some trouble. Did ye have fun, watching us all dancing to the tune of ye pipes?”

“Ye.. Ye... Don't trust them, ye fool!”

“Don't trust...” Spideog looked back at the motley crew of Hunters, at Rigani and Macnia and the Ankou and his entourage. Somewhere in the Ankou's cloak, a small monk slept like the dead.

“Ye right, Spindle,” Spideog said, provoking surprised twitches from the listeners. “The aes sidhe love to play their games. Perhaps this is all a game to them. Perhaps that... that person there did some terrible things. But perhaps... you did too.”

As he spoke, the sound of beating wings began to rise from the east. The wingbeats were dull and heavy, as though some huge creature were laboriously flapping towards them. Nothing could be seen through the spring fog until suddenly, a creature emerged from the grey skies, huge, leonine, with a neatly combed mane of hair and a frail woman sitting on its back.

The sphynx landed without much grace, his human rider jolting.

“The right place, this looks like. We're not late, are we?”