“WHAT NOW?” Spindle yelped, his face immediately turning green with regret as an assortment of eyes turned on him.

Mounted on Melhih, Lady Herela approached curiously. “What manner of creature are you? A lion-man?”

“I could be a man-lion,” the sphynx suggested. His piercing dark eyes found the necromancer. “Oh there you are. Where's your little darling?”

“'ad a good sleep, enfant?” The Ankou had opened his robe and was steadying Sou Yuet as the monk took deep breaths, eyes roaming the scene with increasing clarity. Their eyes lingered on the necromancer's changed appearance.

“Sir Sphynx, you received my message. Thank you for travelling all the way here.” Sou Yuet bowed, a little unsteady.

“Someone, I was nagged by.”

The woman still looked unwell. She stood, leg pressed to the sphynx's side, one hand buried for reassurance in the long hair of the mane that coated his shoulders. The Hunters stared avidly at her, creeping slowly closer, fascinated.

Seeing that Spindle was on the verge of mental breakdown, Lady Goirmín Searraigh spoke up for the first time. She had a deep voice that carried well. “Who are these people? What bearing have they on this matter?”

The sphynx eyed the nearby humans with a barely contained hunger. Then he shrugged and looked away. The woman's grip shifted in his mane. “Not me.”

Sou Yuet addressed Lady Goirmín Searraigh. “The defendant and I became acquainted with this lady during our travels. She has experienced something similar to the... procedure that the defendant experienced, but more recently. I was hoping that she would be gracious enough to speak on her experiences.” They turned to the woman, who was staring into space with overwhelmed alertness. “Lady... If... If you can, please speak. I know it took a great deal of bravery to come here today.”

His whole demeanour suggesting disinterest, the sphynx muttered to her, apparently translating. She turned to him, falling to her knees and pressing her face to his golden-furred side. Sou Yuet could see part of her dark eye, wide and unblinking.

The drizzling rain died down, then increased abruptly, before petering off into scattered droplets once more.

She began to speak.

Everyone craned forwards, even those who could not understand her words.

Her voice was soft and brittle like old cloth, left outside in the rain and sun until only the last faded fibres remained.

“She was a slave,” the sphynx said matter-of-factly, as the woman paused. “For one of the rich merchants in the city of Lygos. She... Hm, no, that's not important.”

His claws dug into the damp earth.

“Lygos was preparing for the harvest. The custom was to choose a scapegoat to get rid of the evil spirits before gathering. She was chosen as she was a slave and also ugly.”

Sou Yuet could almost imagine the necromancer raising an eyebrow at this statement, but he was currently curled on his side beside Sunny, face again hidden.

“Mortals are very stupid.” The sphynx shook himself, listening to the woman's continued whispers. “She said that they gave her ceremonial clothes, and dragged her around the outside of the city. She felt the evil spirits and bad thoughts latch onto her as she walked. Then at the gates, all the people threw stones and spat at her. She lost her name and had to leave, taking the bad spirits with her.”

The woman shook, eyes darting around at things only she could see. Her breaths were shallow and rapid.

Actually... It seemed that the Hunters could see them too. Their heads moved in unison, disconcertingly.

“Incroyable,” the Ankou said, watching with them. “She is still mortal, but the way the spirits have latched to 'er... Very similar to your situation, Cousin.”

Spindle's eyes shone with irrepressible and greedy curiosity.

“I would like to examine her,” Elder Hawthorn said.

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A brief exchange between the sphynx and the woman resulted in her nodding reluctant agreement. With the young Mage Coll close behind, Elder Hawthorn approached, her jaw tightening with resolve as she came closer and closer to the sphynx. He grinned at her, sharp teeth in a human mouth.

Placing a hand on the woman's shoulder, Elder Hawthorn closed her eyes. The staff in her hands had pale bark and huge, cruel thorns. It shivered and let out a strange, inhuman cry, and suddenly, snagged on the thorns, were indistinct humanoid forms. Mage Coll lightly whipped them with the long, flexible twig she carried, and with faint wails, the forms disappeared.

The woman gasped, sweat pouring down her face, clutching at the sphynx. His eyes glittered as he stared at the two mages.

“I see...” Elder Hawthorn said at last, retracting her hand. “So that's how it's done.” She looked to Macnia and the necromancer now.

“Hawthorn truly is the greatest snare of the restless dead,” Macnia said with an air of satisfaction, then added to Mage Coll, “but I'm hoping ye don't try the same trick with me cousin. It's the only thing keeping them alive, after all. Put yer hazel switch aside.”

At these words, Mage Coll recoiled, her youthful face blanching in horror. She stood back as Elder Hawthorn approached the necromancer, the hem of her white robes whispering across the dead grass. Sunny growled warningly.

“Sunny...” The necromancer's voice was barely a whisper, but the si dzi quietened immediately, although her small black eyes remained fixed on the druid.

Elder Hawthorn laid her hand on the necromancer's bowed head.

She reeled back immediately, black shapes rising like smoke from the death-witch and pursuing her in her flight. Mage Coll went to rush forwards, but she had barely taken a step when ivy vines rose up protectively before both druids, and Lady Herela and the Ankou had grabbed the shadow-like forms like they were scruffing kittens.

Flexing their fingers as the last traces of pale green light faded, Sou Yuet looked askance at Elder Hawthorn. Before she could speak, Spindle, made brave by the barrier of ivy, interrupted again, “This has nothing to do with-”

“This proves it is possible to attach the misfortunes of others to a single person.” Elder Hawthorn cut him off ruthlessly. Her steely eyes fell on the necromancer. “That number of ills and evil spirits... A normal person would be dead. But a child with aes sidhe blood... I knew ye were afeared of death, Spindle, but not to this extent.”

“What are ye accusing me of, Hawthorn?” Spindle snapped. “There's no evidence here that I have anything to do with this.”

“Lucky for you,” Mage Coll piped up, her eyes narrowed. “There might not be any direct evidence, Spindle, but it's looking mighty bad for ye. And what about the rest of ye?” She swung around to the other druids, who had been watching in nervous silence. “All of ye just standing there!”

“If anyone's suspicious, it's you, Hawthorn.” Spindle seemed to have regained his composure. “Ye're the one whose magic relates most to departed spirits.”

“Don't turn this on me. Ye can try to shed yer tail, lizard, but ye're not getting away. Where were ye, nigh thirty years ago? The Lady here can attest I was at her uncle's court at the other end of Iriu. But you?”

Spindle sneered. “Ye're all missing the point here. This trial was raised to bring justice to the deceased. Ye've as good as admitted that thing here was that child back then, the one who crushed the friends and lovers and relatives of those gathered here today. Crushed them to dust,” he appealed to the villagers.

The necromancer seemed somehow so small on the rain-soaked grass. The drizzle had re-liquified the dried blood on his scalp, and it traced down the side of his face. Sou Yuet could not look away. To look away would be a betrayal of the trust and love that they had built together.

Turning his head slightly, the death-witch's green eyes met Sou Yuet's black ones.

“I'm calling a witness. Witnesses,” the necromancer said, hoarsely.

Spindle scoffed. “Have ye not had enough of crouching out in the wet? Are ye a duck, or a slug, maybe?” His mocking words abruptly ceased with a prickling under his foot. Somehow, he seemed to have stepped on the thorns of a tiny gorse.

Sou Yuet surreptitiously slipped their hands back into their sleeves.

The necromancer's prone form shook. Slowly, slowly, they pushed themselves into a kneeling position, head down. Sunny whined and nudged them.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

“Are ye admitting that ye-”

“I'm... I'm sorry.”

The tattoos writhed.

He let out a snarl like a bear, eyes suddenly glowing white. The blood on his skin disappeared in an instant, then more seeped forth from the suddenly re-opening scars all over him.

“I'm calling ye, spirits. My blood calls for ye. Restless dead, I know ye're here. Come and speak now.”

“NO!” Spindle could not move. He found himself detained by both Spideog and Muir, two men who had far more strength than he did. He made to swing his staff at them, but it burst from his grasp, a fully-grown tree sprouting from within. The rough-barked, multi-trunked form sent the mage sprawling. In moments, a spindle tree stood in the centre of Aiteann Court.

Around it, moving dream-like between the villagers, who fell back, muffling cries of alarm or horror or longing, drifted shades of the dead.

Muir had reached down to grab Spindle once more, but his hand stalled as a young man floated past him, legs uselessly dangling. The mage took advantage of the hesitation to seize handfuls of ivy.

Elder Hawthorn bowed her head respectfully as the spirits streamed past her, forming a circle around the necromancer. Like the keoi-leon spirit he had once raised, they were silvery and dark, otherwise devoid of colour. Their spectral blood was a shining dark grey. Their eyes fixed on the bleeding necromancer hungrily.

Sunny whimpered and growled, rising up bravely. She visibly relaxed as a small hand patted her side.

“Good girl, Sunny,” Sou Yuet said. “You're right, let stop pretending to be impartial. Please excuse me, Madam.” With their other hand, they beckoned to the staff that Elder Hawthorn carried. There was a tiny cracking sound, a thorn dislodged from the wood, and suddenly a line of thorns rushed between the ghosts, circling around the necromancer, Sou Yuet and Sunny, and rising as a low, protective hedge.

Sou Yuet lowered their hand, and placed it around the necromancer's shoulders.

“I don't know what'll happen next, Yuet,” the death-witch said.

“That's okay. Whatever it is, I'm here. I'm sorry I didn't step up sooner.”

“Ye've done plenty. It would have been nice to... Ah, doesn't matter now.”

The spirits had drifted right to the edge of the hawthorn, ruined faces avid.

“Can I lean on ye a little, Yuet? I'm tired.”

“I'm strong. Lean on me.”

The necromancer shifted his weight. Sou Yuet didn't even flinch. They could feel the larger man trembling with blood loss and exhaustion.

The villagers watched on with hope and horror and trepidation. The aes sidhe all bore similar expressions that seemed to suggest the whole farce had been going on for long enough. The sphynx and the woman sat in their own little world.

The necromancer said, “Tell us, spirits, about the child in the cave.”