by M. A. Grant
I use my seax to throw off my soldier’s blow, losing it in the process, and lunge forward into his space. He tries to draw up his free arm to block me, but it’s too little, too late. A quick stab of Keiran’s knife to the inner thigh, a twist, an upwards rip. Release the knife handle, leave it in the body. Swing down into a crouch and sweep his leg out from under him. He falls backwards with a cry and it’ll just take a quick shot to the chest to finish him off.
Keiran’s already here, grabbing me by the arm and letting my body follow through on the momentum of my sweep. I relax into the movement, swinging up and over his back. I snag another knife on the way. My feet hit the ground and I thrust the new knife down into the fallen soldier’s throat, finishing him off even as Keiran angles his own body to deflect the next attack.
“We’re doing pretty well,” I tell Keiran as I wrench the blade free. The soldier’s blood is everywhere. My hands are sticky with it and the handle of the knife twists in my grip when I try to get a better hold. Keiran draws a new knife—a beautiful, quick little thing that catches the light—and tosses it to me. “Behind you,” he warns.
I drop into a crouch. I wish I could see the soldier’s face when they realize what I’ve done. All they’ll be able to see is Keiran, face covered in dirt and blood, his axe drawn back and swinging forward with the strength of a lightning strike. Wet droplets rain down on my head when he tears his axe free and exhilaration explodes through my veins. This is a fair fight, one with purpose. It’s a battle that won’t leave behind shades to haunt me and there’s comfort in that.
The world disappears. All I know is the pull of Keiran’s body, the raw elegance of his movements as he dances between our enemies, protecting me and giving me openings to follow in his wake to land precise strikes. This is where we are at our best, a united front on the battlefield.
We move together, an unstoppable tide, axe flashing, knives drawn and used and discarded, soldiers falling around us. I don’t spare a thought to our men; our Hunt is legendary and we’ve never fallen in battle before. I have no fear for my own life, not as long as Keiran is by my side.
There comes a lull in the fighting, a natural break where our nearest foes are slain and we have a second to breathe and think. A quick glance confirms the Hunt is alive and well. Drest covers us with his bow, holding off the next wave of attackers. Cybel and Armel stand with sword and shield. The blood spattered over their faces does nothing to detract from the joy in their smiles. But there’s one person I can’t see.
“Where’s Roark?” I ask Keiran. He’s taller. He can see over the battlefield faster than I can.
He doesn’t point. Instead, he starts running. “Hurry,” is all he says.
I sprint after him, a strange sense of dread growing behind my ribs. The rest of the Hunt follows us, knowing without words that something is wrong. Ahead of us, a mass of Seelie soldiers circle. They move like a murmuration, swirling and twisting, and in the gaps I finally catch sight of their prey. My brother, his rapier drawn, fights off the overwhelming numbers. Spears of ice shoot from the ground around him, buying him space, but it’s not enough. There’s too many.
I should have tried to find him earlier. I should have remembered he was out here with us, fighting with us. His strangeness in the stables, his focus on finding Sláine as quickly as possible, even at the risk of overextending himself on the field... I should have known it would lead to a situation like this.
I should have known because now I’ll be forced to face the consequences of my distraction. With this many soldiers, I can guess how it will play out. Roark will let one Seelie past his guard. A sword will bite past his light armor—armor I didn’t urge him enough to change—and his dark blood will spill. My brother will die before my eyes. A childhood of laughter and quiet jokes, of silent support when I had to stand before Mother in Court, of careful manipulations when he thought no one else would notice, wiped out in an instant.
Close the distance. Reach him. Keiran’s bulk is beside me, then gone. Dimly, I hear him yell something at me, but it doesn’t register. Not when my fear comes to vivid life.
A wounded Seelie soldier, sword arm broken by one of Roark’s attacks, draws a dagger from his belt with his other hand. He waits for Roark to be distracted. The dagger glints, digs in under Roark’s shoulder. He and I scream in unison. His head tilts back, his magick bursts in a jagged explosion, and then I’m at his side.
Help Roark. Keep him safe. I get an arm around his back, take his weight, and brandish my knife to keep our attackers at bay. Keiran will be here. I just have to keep the Seelie away from Roark until then.
A hot line of pain slides across my back, enough to cut through my fear, my panic. Enough that I cry out for Keiran.
There’s an answering bellow that transforms into a true roar.
Despite the blood running down my back, I smile. The Seelie have no idea what they’ve unleashed.
Keiran
The worst fight Lugh and I ever had was when he wanted to go out into the Wylds without an armed escort. I was a few months into my stay at the sídhe after Lugh rescued me, healed from my wounds, terrified that Queen Mab would exile me as she kept threatening, and utterly alone. One night, after an awkward dinner, Lugh grabbed my hand, dragged me to his room, and asked me to go aboveground for the evening. I refused. I pulled my hand away, called it a child’s foolish idea, and abandoned him.
Later, I lay in bed and couldn’t sleep. I didn’t know Lugh well; we weren’t friends yet, despite all his best efforts to convince me to let him into my confidence. Even then, I knew him enough to understand his acceptance of my refusal was too easy and too clean. I went back to his room and discovered an empty bed. There was no time to raise an alarm. I took his short sword with me and abandoned the sídhe in a desperate effort to reach the woods in time.
I barely made it. The sound of the battle ahead clamored all the way up to the stars. In the shadowed silver of the moon’s light, I saw a juvenile lindworm had pinned Lugh to the ground. Its muscular body writhed and twisted as he fought it, but it was too powerful for such a young boy. Lugh turned his head as its body wrapped around his chest and squeezed, and I found myself held rapt by his expression. No rage or doubt or fear was on those childish features, nothing but stubborn denial giving way to disgruntled acceptance of being bested by a stronger foe. My father had worn that expression in battle, as had my brother. I once dreamed I would too.
Then Lugh’s gaze caught mine. Held. He called out my name and it landed against me like a spell. I would do anything to save him, do anything to have a small share in his fearlessness. I flung myself into battle.
That battle panic never left me even as Lugh grew and claimed his title within the Winter Court. It still digs tingling fingers into my spine and tries to steal my breath, but it’s an old friend and a pale imitation of what I felt that day. When I fought the lindworm, I had no hope of survival and no weapon but a child’s practice sword with dulled edges. Yet I returned to the sídhe, bloodied and exhausted, with a bruised and embarrassed Lugh in tow. The queen, to the surprise of all her subjects, rewarded me for my bravery and appointed me Lugh’s keeper.
Me, an orphan who was utterly, and unremarkably, human.
She knew our enemies would assume that. She counted on them to underestimate me. And she made me something more. Something strong enough to protect the man I follow. The man who has disappeared behind a wall of Seelie soldiers intent on killing both Unseelie princes.
At Lugh’s pained cry, the bearskin belt at my waist thrums with the echo of Queen Mab’s power, a response to my heightened adrenaline and fear. There will be consequences for using the belt now. There’s always a cost to such magick. But Lugh will be alive. I give in to the transformation.
The pale edges of the world flex, brightening with scent and color. Strength courses through me, adds weight to my limbs, height to my back when I drop into
a crouch. I shake my belt and weapons free, and they drop to the ground. A step forward with a human hand. Step again and my paw hits the earth, long claws digging in as I burst into a run.
Thoughts fly away. All that’s left is the battalion of enemies between me and Lugh.
Swords whistle through the air as they slice at my pelt. A single swipe of my paw breaks the spines of three fae. Another Seelie is too close and his throat crumples in my teeth. His blood is hot and salty and I need more, need to gorge on death until I know Lugh’s safe. Their futile defenses mean nothing to me. I give in to instinct and let the bear rule.
When it’s over and the bits and pieces of our enemies lie scattered on the surrounding ground, I look to him. Lugh holds his injured brother up. His other hand, the one holding my knife, drops to his side. He grins cheekily at me, always unafraid of my monstrous form, and says, “Don’t you dare wipe your face on my cloak.”
My pelt sloughs off and I stagger upright. Cybel reaches Lugh’s side and takes Prince Lyne. Lugh reaches for me and I fall against him. He grunts against my weight, bracing his legs a little wider to help him balance my bulk. My head pounds, my joints ache, and my muscles twitch and shiver as they try to knit themselves back to their normal shape. The colors are still too bright, the stench in the air too intense. It makes my stomach churn and I whimper as bile rises in my throat.
Lugh reaches up and tugs gently at the back of my head, urging me to bury my face against his neck. It’s awkward, this angle. He’s so much shorter than me. But I sigh and relax against him because this is who we are—an Unseelie prince and his berserkir—and the physical backlash I suffer for channeling the queen’s magick is always outweighed by feeling him pressed against me, safe and sound.
Lugh. Child turned man, who never lost his joy and who burns brighter than the sun. Who smells of horseflesh and leather and dirt and the rosemary oil he uses to keep his nightmares at bay. Who waits for me to relax against him before asking, “Home?”
When we return to the sídhe, Queen Mab will skin me alive. Both her sons wounded, Prince Lyne seriously enough he’s gone ashen and keeps a hand pressed to his chest as if he’s holding his pain in. But if we go home, it means warm baths with herbs that will make our bodies hurt less and good food and a soft bed where I can sleep off the damage of the transition. Home means curling up beside Lugh and listening to him breathe, of being able to sleep through the night because I can hear proof of his life.
I nod against his skin and force the word out past the burning ache in my throat. “Home.”
Chapter Three
Keiran
I’m amazed Prince Lyne has survived long enough to reach the sídhe. The blade that pierced his shoulder under his plate armor wasn’t iron, but during the ride back, he’d clutched at his chest and unleashed a cry of pain so deep, it cut through my blurry thoughts and raised goose bumps on my skin. Poisoning is still an option—an ugly, lethal option—and Lugh’s beside himself with worry. He keeps looking from his brother to me, openly torn in his desire to aid us both, but incapable of it. As much as I want to curl up in a dark, quiet place and sleep off the lingering sensations of the bear’s actions in battle, doing so would force Lugh to choose between helping his brother or me. So I grit my teeth, ignore the prickles in my muscles, and follow them down the winding hallways.
Lugh tries to help Prince Lyne, while the Hunt sticks close to me, prepared to intervene if my transformation sickness grows worse. At some point, Bridget, Prince Lyne’s personal attendant, finds us. Shortly after her arrival, Nickgut, Queen Mab’s captain of the redcap guard, meets us in one of the intersections. His message stalls when he sees us, but a single, cutting look from Prince Lyne has him refocused a second later. “The queen awaits your report in the throne room,” he says. He leaves Lugh and Prince Lyne alone, asking me for the rundown of what happened instead, and nodding as I recount the attack as factually as I can.
Neither of us can look away when Bridget finally removes Prince Lyne’s breastplate. He stumbles when the armor comes free, a fresh gush of blood darkens his stained shirt, and Lugh grabs hold of him before he falls. For the first time since we arrived back in the sídhe, our retinue halts. Prince Lyne stands in the center of the hallway, sweaty, pale, and breathing heavily, while Lugh murmurs to him. After a moment, he straightens and Lugh’s expression tightens.
“Roark,” he says, louder this time, as if he’s tired of arguing, “you’re bleeding.”
“Report to Mother,” Prince Lyne snaps and begins walking again.
Lugh spares me a single, frustrated look before rushing after his brother. “You were stabbed. Your shoulder needs attention. Bridget, talk to him. Tell him how much blood he’s lost. Roark, please—”
Nickgut sucks in a breath at my side and I recognize where we are. Wittingly or not, Prince Lyne’s brought us to the intersection of the halls outside the throne room. He seems confused to find himself here and misses the regal figure standing in the doorway beside a pair of cowering guards.
“Roark Tahm Lyne,” Queen Mab calls.
The rest of us freeze, not from the force of her glamour, which bites through the air, but from the rigid pronunciation of each syllable of his name. Even Lugh draws up short to look at her.
Prince Lyne continues on his way. Bridget follows after him a moment later with her head ducked low in deference to her monarch.
“It was a trap,” he tells his mother in passing. “He wasn’t there.”
“You’re injured.” She turns and extends a hand toward the throne room. “I have healers waiting. Come.”
Prince Lyne’s fist clenches around the timepiece he hasn’t let go of since he left the stables. “Lugh and Keiran will explain,” he says.
I shut my eyes and wince. Gods protect us, this will not go well. Judging from the silence, no one was prepared for such a reaction. I wait for the worst of my nausea to subside before I risk opening my eyes. The queen still waits in the doorway, her features shrouded by shadow as she looks down the hall where Prince Lyne retreated.
Lugh turns to face her. “Mother,” he begins cautiously.
Queen Mab lifts a hand and the temperature around us drops further. Lugh coughs as he takes his next breath and doesn’t speak again.
“Lugh. Keiran. Come,” she orders and turns her back without another word.
At my back, the Hunt shifts their weight. Cybel steps forward and starts to open his mouth. I cut him off before he says something he’ll regret. “We’ll be fine,” I lie.
“You’re going to make yourself sick,” Cybel murmurs to me.
My body screams its agreement. The belt burns with a dull heat at my waist as my anxiety threatens to wake its power once again. If I don’t rest soon or, worse, if I have to fight down any strong emotions before I can collect myself, the transformation’s physical impact will linger, as though the bear’s trying to crawl its way out from under my skin any moment I let down my guard.
“It won’t take long,” I whisper back to him. I can’t drag my gaze away from Lugh’s back, from the hard line of his spine as he prepares to follow his mother, and from the way his fingers tap against his thigh in a show of his nervousness. “We’ll be back before you know it.”
“One of us will be waiting,” Cybel says.
I want to argue, really I do, but Lugh’s already moving and I won’t let him face her alone. He looks up when I reach his side and I wish I could wipe away the lines of doubt pinching his brow. “Keir, you should—”
“Let’s not keep her waiting,” I interrupt.
He frowns, but doesn’t try to dissuade me. Nickgut closes the doors behind us as we follow Queen Mab into the room, leaving us alone with her.
Queen Mab doesn’t sit on her throne. Instead, she walks back and forth in front of it, her sedate pace doing nothing to hide her discontent. “Lugh, are you injured?”
�
�No, Mother. I’m fine.”
“Good.” She glances at me, lifting her chin the barest amount when she finds me still standing at Lugh’s side. “Keiran?”
So much displeasure in two syllables. After centuries at Lugh’s side, I recognize her unspoken message. I’ve forgotten propriety and such lapses will not be tolerated in a worthless human, no matter his loyalty to the royal family. Every muscle in my body protests, but I take a knee, bow my head, and remind myself to breathe as the coming headache begins to take root at the base of my skull. “Your Majesty.”
Proprieties observed, she lifts a hand to Lugh. “Explain what happened, darling. Quickly.”
“We found the cottage, but Sláine wasn’t there. We divided up to search the immediate area for him, but a group of Seelie guards found us instead. They attacked and we fought to defend ourselves.”
“I see,” she murmurs. “How was Roark injured?”
Lugh swallows hard. “It was my fault.” The toe of his boot grinds against the stone floor when he adjusts his stance and I wish I could comfort him. Of course he would take that mistake on his shoulders. “They separated Roark from us and I couldn’t get to him quickly enough. One of the guards slipped a dagger beneath his armor.”
The queen gives a low hiss, a mixed exhalation of pain and sorrow. “Where were you?” she asks her son.