“That’s different. I like Tadhg.”
“A fine man needs a fine horse. Since there are none present, you will have to do.”
Ruairi looked so indignant, it made me laugh. His hands balled into fists at his sides, but instead of hitting me like he so obviously wanted to, he took a deep breath, exhaled a curse, and shifted into a massive black stallion with a beautiful leather saddle ready and waiting. The stitching was impeccable—not that I’d be telling him that.
I caught the horn and slipped my foot into the stirrup, but when I went to lift myself, the bastard moved, leaving me flat on my ass in the feckin’ dirt. “Do that again, and I will end you.”
Ruairi snorted.
I caught his bridle, tugging his head toward me. “And keep your gob shut so no one sees those disgusting fangs of yours.”
We met no other riders as we descended toward the town of gray cobbled streets, gray buildings, and gray skies. Once we hit the mercantile, I tied Ruairi to a post, my smile growing wider the longer he glared. It wasn’t my fault he’d shifted into a horse and couldn’t turn back into a human with all these people around.
Oh, wait. It was.
“You wait here like a good little mule.” I gave his coarse head a pat. “I’ll be back eventually.”
He tried to nip at me, but I was quicker.
The way he stamped his hooves left me laughing all the way to the town hall that doubled as a courthouse. I couldn’t remember being in Graystones for a trial in the last hundred years.
There were Danú here, but they were more careful than those living in other parts of Airren. This town’s strong ties to Vellana and distance from Tearmann made it a dangerous place for us to reside.
The hall was full to the brim with humans come to see the spectacle. I managed to get a seat toward the front, between a youngish man with pockmarked skin and a woman in a hideous white wig that belonged in the last century. All their chatter died the moment a side door swung open and a man with three wobbly chins in a powdered wig and black robes entered, cutting through the aisle to a desk at the very front. A man I recognized: Lady Eithne’s husband.
A moment later, three guards in red livery led a white-haired woman into the room. Her veiny hands had been bound together with iron chains that scraped and dragged along beside her bare feet. Wicked red marks encircled her wrists where the iron had branded her paper-thin skin.
The guards brought her to a lone stool left in a gap between the crowd and desk, forcing her to sit. She hunched forward and started rocking back and forth, the legs on the stool creaking with the motion.
“State your name for the record,” Lady Eithne’s ancient husband chortled, his necks swinging like a turkey’s warbler.
After a moment, the witch responded. “Molls Gardner.”
“You have been accused of witchcraft. How do you plead?”
“Pity the girl from Graystones who loved a heartless Prince,” Molls replied in a dry, crackling voice.
I gripped the end of the bench when her milky eyes found me.
“For the only way to save him—”
“Order! I will have order!” The gavel banged, cutting off her final words. The witch started humming, lost to whatever darkness plagued her mind, the chains banging against the floorboards each time she rocked.
One of the soldiers slammed the hilt of his sword against her temple. Blood oozed from the wound. Molls fell silent.
What comes next?I almost shouted.
“How do you plead?” O’Meara demanded a second time.
The gavel flew from his hand, straight through a window, leaving the humans sitting beneath running like rats to avoid the shards of glass raining down. With the iron chains, the witch should’ve been rendered powerless.
Her only response was another haunting cackle.
“You are hereby found guilty of practicing witchcraft. At noon tomorrow, you will be brought to the gallows and hung by the neck until dead.” O’Meara went to swing his gavel, seeming to realize too late that it was gone. Instead, he slammed his fist against the desk.
The guards hauled her out of the room, passing two more guards bringing in the second prisoner, a trembling grogoch with red hair sprouting through the holes in his breeches and threadbare shirt. He hobbled forward, falling right as he reached the stool.
Not one feckin’ human made any attempt to help him.