by M. A. Grant
None of them are watching me now. They don’t know Svend denied me their physical helm. No one would question if it were to appear on my head while their heads were bowed. They would assume Svend had given me the helm. It would be part of the ritual and left at that.
I reach deep into my glamour’s well of magick and craft a rack of antlers tall and wide, whose spikes point up toward the heavens in supplication, and whose bone will glow warmly in the firelight. They extend beyond my hood, so visible no one will be able to deny my role in the Wylds. I will not be the spare Unseelie prince hiding in the shadows of his cloak, easily discarded by Svend when he thinks his people have forgotten me. I will be the Horned King and I will serve the Sluagh with all my power and heart.
The young boy with the wooden sword is the first to lift his head and risk a glance at me. At the sight of my new helm, he makes a soft sound of amazement, as if I’ve knocked the air from him, and the Sluagh around him look up, noticing the visual proof of my position for the first time. It’s a heavy helm to bear, especially since my magick isn’t as strong as my brothers’ or Mother’s, but its weight and the focus required to maintain it is nothing compared to the reverence in their whispered prayers of thanks to the gods. I close my eyes and let those voices echo through me.
The Horned King rides. Gods bless us, the Horned King rides.
Chapter One
Seven Centuries Later... Keiran
“I hate this,” Lugh mutters again, forcefully pushing a whippy branch out of his horse, Liath’s, path.
I reach forward and brace for the sting that inevitably comes when Lugh releases the branch without warning. It slaps into my palm and I growl against the heated line. Still, better to be hit in the hand than in the face. Or for the branch to hit my poor mount, Dubh, who’s flighty enough from Liath’s ill temper, which mirrors his master’s far too well.
“This is all Sláine’s fault,” Lugh continues to grumble. “Such a hypocrite. Spends centuries lecturing me on duty and honor and assorted fuckery and he goes off and defects with the Seelie’s High fucking Princess. Now Mother’s obsessed even more with the Triumvirate and you know she’s going to sit me down and have the talk with me again, and—”
I ignore most of Lugh’s complaints. He’s been reciting them for days now, since we received Queen Mab’s royal decree to return to the Winter Court. Lugh’s always had a habit of veering off course to complete odd quests, or uncannily finding people in need, which prevents us from getting anywhere in a clean line. And while I admire his dedication to helping the Sluagh villagers who live in the borderlands of the Courts’ territories, showing defiance for the queen’s commands by arriving later than expected is a dangerous game to play.
The world is becoming more complicated. Lugh’s existence alone used to be enough. He was the third son, necessary to balance the Triumvirate’s power in a sustainable way, but never due to inherit anything. Most of the Court’s magick was balanced between Queen Mab, High Prince Sláine, and Prince Lyne. Lugh’s magick has never been as stable or as powerful as theirs, and he struggles to draw on it for anything more than the glamour he uses to create his helm. In a way, his ineptitude is the only reason he’s enjoyed such freedom. But after his eldest brother’s defection to the Summer Court months ago, Queen Mab’s patience for Lugh’s antics and wild ways has lessened and his magickal responsibilities have grown.
The message she sent a few days ago by raven was a brutal reminder of how swiftly circumstances could change. A Seelie attack against Prince Lyne while he was on the grounds of Mather’s School of Magick, a neutral territory for all pantheons, means the rumors we’ve been hearing through the Wylds may be true. A second civil war is coming and Queen Mab is moving her pieces into position while she can. The risk of losing Lugh so soon after his eldest brother’s defection is unacceptable to her. She will corral Lugh in the Unseelie sídhe in a heartbeat if she thinks it would keep him safe and stabilize her Court. She will take the experienced soldiers who ride in his Hunt—Cybel, Drest, and Armel—from him. She will take me from him. Try to, at least. Lugh knows this and has no intention of bringing her wrath down on our heads. He promised to return to the sídhe. He just avoided specifying when.
Now, less than a day’s ride from our destination and incapable of putting off our return any longer, it takes every ounce of my willpower to not push Lugh out of his saddle and leave him for some creature to eat. He’s been stuck in his head since we camped near a stone circle a few days ago. It was a bad night, one full of an unending line of nightmares. Since then, he hasn’t slept, which means I haven’t slept, and he won’t talk to me about what’s bothering him.
Instead, he snarls his displeasure under his breath as we duck branches and give our horses their heads through the worsening undergrowth. The other men in the Hunt have given Lugh and me greater and greater distance as the days progress. They withdraw from us with the same deliberate silence they direct toward lovers’ quarrels observed in Sluagh halls. They know their limitations and when Lugh enters one of his dark moods, it’s wisest to abandon care of him to me. Our centuries-long friendship means I know all his tells and how far he can be pushed. We’ve fallen into something akin to marriage, with good-natured bickering and affectionate patience aplenty. Though at this moment, even my patience is running thin.
“I swear to the Goddess, if Mother thinks she can force me to stay for all the Samhain festivities, she’s going to be sorely disappointed,” Lugh declares. It’s a hollow challenge, one I know he’ll fail at when he’s forced to face Queen Mab in person. I don’t mention that though, unwilling to provide fuel for Lugh’s rant.
Dubh’s ears prick forward. Ahead of us, Liath’s slowed, his head turning to take in something slightly off to our left. Lugh continues to ramble, but I ignore him and try to see what’s caught the horses’ attention.
Ahead of us, on the edge of a small clearing, I catch a flash of movement.
“Lugh,” I murmur.
“No,” he snaps back at me. “I’m not done yet.”
Dubh starts forward when I press my heels into his flank. We catch up to Liath and I reach over to take hold of the reins. Lugh swears when the horses come to a sudden, jolting halt, and turns to glare at me. “Keiran, what’s gotten into you?”
I point and whisper, “There’s someone up ahead.”
Like that, his ill humor vanishes. He leans forward in the saddle, already reaching for his hunting spear. “You take left?” he asks. A question, not a command. He didn’t see what I did, so he’s trusting me to make the call.
By now, the men have caught up to us. Drest already has an arrow nocked, while Cybel and Armel have their spears at the ready. I don’t take my eyes from the clearing ahead, still waiting for another sign of motion. “Cybel and Armel will go left, we’ll go right. Drest, cover us. I saw something.”
“Quiet or fast?” Armel asks, already turning his horse in preparation.
I risk a glance at Lugh. He’s vibrating out of his skin, eager to charge ahead. Best to use that to our advantage. “Fast,” I say.
I forgo my father’s double-handed iron axe on my back and instead draw one of the short axes hanging from my belt. Lugh notices and grins at me, all feral teeth and open challenge. He tilts his head toward the clearing. I nod, and he looses a wild whoop before charging ahead, the rest of us behind him.
We crash into the clearing and fan out, but it’s easy enough to see there’s only one creature there, one unfit for hunting. It’s nothing more than a scrawny, sickly looking faerie who trips and falls over himself in an effort to escape us. It’s a hopeless endeavor. Cybel’s already cut him off on the left, and Lugh lets Dubh and I surge forward to cut off his escape on the right. When the faerie realizes the game’s lost, he collapses to the ground, cowering and covering the back of his neck with clasped hands.
“Well?” Lugh calls to me as he rides closer.
The f
aerie lifts his head and meets my gaze, only to whimper and hide his face again. It’s too late to avoid recognition. I know what he is.
“Ljósálfar,” I spit out. A fucking Seelie. Worse, a Seelie close to the Unseelie sídhe, who’s somehow gotten this far undetected. A danger to the Winter Court and all who reside there. A danger to Lugh. I can’t allow that. “Let’s kill him and get home.”
Cybel and Armel grunt in approval. Drest, who’s hanging back, nods. We’ve always understood each other, especially when it comes to ensuring Lugh’s safety. All Unseelie military retirees, they accepted Queen Mab’s offer to act as tutors and personal guards to Lugh and me. Their service under the queen in the first Faerie Civil War means they know the dangers posed by the Summer Court and its inhabitants, and even Drest, the easiest going of the group, has an arrow trained on the cowering faerie.
If I aim for the Seelie’s neck, I should be able to put him out of his misery quickly enough.
“Wait,” Lugh commands, his head tilting to the side as he inspects the faerie.
I glance at him, shocked at the showing of his mercy. “What?”
“Hear me out,” he urges. This time, Lugh takes Dubh’s reins out of my hand and says over his shoulder to Drest, “Don’t let him get away.” He must get some form of confirmation because he leads Dubh and me farther away.
The distance doesn’t help. Lugh’s so close to me now, his body blocks my view of the Seelie threat. The fervent need to put myself between him and the unknown faerie makes me want to spin our horses. As always, Lugh seems to read my mind and keeps the reins tightly in his grip.
“Listen,” he says. He repeats it until I’m paying attention, then tells me, “We can’t kill him.”
“We have to,” I argue. “How did he get this close to the sídhe? What’s he doing so far from home and why is he alone, without any sign of supplies or possessions?” I clutch tighter at the handle of my axe and wonder if I could still throw it hard enough to kill the faerie instead of just maiming him. “Something’s wrong. I can feel it.”
“That’s exactly why we can’t kill him,” Lugh says. He reaches up and clasps a hand around my bicep, his thumb digging in just enough to hurt and draw my attention back. Something in his canny hazel gaze stops me from protesting further. “Sláine defects and a short time later, Roark is attacked at university. Now we find a lone Seelie in the Wylds. You’re right. None of this makes sense. But this isn’t the time or place to find out why. The best we can do is take him home and leave him to Mother’s and Roark’s care.”
Dubious care, more like. Prince Lyne’s prowess with torture once surpassed the queen’s. The poor bastard we’ve caught will likely face the full brunt of Prince Lyne’s attention. Gods help him if he’s been at all involved with Prince Sláine or the attack on Mather’s. Such information will not take long to coax out.
Still, enough doubt pricks at me that I can’t help but say, “Perhaps he was sent after you. The High Prince knows you frequent these lands. This could be a trap, Lugh, and I won’t risk your safety—”
“Keiran.” It’s a spell, the way he says my name. Centuries of amusement and friendship and brotherhood and affection hold me in place, unable to resist or argue, unable to do anything but listen to whatever it is he has to say. “I have you here. How could anyone possibly get close enough to hurt me?”
Some of the tension in my chest eases when he points that out.
“Besides, you’ve got the belt,” he adds. “Even if he did try anything, you could transform and squish him before I realized anything had gone wrong.”
He waits and I don’t argue. I can’t. Lugh’s reasoning is fine. Actually, his reasoning is better than mine right now. The sight of a ljósálfar so close to home has all the dark memories of my childhood—of the Seelie raid that destroyed my family—churning in the back of my mind. Combined with the lack of sleep, it’s obvious my judgment’s impaired. Lugh’s isn’t. I can trust him. I’ve always been able to trust him.
“Fine,” I say. “But we knock him out and bind him on the trip home.”
“Deal,” he agrees easily. “You won’t regret this. I bet bringing him home as a present will keep Mother from turning her attention to our tardiness.”
I highly doubt that.
Lugh
“Your Highness, welcome home,” one of the hobs says when the Hunt and I ride into the stables of the Unseelie sídhe.
I fake a smile and dismount from Liath. I hate homecomings. But the hobs are friendly and helpful and have done nothing wrong. It’s not their fault that my skin’s already crawling from the claustrophobic embrace of this place.
“Would you like us to care for Liath?” another hob asks me. “The queen has requested news of your presence as soon as you returned.”
Damn. I’d hoped for a few minutes of freedom before she found me. Clearly, there’s no opportunity for escape now. I may as well get this over with.
“If you care for Liath, I’ll inform her of my arrival in person,” I tell the hob, who takes Liath’s reins and leads him to one of the stalls.
Farther away, near the exit into the sídhe proper, a shadow slides in front of one of the torches. A shadow no one else can see. The light blinks out, but I turn away, refusing to look. I have no intention of confronting that shade now—or ever.
The presence of the shades presses heavily on me here, as it always does. They used to follow me when I was a child, begging for my attention. The worst were those drifting behind Mother’s back, the first and most ancient victims of her fight to establish our Court.
Before I learned to keep them out, those were the shades who would visit me at night. They crawled into my head and slid around, finding corners of my mind to settle in until I could avenge them—an impossible task, since my mother was their murderer. They’re the ones who showed me snatches of their deaths at Mother’s hands, who forced me to watch her kill again and again, until her reign and the freedom of her people were secured. I’d wake screaming and crying, so shaken even Roark couldn’t soothe me. I never told him what the dreams were about; I worried he wouldn’t believe me or, worse, would tell Mother. So every morning I faced Mother across the table during breakfast with only my silence to protect me.
She would butter my toast and nudge cups of tea toward me, speaking in even tones of the day’s plans and encouraging me to eat. In those moments, she seemed unrecognizable from the rebel who slit her opponents’ throats, who used her ice magick to torture and maim. At least, she was, until I met her dark gaze. Then the shades would wail and I’d freeze up under her scrutiny because her eyes were the same in the shades’ memories as they were in my waking life. After a while, it became easier to avoid meeting her gaze entirely, which led to avoiding her company.
Over the centuries, she’s tried to bridge the growing divide between us. She indulged me, let me rescue Keiran, let me choose unorthodox schooling to escape the sídhe’s confines, even let me train with the Unseelie cavalry and lead the Hunt instead of taking a political position in Court. It wasn’t enough. Now, it takes a royal command to bring us together. A royal command I may ignore, since the dread of facing her and stirring up the shades still stuck with me grows every moment I’m trapped underground.
“Will you work on Dubh as well?” Keiran’s unexpected request is enough to make me turn to see what he’s up to. I’m surprised to find him striding toward me, Dubh already handed off to one of the hobs.
“What are you doing?” Keiran loves animals and hates Court politics. I have no idea why he’d give up one of his favorite tasks voluntarily.
“We apparently need to meet with your mother,” he says.
“We?” I ask, following him out of the stable.
“We,” he confirms.
His presence beside me makes the thought of facing Mother again a little more bearable. Keiran’s always been able to do that th
ough, make something horrible into something better.
When we were younger and I’d have nightmares, Keiran would sneak me out of the sídhe. In the night’s darkness, with the cool breeze coming off the northern sea, we’d look out and watch the fires dancing in Sluagh fishing villages on distant islands. My curiosity about what life in those villages was like, about how much easier it must be to breathe when you live aboveground always distracted me from the lingering nightmares. Keiran must have understood how much it helped, because if we stood watching for long enough, he’d tell me stories about his childhood. Sometimes, he’d talk for too long and his voice would get raspy and his eyes wet and he’d fall silent, staring out over the water. Then I’d have to tug on his hand and we’d take our blankets and settle down in the heather. Lying side by side, we’d watch the stars dance overhead and I’d tell ridiculous stories about the constellations to make him laugh. The moment we snuck back into the sídhe, Keiran would close up again and I wouldn’t hear about his family until our next secret excursion.
Hopefully we won’t have to do that during this visit. Hopefully once I hand over this prisoner, Mother will be proud enough, impressed enough that she lets us leave again in short order.
“Why do you think she wants to talk to you?” Keiran asks.
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think she’s angry that you’ve taken so long to get home?”
Ahead of us, a shade drifts out of one of the halls. I turn abruptly to avoid it. Keiran, without hesitation, turns with me, adjusting to our new course with little more than a furrowed brow.
“How are you going to explain the delays to her?”
I don’t answer. Mostly because I don’t have an answer.
“Lugh, we should at least discuss this before interrupting her audiences,” Keiran protests.
I continue to ignore him and duck around a redcap with what I hope is a friendly smile. Keiran’s too large and ends up apologizing as he dances around her in an effort to catch back up to me. There’s a little more distance between us now.