The Iron Crown (The Darkest Court)

by M. A. Grant

  My efforts to share information about the lands surrounding the Seelie sídhe failed. Mother thanked me for the offer, then handed me a delicate bone china cup filled with fragrant tea and asked me to sit down and wait for her and Roark to finish with their discussion. Roark gave our Hunt’s detailed maps—with messy, scrawled notes in the margins—a cursory glance and dismissed them in favor of his clean, neatly organized columns and pages of notes he spends most afternoons writing and rewriting. Roark’s buried himself in his work, though I think it’s in an effort to distract himself. He’s running from something.

  I learned from Cybel that Roark’s abrupt departure from the sídhe was the reason Mother cut our audience short, and Roark’s equally abrupt return and private audience with Mother after led to him moving back into the sídhe. He refuses to discuss his reasons for abandoning Mather’s. He refuses to talk to me about how I can help him better balance the resettled power of the Triumvirate; the only cryptic answer I’ve received is that I won’t need to worry about it after Samhain, and if I press him further, he’ll simply walk away.

  I don’t know how to help him. All the times he helped me during our childhood—reading our lessons to me so I could understand, bringing my mundane interests into conversations at functions so I wasn’t left out, and helping me deal with nightmares before Keiran arrived and stepped in—weigh on my conscience, especially when I can’t help him with the war planning. He and Mother have found their equilibrium and attack all problems with the same furious intensity.

  Which is why my sitting here is a waste of time. I could be back with Keiran and the Hunt, planning our first stops once we escape this place. I could be in the stables, brushing Liath and Dubh and checking that they’re being exercised regularly. Herne and the hunters, at this point I’d be willing to read and answer written missives from concerned fae if it meant I didn’t have to sit here, pretending to be invisible with my family. My tea’s long since gone cold and Mother hasn’t offered to refill my cup; she’s been too focused on Roark, who holds his injured shoulder with more care than he would if it were fully healed. With little else to do, I dip my fingertips into the cold brew and flick droplets toward the nearby fire while Roark and Mother murmur back and forth about strategies and the division of troops.

  And then Roark says, “Without Sláine’s power to bolster our magick, we aren’t strong enough to march into the Summer Court,” and I’m suddenly interested again.

  “Our numbers are that low even with the Hunt?” I ask. I can’t remember hearing the Sluagh warning about increased numbers of Seelie troops. The border towns nearest the sídhe may not be visited by Oberon’s people, but the Sluagh living there are still aware of any Seelie movements through the land. They’d have said something if a huge army were being raised.

  “Even with the Hunt,” Roark confirms.

  How many Seelie did we fight a few days ago on that failed rescue mission? There were only six of us, yet we took down an entire platoon... Keiran in bear form alone could have wiped out twice as many soldiers, though we’d have to plan for his retreat after using the belt’s power. “Did you count Keiran as two? He fights well enough.”

  My brother gives me an irritated look. “He counts as one. If he dies it’s one casualty.”

  If he dies. As if I needed another reminder of Keiran’s mortality. Why does he keep bringing up the grim reality of our future? If he thinks he’ll convince me to step away from the Hunt, from my best friend, he’s sorely mistaken.

  Roark ignores my glare in favor of thanking Mother when she places a fresh cup of tea on the planning table. He’s lost to me again, so focused on his data he can’t begin to think outside the box. If we intend to win this war, he’ll have to start thinking creatively.

  Mother claimed victory in the first Faerie Civil War with little more than guts and desperation. The Seelie had never faced attacks from a group who was more willing to die than live without freedom or respect any longer. The humiliating defeat and subsequent attention from the Pantheons as the Accords were created made them raise a greater army, guard their borders jealously, and refuse help to any fae not affiliated with their Court. The Unseelie Court is supposed to be different, but Mother is just as unwilling to recognize the untapped potential of all the fae living in the Wylds.

  I’ve spent centuries living among the Sluagh, fighting to help them preserve their neutrality and avoid picking sides with either Court. I need to warn their thegn of the coming dangers, but he’ll want to know all the options before deciding on a course of action for his people. I can’t wait too long. If a second war breaks out, the Sluagh will become collateral damage again and could fall back into civil war. Though the seidhr is as much a symbol of the gods’ destruction as of their aid, I have no desire to watch the Sluagh suffer, or to lose my place if a new thegn rises to power. Surely I can coax some details about the war plans from Roark without arousing his suspicion.

  “What are the numbers with the Sluagh?” I ask. Hopefully if he runs those calculations and thinks it could lead to our victory, he’ll say so.

  He waves off my question. At least his excuse for the immediate dismissal is a little kinder and more diplomatic. “We don’t control them.”

  How to get him to bite? “I’m getting close,” I lie.

  “You almost control the people of the Wylds?” His expression is too close to a sneer, too cutting, too much like Mother’s. “Since when, brother mine?”

  I flush, hating the sarcasm dripping from my childhood moniker. I don’t care what kind of foul mood he’s in, he shouldn’t take happy moments from our childhood and twist them this way.

  “Since almost a year ago,” I blurt out. It’s another lie, one I regret as soon as I utter it. If Roark wanted to check, he’d quickly learn I haven’t done anything of note in the past year. I’m relying on his distraction and his absence from the sídhe while attending Mather’s to keep him from questioning me.

  It’s a risk that pays off. “Impressive,” he says. “How unfortunate that you haven’t succeeded yet or come home to update us so we can help with the task.”

  Help with the task? I glance from him to Mother and my blood runs cold. She sits in her chair, sipping her tea, watching us argue with mild interest.

  “Lugh, darling, the Sluagh know better than to get involved in our affairs,” she says. “They will have no reason to follow a local monster slayer into a war. Earning a place in one of your adventure tales wouldn’t be worth their lives, would it?”

  Her question is a trap I can’t risk setting. I love Mother, but to rule her kingdom, she views her world and all in it with the same attachment as the bone pieces of the chessboards in our family’s private study. If the destruction of the Sluagh and the Wylds secured balance in Faerie, she would make that sacrifice without hesitation. If she learned of the respect I command as the Horned King and how valuable my counsel is, if she learned how Sluagh warriors have fought at my side before to earn a place of glory in Keiran’s legends, she would use my influence to secure Sluagh support. The manipulation of such a holy office makes me sick. I can’t risk her reaching out to them and discovering my secret. I can’t risk Roark doing so either, not when he and Mother seem to move and think as one when it comes to these war preparations.

  She takes my silence as acceptance of her reasoning and offers me a gentle smile. “I doubt you could rally the Sluagh to our cause. It’s far better to focus on the Hunt and prepare them for the battles to come instead.” Roark grunts his agreement and Mother continues, “Your Hunt will be counted in our ranks.”

  “But—”

  She lifts a hand and adds, “If, somehow, you convince some Sluagh to join us, you may inform Roark of that change so he can plan accordingly for our army.”

  I turn to my brother, worried by Mother’s easy solution. “Roark, you’re going to lead the army? All of it?”

  He doesn’t respo
nd. His eyes are trained on the papers before him and my gut sinks. They must have already decided this. No wonder he won’t look at me. Stealing control of the Hunt is the worst betrayal he could make against me.

  Scared he’s sided with Mother yet again, I raise my voice and remind him, “I run the Hunt. And if the Sluagh belong to anyone, it’s me, brother mine.”

  I rarely stake my claim on Court matters. I rarely care enough to ask for responsibilities. But this is a line I cannot allow them to cross. Even Keiran would agree with me on this.

  Roark wheels on my desperate defense with a bitterness I never expected. “I am not the High Prince. Save your bile for the brother you intend to usurp.” The baseless accusation of disloyalty hurts, but the sight of his hand at his waist, reaching for his conjured rapier is too much.

  Fuck. That. I bolt up from the chair, scattering my teacup in the process, and pull on my glamour for any kind of defense. Roark’s lethal with his weapon. He split Sláine’s face open in a breath, he’s killed too many enemies for me to count, and I’m not fast enough to block him if he truly wishes me harm.

  Something’s there on the edge of my magick, something heavy and protective. I drag it forward, grateful for any kind of shield. Except, the world flash freezes before I can get it in position ahead of me and the air in my lungs seizes. Roark’s stuck mid-motion as well, blinking ice from his lashes.

  “Enough,” Mother murmurs. “This is what the Summer Court wants. Have you forgotten the importance of the Triumvirate so easily?”

  Our mutual shame at the reminder of our royal duty lingers after Mother ends the hex, after the ice melts, and after we look away from each other. The doors stand close by. Maybe I should leave. There’s no reason for me to be here, and if Roark and I nearly came to blows already, how much worse will it become if I have to force my opinions into his planning to keep the worst of the battles from Sluagh settlements?

  “I’m sorry.”

  Roark’s apology surprises me enough to pull my attention from my potential escape. He stands by the table, resting his hip against the edge and watching me with tired eyes. “I was being cruel and petty and you didn’t deserve that. If you are making inroads with the Sluagh, you should be commended.”

  I drop the arm I raised against his attack and the magick I pulled together wavers on the edge of my vision. The shape’s far too familiar, too fae, and I release my glamour like it’s burning me. My heart thuds and my legs quiver as adrenaline spikes. Whatever I dragged forward blinks out of existence and I fight the urge to turn and look to see if it’s still there. It wasn’t a shade. It couldn’t be one. I’ve kept them from crawling into my head for days now. I wouldn’t reach out and touch one. To do so would risk inviting it in, when usually it’s all I can do to keep them out. I can’t think about that right now.

  “You mean that?” I ask, hating how my voice wavers.

  He tilts his head as he inspects me. “I do. It’s early yet, but if you were to bring the Sluagh and their magick to the Winter Court, we might stand a chance. We should discuss that.” He gestures to the table. He gestures to my maps. This is my opportunity to claim some control over the planning. This is my opportunity to limit damage to the Sluagh and their homelands.

  “Can you explain the current situation?” I ask him quietly. Mother’s stare burns my back as I join Roark at the table, though she doesn’t speak or rise from her chair. “I know you and Mother have discussed it, but if you can help me visualize it, that would...it would be easier to understand.”

  Roark says nothing, simply gathers a selection of blank pages and begins scratching out a series of boxes on them. I’m back in the schoolroom, listening to our tutors rattle on and on, my heart full to bursting with gratitude as Roark glances from their written notes and transforms them into charts and pictures for me to follow along with. If he’s doing this for me now, our relationship hasn’t been damaged beyond repair. He wouldn’t waste his time on me if he thought we could never see eye to eye again. Perhaps I can convince him to see the value of the Sluagh, even if Mother is incapable of such a change. I have to cling to that hope. He hasn’t given up on me, so I won’t give up on him and the chance that we may have a better future than what these papers offer us. And once we survive this war, maybe he’ll let me help him with whatever else is wrong.

  “This is our estimate of the Seelie forces,” he explains, pointing to the crosshatched boxes. He taps next on the blank boxes. “And these are our forces. Sláine’s absence makes it more difficult for you and me to help Mother balance the magick our soldiers will draw on. We need Sláine back, but if we can’t manage that, we need troops who can fight without draining us.”

  “The Sluagh,” I mumble.

  Roark nods. “Except they won’t fight for us.”

  I focus on the boxes with matching numbers inside, comparing the two sides and noting how uneven it seems. The Mainland Sluagh wouldn’t risk fighting with us; their territories are too near the Seelie sídhe to risk Seelie vengeance. The Northern Sluagh might be convinced though. They know Mother, have benefited from the stability of our kingdom and our sídhe. If the Seelie come to the current thegn and demand to know why some Sluagh fight for the Unseelie, there’s an easy excuse available: If they didn’t, Queen Mab would have killed them rather than risking another enemy at her back. Everyone—Seelie, pantheons, any Sluagh angry at the broken neutrality—would accept that reasoning. Mother is a force unto herself and no one would doubt her giving such an ultimatum or following through on it.

  If we had the Northern Sluagh, if Thegn Aage gave us his permission to have them join our cause, perhaps we would have enough troops to face the Seelie. And if we had the Sluagh’s iron weapons...

  “They might,” I say cautiously. Roark straightens beside me and I don’t dare look at his face. I don’t want to see hope there, in case I can’t pull this off. “It would be difficult to get their agreement, but if I...if you can give me some time, I might be able to convince them to join us.”

  “How?” he asks.

  “There are two main factions of Sluagh. One of them might be sympathetic to our plight.”

  “So convince them.”

  I manage not to snort at my brother’s foolish command. Roark doesn’t know Aage like I do. A warrior king risen from the ashes of the worst decades of clan wars, he earned the Sluagh’s respect through his fierce fighting and utter dominance of all comers. He won his throne fairly and has defended it through ceremonial armed combat ever since. Though he is supportive of my place as Horned King, and has been a friend to our Hunt since his boyhood, he is also wary of the fickle nature of the Faerie Courts. He is not easily led. Convincing him to break the neutrality that has protected his people for so long will not be easy.

  Rather than try to explain—or reveal—any of this to Roark, I settle for warning him. “It’ll be a fight to win them over.”

  Roark nods. “Can you manage it alone?” His fingers tremble as he reaches out and skims over the boxes. “I... I’ll have responsibilities here that I cannot abandon.”

  I glance to Mother. “Give the Hunt leave to return to the Wylds. Bringing anyone else would be an act of war.” When her mouth thins, I add quickly, “Threats and shows of force won’t help us. Either I can negotiate their help, or I can’t. And whatever decision they make will be final.”

  “Then what do you need to ensure the decision goes in our favor?” Mother asks.

  “What will you give me?”

  She lifts a dark brow and her smile chills me. “I’m not sure yet. I do not normally negotiate with...such fae. They’re so changeable. They age, they die, their leadership changes and all those centuries of hard work is lost. They’re little better than the humans they so often mingle with.”

  I bite my tongue, swallowing my defense of Keiran.

  Mother notices and moves on. “My point, Lugh, is that I do not ha
ve the slightest idea what they could possibly desire. But you’ve spent centuries in their lands, haven’t you?” She takes a sip of her tea and watches me over the rim of the cup. “So, enlighten me.”

  Keiran

  “Well,” Drest asks casually from his spot on the rug near the fireplace, “have you learned anything from this experience?”

  I glare at him, but don’t have the energy to throw anything at his smug face.

  The Hunt have settled in around the room. Cybel’s taken his usual seat on the stool, the only other piece of furniture in my chambers, and continues his whittling. The man’s terrible at it, but swears it helps his hands stay nimble. Armel stands against the wall at his right shoulder, watching the flames in the fireplace flicker.

  Cybel comes to my rescue. “Leave him be,” he orders Drest. “He won’t do it again. Will you, lad?”

  “Of course not,” I say.

  “You used to lie better than that,” Armel remarks, pushing himself off the wall and angling toward me. The firelight catches the silver strands in his hair and I know there’s no escaping his scrutiny. There’re too many centuries of experience working against me. Old even by fae standards, these three men have spent the past few centuries watching me and Lugh grow up. They can read through my bullshit almost as easily as he can.

  “You know I don’t like using the belt,” I say, “but it’s to keep him safe. The queen won’t allow us outside the sídhe if Lugh’s in danger.”

  “He’s more capable than she knows,” Drest argues. “After all he’s done in the Wylds, the boy deserves to have some trust given him—”

  “No one can know what he does,” I interject. “They can’t.”

  “But if they did—” Armel begins.