They couldn’t have most of the gruagaghs present today because too many of the court’s wizards had some long-standing personal quarrel with one or another of the local spirits. For that reason, only Muircan and Kimiad were at the table, neither of whom spent enough time outside the court to have become embroiled in animosities.

The bogans and their various trollkin were absent for the very good reason that it was individuals from among their ranks who were the source of the problem now at hand. Arguing rights or wrongs, or attempting to assign blame, was an impossible task when it came to the Unseelie fairy. Even the most evenhanded of bogans immediately became impossible in what anyone else would consider a reasonable discussion.

Though they could fight, Galfreya thought. Perhaps Tatiana had been hasty in excluding them. It was far too late now for the pointing of fingers. First they needed to survive, and whatever else they might be, the Unseelie fairy were survivors.

But the queen, it appeared, had another course of action in mind.

“As queen of these courts,” Tatiana said, “this is my responsibility. I never condoned the hunting of the local spirits, but I should have done more to keep the hunters in check.”

“Your Majesty,” Kimiad argued, “no one can keep bogans and their like in check.”

Unlike her fellow gruagagh Muircan, whose garb wouldn’t be out of place for a wizened little wizard man in some nursery tale, Kimiad was a tall, attractive woman, sensibly dressed—considering the circumstances—in jeans and a cotton shirt. A worn leather jacket hung from the back of her chair. If they needed to take to the field, she’d be ready, unlike Muircan in his robes and silly pointed hat.

“Regardless,” Tatiana told her, “I must take full responsibility for what they have done.”

Kimiad shook her head. “We’re beyond simply taking responsibility. Those cerva want blood.”

“Which is why I will deliver myself to them for judgment. If the moon is with us, perhaps that will be enough.”

For a moment, no one could speak. Then Swanson, Captain of the Queen’s Guard, stood up from his chair and banged a fist on the tabletop.

“This is madness,” he cried. “I won’t allow it.”

“You won’t allow it?” the queen said.

“Please, your Majesty. Reconsider this—if not for your own sake, then for that of your people. They will take your life, then still fall upon us. But we will have no leader, no rallying point for our people.”

At two o’clock from where Galfreya sat at the table was another of the court’s seers: Granny Cross, young, black-haired and even-tempered, her speaking name no more representative of her appearance than Galfreya’s Mother Crone.