The Iron Crown (The Darkest Court)

by M. A. Grant

  “We don’t need to discuss anything,” I call over my shoulder. “We hand him over, Mother praises us, and we get out of here before nightfall.”

  “It doesn’t—She won’t—” Keiran huffs and the hall fills with percussive sounds of his weapons hitting against his heavy leather armor. He’s running to get to me. The hall’s clear ahead. A light jog sounds like a good change of pace.

  “Lugh, don’t you dare,” Keiran growls.

  Fuck the jog. I need to stretch my legs anyway. I’m not at a full-out sprint, but it’s nice to let the decorations on the walls slip past me in a blur of color as I hurtle toward the corner of the hall. I have to reach her before Keiran reaches me.

  Keiran closes the distance in a final desperate effort and stretches for the back of my collar. His fingertips graze my neck, but I dart out of his grasp and get around the curve in the passage first. A pair of redcap guards wait by the doors and seem surprised at my panting arrival.

  “Prince Lugh,” one of them says to me, “you’ve returned?”

  “So it seems.” I lean over and rest my hands on my knees, sucking in air while trying to seem vaguely royal. I mean, this isn’t the worst thing they’ve ever seen me doing while I’m at home. This time I’m not chasing a feral piglet at least. “Is Mother inside? I’ve got a rather urgent matter to speak to her about.”

  Behind me, Keiran mutters about my damned informality. I don’t know why he gets so grumpy when I don’t refer to my mother by her formal title. It’s weird to think of calling her Your Royal Majesty or some other honorific. Mother’s not effusive with any of us, but she’s not carved from ice alone.

  “I’ll announce your arrival, Your Highness,” the guard says. He glances at Keiran. When no opposition comes, he turns, opens the door, and slips inside.

  Keiran steps up beside me, breathing heavily. I gather my pride and what little air I have left in my lungs so I can stand tall and grin up at him. “So glad you could make it, old man.”

  His answering smile is more of a grimace, his teeth bared and eyes pinched with irritation. “Call me that again and I will break both your knees.”

  “You’d threaten a prince?” I look over at the remaining guard, who’s pointedly ignoring us in favor of staring straight ahead at a blank wall. “Did you hear that?” I ask him with faked outrage. “I think he threatened me.”

  Keiran steps closer. I freeze from the heat of his body at my back and the tickle of his breath against the hair at my nape.

  “You think that was a threat?” he whispers. “You have no idea.”

  “Why are you so worried about this?” I ask him. I keep my voice pitched low, so the guard can’t hear us, but don’t turn to face Keiran. I’m not sure I could look him in the eye without doing something stupid. Even after all these centuries, I can’t escape the lingering guilt of knowing I’ve pushed him and our friendship too far before. He stayed with me despite that, and I have no intention of crossing that line and leaving him no choice but to walk away for good this time.

  “Despite your best efforts to convince others of your stupidity, I know you, Lugh,” Keiran says. “You’ve been scheming how to use this to your advantage. It won’t work. You can’t manipulate the queen,” he continues. His worry deepens his voice, leaves it grinding out of his throat, and when I don’t argue, he continues with feverish intensity. “If you try to, she’ll outmaneuver you.”

  “I’m not trying to manipulate her,” I lie. “I’m trying to help my Court. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do?”

  “Lugh—”

  “Your Highness.” The guard’s returned. He waits for me to take a half step forward before announcing, “The queen will see you both.”

  Now I risk a look at Keiran. His expression is stormy and his jaw tight with apprehension.

  “Hey,” I say softly, “stop worrying. We’ll be in and out, easy. Trust me.”

  The doors before us open, and we step inside. The throne room is mostly empty except for a handful of hobs and redcaps, which I’m grateful for. The fewer witnesses there are, the less formal Mother will be. I’m not in the mood to put on a show.

  Mother isn’t either, it seems. She sits comfortably on her throne, her elbow braced on the arm so she can rest her chin on her hand. She doesn’t tilt her head to look at us; only her eyes shift away from the redcap at her side to settle on Keiran and me in a brief acknowledgment. Then the moment’s over and she returns to her original focus.

  “Continue, Nickgut,” she says.

  Nickgut had stopped speaking when we entered, but he carries on gamely. I don’t catch much of what he says. There’s something about the smiths and something else about trainings, but by the time we’re within true hearing distance, Mother’s waving him off and promising to speak with him later.

  I stop at the foot of the throne, Keiran at my back, and offer Mother a ridiculous bow. “Mother, your favorite youngest son has returned home.”

  Her unchanged posture manages to make her look bored, albeit in a regal way. “You’re my only youngest son, darling.”

  “And I’ll be your favorite after you hear what we’ve brought you.”

  She sighs and waves the rest of the fae in the room away. “It’s not another animal, is it?”

  “No,” I promise as the doors open and close in the distance. “It’s better.”

  Normally I’m able to coax some kind of smile from her. Today, her expression shifts between blank neutrality and gentle frustration. The frown tugging down the corners of her mouth warns her temper could slip into genuine bad humor at any moment.

  She finally shifts her position and flicks a finger at my shoulder. “I don’t have time for games. Keiran, be quick.”

  I sense, more than see, his bowed head and his voice is pitched for polite recital when he says, “We discovered a banished Seelie on the edge of the Wylds and have brought him back to you.”

  “A Seelie?” Mother asks dryly. “This far north?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Keiran says.

  “Such an auspicious discovery. I’m amazed at our good fortune.” She sounds far from amazed. “And he has been brought here, alive, for interrogation?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty, thanks to Prince Lugh’s decision.”

  “Not yours?”

  “No, Your Majesty. Your son stayed my hand in defense of your Court’s boundaries.”

  Keiran’s formality grates against my nerves. There’s no way Mother could be looking for actual answers to these questions. I’m not sure what silent struggle they’re having, but it’s gone on long enough. I nudge at Keiran with my elbow. He ignores me. Mother ignores me as well.

  She eyes Keiran and her frown is fully in place now. She should be happy with us for bringing back such a valuable prisoner. This is not going to plan.

  I clear my throat and offer Mother my brightest smile. “If he’s alive, you and Roark can surely coax something from him. We just wanted to tell you why you’d have an unexpected guest before we headed out again and—”

  “You will not be...heading out.” All her distaste for my casual remark is conveyed in that long pause.

  No. This isn’t right. I open my mouth to protest, but now it’s Keiran’s elbow in my side, interrupting my train of thought.

  Mother continues, “This timing is too convenient for my tastes. You and the Hunt will remain in Court until Roark and I have finished our interrogation. Only then will we discuss the possibility of your return to the Wylds. And your stubborn refusal to return home when ordered.” My stomach churns at her disapproving tone. She waves a hand toward the door as she rises from her throne. “Go settle in while I scry with your brother. I will send for you later.”

  Keiran holds his tongue until the doors of the throne room close heavily behind us. Only after there are thick slabs of wood between us and Mother does he come to a halt, cro
ss his arms over his broad chest, and growl, “What was that you said about her overlooking our late return?”

  “Shut up,” I grumble as I lead us back to the stables to break the bad news with the men. “I’m sure we’ll get out of here soon enough.”

  Chapter Two

  Lugh

  “This was not what I had in mind,” I promise Keiran as we check our armor one last time, “but we are getting out of the sídhe sooner rather than later.”

  He runs a hand over his knife belt, ensuring each blade is in place, and scowls at me. “Do not make me walk away from you.”

  “Come on, Keir. It’s just a quick ride and—”

  He turns and stalks toward the stall where Dubh is waiting before I can finish my lame excuse. I can’t really blame him. Keiran isn’t fond of riding into potentially dangerous situations without a plan, and what we’ve thrown together is tenuous at best.

  The past few hours have been chaotic. Mother called Roark home from Mather’s to help her with the interrogation. When they finished, Mother summoned Keiran and me back to the throne room, where we learned we would be heading into the Wylds to retrieve Sláine. Apparently, the gardener came across a small cottage on the edge of the Seelie lands as he fled the Court and saw Sláine there. Mother worked on the faerie longer than usual to see if he was planting inaccurate information, but his story never changed. According to him, Sláine is walking the woods, and we need to investigate his presence.

  It was Roark’s idea to use the Hunt rather than a full retinue of redcap guards. The cottage isn’t technically in Seelie territory, but it’s so close to the border that our intentions will be questioned if we’re caught there. Taking a small group known for exploring new areas will look better if anything goes wrong, according to Roark, who’s ever mindful of not upsetting the Pantheons. I’m not sure what he meant when he talked about the tensions at Mather’s leaving us under higher scrutiny, but I’m glad he said it because it made Mother agree to his plan.

  And that led us to this moment, when the stables are in disarray as hobs try to assist us before we ride out. Sometimes I forget just how little the Wild Hunt is actually in Court, and how uncomfortable the other Unseelie are around us. Cybel’s warned the hobs enough times to leave his shit alone that they’ve finally listened; Armel and Drest have had far less luck and stand just outside their horses’ stalls, grumbling as they wait for the hobs to lead out their mounts. Keiran and I have been mostly ignored since I finally played my princely card and told the hobs we’d sort our own gear. Now that my armor and weapons are together, all I’ve got left to do is finish preparing Liath for the ride. Too bad he’s already in a flighty, nervous mood. His ill temper seems to leak past his stall into Dubh’s, where Keiran’s normally placid horse tosses his head and shifts under Keiran’s calming touch.

  “Liath,” I call, and receive a whinny in response. “Calm down. I’ll be right there—”

  “Lugh.”

  Roark says my name with the same exasperated affection he always has. I can’t help but grin when I turn around to greet him. It’s a stupid reaction, a child’s reaction, one made instinctual after centuries of games and fighting practice. One that brings up memories of trailing after him through the halls, sharing desserts with him late at night in the kitchens, and passing notes back and forth during our lessons. It’s a reaction I shouldn’t have anymore because the moment Mother told Roark he’d be attending Mather’s, he began to change. The distance between us grew as he took on more diplomatic duties. Then, at Mother’s command, he began watching another student, some human with immense power, and the rare times we were both in Court together stopped completely. He stayed at Mather’s as often as he could, I stayed in the forests with the Hunt, and...and I suppose that’s why it’s a shock to see him join us now for the hunt, with less glamour hiding his features.

  He’s paler than usual. Dark smudges have formed under his eyes. His body’s coiled with unusual tension, as if he’s a bowstring about to release.

  “You look exhausted,” I blurt out.

  “Sláine’s defection was ill timed,” he replies. His tone is bored, but I don’t miss the way his hand checks for something at his waist. “The faster we can secure our Court’s stability, the better. I’m... I’ve a great deal to do and little time to accomplish it in.”

  “The area the gardener told us about is familiar,” I assure him. “We can get there and back quickly.”

  “Thank you.” I can’t remember the last time he thanked me for anything. Uncomfortable, I turn my attention to something easier to assess. Roark’s abandoned the modern suit he wore home from Mather’s and has traded it out for one of his many sets of armor. The lighter pieces will lend us speed as we ride, but won’t provide much defense to him if we find ourselves in a fight. I frown and he lifts a dark brow.

  “Is something wrong?” he asks.

  “Did you want any other plate pieces for your armor? We don’t have too far to travel, so it wouldn’t be a burden to the horses.”

  He rolls his eyes and moves away. The hobs have prepared a horse for him already and he pats its neck to avoid looking at me. “This will suffice. I doubt they’ve a huge force protecting Sláine. It sounds as though he’s taking shelter in the Wylds until he’s granted full permission to join the Summer Court. Thank the Goddess Oberon’s a stubborn bastard.”

  He hauls himself up in his saddle, adjusts his seat, and looks down at me from his new height. “Do you need anything before we ride out?”

  A quick glance over my shoulder confirms the Hunt is prepared to leave. Keiran, for all his irritation with me, has Liath ready and waits with his reins in hand. His simple gesture—a peace offering I don’t deserve—warms me and I smile my thanks. Keiran’s frown doesn’t vanish, but his shoulders loosen a little, and I know our disagreement is over. Neither of us likes to ride into a fight angry with the other, especially when the tension between us is caused by something outside our control. And Mother’s will is definitely beyond our control.

  Roark makes a thoughtful sound at my back. I return my focus to him and find him watching Keiran with strange intensity. Roark’s pale gaze shifts back to meet mine and his glamour closes us off from the rest of the stables into a quiet, private space. “Does it bother you?” he asks.

  “What?”

  He lets go of the reins and indicates Keiran. “Watching him grow old. Knowing he’ll die.”

  Goddess, the thought makes my stomach swoop and my heart ache. I don’t bother to hide my reaction from my brother and instead push the thoughts away. “Honestly, I don’t think about it. I don’t want to.”

  “I realize living in Faerie means death will come far, far later for him than for another human, but it will still happen someday, Lugh. And it will cause you such pain—”

  “Of course it will, Roark.”

  He looks from me to Keiran and back to me. “How can you stand it?”

  The plaintive note in his voice stops me from throwing back a flippant response. Roark never asks me for advice or shares his problems. I doubt he’ll ever tell me what prompted him to ask this. But his bravery deserves to be reciprocated with my honesty.

  Safe behind Roark’s glamour, I risk looking at Keiran and giving myself a heartbeat’s worth of time to examine our complicated relationship. To imagine the gray hairs that will work their way into his hair and beard centuries from now. To think about what we’ll do in a millennium or so when he can no longer wander the Wylds because of the way it makes his body ache. To grieve for a single, ragged inhalation when I imagine the world without him by my side. Then, I pack it all away and shove it into the darkest recesses of my mind, next to all the other nightmares, and center myself with the memory of our lives now.

  I cling to that and tell Roark, “I can stand it because I know we’re all going to die someday, and at least he and I will die together.”

&nbs
p; “I see,” my brother murmurs. The pressure of his glamour disappears and the full noise of the stables returns to us. Roark’s hand dips again to his waist and his mouth tightens into a thin line. “We need to go. There’s not much time.”

  Unnerved by our strange discussion, I abandon him and join Keiran. He waits for me to settle on Liath’s back before passing over the reins and asking quietly, “What was that about?”

  “I’m not sure,” I admit. “But the faster we find Sláine, the better.”

  Keiran’s smile is small and vicious. “Then we’d best begin hunting.”

  * * *

  “You realize this happens every time,” Keiran snarls, grabbing a Seelie soldier’s wrist and punching him in the face. The poor bastard goes limp and is tossed aside. “Every fucking time!”

  “It wasn’t part of the plan,” I protest.

  “Of course an ambush isn’t part of the plan, Lugh!”

  Another Seelie soldier closes in on me from the right, brandishing a short sword. I let her take the first swing, duck into the opening the move grants me, and stab at the weak point in her armor—the joint under the arm—with my seax. She cries out and collapses, another casualty left to bleed out, and I kick her sword away.

  “That’s the problem.” Keiran adjusts his stance when I return, allowing me to slip seamlessly back into our normal fighting position—back-to-back, facing all comers. “These situations are never part of the plan, yet here we are again—” He blocks an overhead blow with the long handle of his axe. “—and again—” He turns and slams the butt into the soldier’s face, then steps wide and follows the movement with a furious swing. “—and again.” The soldier’s detached head flies back and hits the ground, tripping another Seelie running toward us.

  Three soldiers close in on me, adjusting their attack to avoid Keiran. Can’t blame them. I wouldn’t want to go up against him either. One goes down with an arrow to the throat—Drest’s work, no doubt—but the other two are too close to risk a shot. They’re lighter infantry, decked in leather armor and carrying short swords with the awkward grip of battlefield virgins. My short sword’s already lost somewhere out in the field, so I keep my seax at the ready and reach blindly behind me. I find the hilt of another knife without effort, one of the many Keiran keeps strapped to his body. I unsheathe it as the first soldier rushes me. Keiran, sensing my movement, spins with me to block my second attacker, who panics and pulls up on his swing. A fatal mistake, since the blade of Keiran’s axe crunches into his chest a moment later.