The Iron Crown (The Darkest Court)

by M. A. Grant

  After the last Faerie Civil War, the leaders of the magickal pantheons stripped the shining Seelie Court of its power and tasked the dark Unseelie Court with maintaining the natural balance of the world.

  Ages later, a twisted intrigue throws the balance of all Faerie into ruin and ignites a new civil war.

  Discounted by his family and haunted in the Unseelie sidhe, Queen Mab’s youngest son, Lugh, leads the Wild Hunt on quests across the dangerous Wylds. At his side is his best friend, Keiran, a Viking rescued from death centuries earlier. Between Lugh’s uncanny gift for being in the right place at the right time and Keiran’s power of persuasion, they’re revered across the Wylds—as long as Lugh keeps his true identity hidden from the people of the Sluagh.

  Keiran and Lugh have loved each other for centuries—as friends and brothers in arms. Lugh has long since put aside his romantic love for Keiran to protect their friendship. But with the looming war in Faerie and the ghosts of the dead dogging Lugh’s every move, Keiran realizes there may be room for romance between them after all, if only they can survive.

  Rallying the Sluagh to fight in the looming war between the Seelie and Unseelie seems an impossible task. To achieve it, these childhood best friends will have to free Lugh from the restless souls haunting him and turn the tides threatening not only their growing love, but the balance of life and death itself.

  This book is approximately 103,000 words

  One-click with confidence. This title is part of the Carina Press Romance Promise: all the romance you’re looking for with an HEA/HFN. It’s a promise!

  Also available from M.A. Grant

  and Carina Press

  Prince of Air and Darkness

  The Marked Prince

  Content Note

  Please be aware: The Iron Crown contains descriptions of out-of-control bodily sensations and compromised agency, violent battles, and war, as well as mentions of blood, human sacrifice, intense bodily harm, death and mourning.

  The Iron Crown

  M.A. Grant

  To Matt—where the devil are my slippers?

  With fondness to Scotland and Orkney—you brought Mab’s kingdom to life for me.

  Pronunciation Guide

  Character Names

  Aage—AH-gay.

  Liath—lee-uh.

  Liv—leave.

  Lugh—loo.

  Dubh—dohv.

  Breoca—brekka.

  Jokinen—YO-key-nen.

  Bouchard—booshar.

  Dykstra—dyke-strah.

  Chayka—chai-kuh.

  Kazlauskas—kahz-LAU-kus.

  Boros—borosh.

  Dreher—drayuh.

  Hedda—HEAD-DUH.

  Toke—TOH-kuh.

  Fuad—fwuh.

  Other Names

  seidhr—say-dehr.

  sídhe—shee.

  ljósálfar—yosohl-fahr.

  Sluagh—slow-ah.

  draugr—drow-gear.

  nøkk—neuk.

  Gleann Fo Sgàil—glown foe skahl.

  Eyjar—eye-yar.

  Meðalhall—me-all-hall.

  Krigsmöte—kreegz-MOH-tuh.

  huscarl—huhs-karl.

  Járnhelm—yarn-helm.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Lugh

  I’ve been sitting in this small chamber for hours. The fire crackling in the grate is one of the few luxuries offered me while I wait for Thegn Svend, the leader of the Sluagh, to decide my future. The rest of the room is bare, proof that the Sluagh have never fully recovered from the Faerie Civil War. The plain fabrics and furs here are all created or traded locally in the Wylds. Without recognition from the Courts, the Sluagh will continue to struggle; no other pantheons will trade with them, or recognize their legitimacy. They’re limited to their own ingenuity, hard work, and the rare interactions with humans, which carry a multitude of dangers. This room reads as a dark history of Faerie, one pushed back into the shadows by both the Summer and Winter Courts. One artfully ignored by my mother, Queen Mab.

  Unlike this austere place, the Winter Court’s sídhe is filled with decorative touches, each one purchased at a bloody cost. Mother has spent her immortality carving a legacy into the stone and ice of her kingdom. Recitations of her exploits have spread across pantheons and into the consciousness of humanity itself. She is a force of nature. A legend. I’ll never measure up to her. I have no desire to.

  Everyone forgets that legends grow in the rich earth where bodies have been buried deep. After all, the voices of the dead have fallen silent and no one is left to speak for them. No one but me.

  “Lugh—”

  I glance to my right and find Keiran leaning in through the doorway leading back into the main room of the great hall. The fire and lamplight make shadows dance over his serious expression, and nothing can hide his growing tension. After centuries spent training and traveling together, I can read my best friend with the same ease I read the stars. “Did the thegn ask for me?”

  Keiran’s brow furrows, the lines settling deeper, and he takes a slow inhalation before saying, “We can still leave. He would let us go.”

  He’s right. Thegn Svend hasn’t hidden how little he wants us here in his village’s great hall. He had no idea who we were or my position as a prince of the Winter Court when we rescued him from a boar hunt gone awry late last night. With our dirty clothes and well-behaved mounts, he assumed we were Sluagh passing between villages and invited us back to Eyjar as thanks for our assistance. The truth came out when we ate a private dinner with him while the villagers slept. Learning the youngest son of Queen Mab was eating at his table brought a hard glint to Svend’s eyes that made Keiran check his weapons subtly for the rest of dinner.

  The thegn has every reason to wish us ill. As a child, he watched Mother’s ascension to power in the Winter Court come at a brutal cost. He was a rare survivor, considering most in the Sluagh villages she passed through on her way north were slaughtered by the Seelie chasing after her. Later, he fought to defend his village in the Wylds when the first Faerie Civil War slipped past the Courts’ lands. Centuries of his life have been steeped in blood spilled directly, or indirectly, by Mother’s hand. Nothing I do could ever make up for the pain my family has caused Svend or his people, though I intend to try.

  It’s why I accepted his offer and why it’s time for me to rise now. I abandon the chair I’ve been sitting in as I await the thegn’s command and head toward the door. Keiran doesn’t move out of my way. Instead, he plants himself there, an immovable mountain of a man, and stares down at me. “Lugh,”
he says again, “are you sure you want to do this? There’s no going back.”

  “I know.” I grin, hoping it hides my nervousness, and give him an utterly useless push. “But if I take it, I could finally help.”

  “At what cost?” he asks, his voice as low and gentle as the first few times he asked. “You’ll never be able to show your face, your true face, among the Sluagh again. Wouldn’t that bother you?”

  “Why would it? I don’t want to be a legend,” I reply, shuddering from the memory of sightless faces following me in halls and brushing against me without warning. Mother’s past haunts her still and I will not create my legacy in her image. “I don’t,” I repeat, forcing the waver from my voice. “Thegn Svend is granting me a position that will give me the freedom to travel the Wylds and help anyone I want.”

  “Thegn Svend is offering you a long leash,” Keiran argues. “He doesn’t expect you to help those in the villages. He expects you to spy for him and bring him news of life in the Court. He’s going to use you, Lugh.”

  “I won’t let that happen. We know why he’s doing this, so he won’t be able to take advantage of us.” I cross my arms over my chest and glare up at him, frustrated he can’t understand this. “Working with him is the best way to prevent further bloodshed. The Sluagh have suffered enough at the hands of our Courts, and I won’t let their neutrality be taken advantage of. You won’t change my mind on this, Keiran. Either stand beside me or get out of my way.”

  Keiran’s dark gaze meets mine and holds in a test of my resolve. The sound of feasting from the hall rises and echoes down to us; the entire town has turned out for tonight’s festivities, though they have no idea how momentous the occasion truly is. I’m about to order Keiran to move when he glances away and steps out of the doorway. “He expects you to wear a hood to hide your face,” he warns, jaw tight and voice rough.

  I draw my glamour up in the illusion of a shadowed hood and move past Keiran before he can change his mind. He follows behind me, a furious shadow, as I make my way out of the private chambers and into the central meeting space of the hall. The crowd quiets when we appear and Thegn Svend rises from his seat with raised hands. His crown—a simple band of patterned iron—rests over his brow and catches the light, reminding all who look at him who has the weight of the Sluagh’s support—and their military might—at his back.

  “Our guest of honor is here at last,” he announces to the curious crowd. His words are practiced, theatrical, and seemingly kind, but the greed in his eyes when he watches me makes the back of my neck prickle.

  I avoid looking at him directly and instead focus my attention on the Sluagh around us. No one in the crowd looks too disturbed to find a hooded figure in their midst. A young boy grips a wooden practice sword in a grubby hand and watches Keiran and me with open fascination.

  “Smile,” I whisper to Keiran at my side.

  He grumbles, but must try. The boy’s eyes go wide and his grin grows until we can see all his teeth. At least we have one supporter in this room.

  The thegn has continued talking and I briefly regret ignoring him when he grips me at the elbow and raises my arm high toward the roof. “Without the gods’ interference, my life would have drained into the earth of the forest. Without the gods’ interference, our people would never have been blessed by the arrival of this stranger, who is destined to lead us to greatness.” He turns and looks over the whole crowd, drawing out the drama of the moment, and finally finishes with, “My people, it is time to rejoice, for the gods have given us a new seidhr.”

  Murmurs and whispers break out among the villagers. For the Sluagh, seidhr serve as divine witnesses, the eyes and mouth of the gods, and thegns are considered blessed to be under their private—and often confidential—advisement. It’s a title that offers safety and power, but one that also keeps its bearer from becoming too familiar with the observed. The thegn warned me earlier that there would likely be negative reactions to his announcement. After all, in Sluagh history, the only times seidhr have risen are during periods of war or upheaval. The last rose during Mother’s war against the Seelie, in those bloodiest years when she established the might of the Winter Court and the violence spilled into the Wylds in the process. The older Sluagh here will remember that and see my presence as a portent of struggles to come. The title I’m about to accept is still steeped in the blood of the war my mother waged to secure her power. Even if it takes the rest of my life, I will secure peace and wash those stains clean.

  As we suspected, a man stands in the back of the hall and asks, “Why have the gods sent him to us now?”

  Voices rise in support of his question.

  Another man stands and points at me. “What miracles has he performed to grant him such a title?” His tone is accusatory enough that Keiran steps forward a bit, preparing to shield me if needed.

  Thegn Svend pauses, surprised at the question, and offers back, “He saw my coming death and saved me.”

  A tsk from one of the women at a nearby table. “I’ve saved others’ lives and the gods didn’t see fit to grant me any titles.”

  A few chuckles ripple through the room, though most of the villagers look concerned or frightened. The air is tensing, changing around us, and I worry Thegn Svend hasn’t prepared himself for the possibility of true rejection. This role isn’t one he can simply assign. There must be proof from the gods to convince the people it’s necessary and, no matter my best efforts, unless I receive their support, I will never truly take on the position.

  “Tell us,” a new voice calls out. “Tell us what he’s done!”

  The sentiment is echoed again and again, until the demand grows in volume and speed. What answer could they possibly want? I can’t tell them the truth. I can’t even tell Keiran the truth, and he deserves to know more than anyone. There’s no way to give them what they want. And perhaps that’s what their thegn has hoped for all along. A way to deny me a place here, to force me to flee from a dangerous situation without lifting a finger on his own—

  The moment my failure seems imminent, Keiran steps forward. He lifts his chin and stares down the crowd. Only when they quiet completely does he rumble, “So, you question why the gods would send this stranger into your midst. You question whether he will be able to serve you in your times of need. I stand before you now, a witness to the glorious battles he has fought. This man—this brave seidhr—abandoned his home as a child, determined to change his fate and honor the gods’ will. They lead him with noble visions and he obeys their commands. To please them, he has hunted monsters through the Wylds and proved his worth...”

  My glamour grants me the safety I need to gape at Keiran as he weaves me a legend from the air itself. His deep voice twists and falls around the phrases, coaxing every listener to lean in closer, to share in his familiarity with me, and even I begin to believe him, though I know he’s transforming our childhood adventures into something bigger, something brighter than I ever imagined. The thegn listens with rapt attention, though the tightness of his mouth warns he’s beginning to realize how deeply he underestimated Keiran, who continues to speak with growing passion.

  “When the moon hung above last night, the gods brought the seidhr to your beloved lord. They gave him strength of hand to heft his spear and gut the boar before it savaged its prey. So your seidhr slaughtered the gruesome creature and offered his services to your thegn. Would you deny him this privilege? Would you ask him to ignore your plight when he can foresee the Courts’ greed? The gods blessed your thegn with the wisdom to accept their servant. What of you?”

  A deathly hush blankets the hall. I squirm under my illusory disguise, but Keiran doesn’t move. Doesn’t budge. He stands before the Sluagh and awaits their answer.

  It comes in a shattering call of approval. Their eager support shakes up through the rafters and my fears melt away. Some of the Sluagh begin chanting, “Poet! Poet!” at Keiran, who flu
shes at the proffered title. Thegn Svend smiles and nods as though he agrees with Keiran’s sudden fame and my unexpected approval. When the crowd continues to chant on, he gives up waiting and turns to us. Only now, with his back to his subjects, does his smile slip away, replaced with a bitter glare he fixes on me.

  “You will not bear our helm,” he whispers. “You may have the title, but you are not one of us and you will not forget that truth.”

  It’s a vicious strike, one meant to punish me and Keiran for our success. Denying me the helm the previous seidhr wore means I will never be allowed to forget how different I am from them, how I am an outsider who doesn’t fit into their world. Without a physical helm, I will have to use my glamour to hide my face. Every day will remind me that I am an interloper who is not truly welcome in the lands I’ve grown to love so deeply.

  The thegn’s smile is cruel and vanishes the moment he spins back to the crowd and raises his hands. I have no opportunity to argue with him. I will have to make a choice here and now.

  The hall falls into an expectant hush.

  “I have found you a seidhr to protect us in the coming years,” he tells them. “Do you approve this choice?”

  A short, sharp cry of affirmation.

  “He shall ride through our lands. He shall be our Horned King, and all who see him shall know he bears the gods’ blessing.”

  Another agreement.

  “So we accept the gods’ will and honor their chosen one.”

  The Sluagh in the hall all bow their heads toward me. My mouth is dry, my palms clammy, and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know, so I turn to Keiran and find him on his knee beside me, though he does not bow his head. Instead, he holds my gaze and reminds me in a whisper, “You are their seidhr, and I’m your poet. Prove it to them now.”

  Bolstered by his support, I take a deep breath and face the crowd. They think the gods speak to me. They trust me to keep them safe from the Courts. At least I can manage the second.