by M. A. Grant
“It would jeopardize everything we have done,” I interrupt. “The queen would leverage Lugh’s care against him. She would use his office to control the Sluagh and it would break Lugh.” The men won’t look at me, but I press forward anyway. “He would give up the title and return to the sídhe before he let his mother interfere with Aage’s people. Can you imagine how he would fare if he were trapped here?”
Armel’s expression crumples and he turns back toward the fire. Cybel’s knife begins moving over the wood again. Drest grumbles, but shuts up.
We hear the footsteps a moment before Lugh bursts into my room. His hair is a mess, flying in every direction from a hand run through it too many times. His scowl is etched deep, and he mutters angrily to himself as he slams the door shut behind and glares around the room at us.
“Bad day?” I ask him, determined to break the awkward silence.
“When did my older brother turn into a copy of Mother?”
We look at each other and all shrug. Prince Lyne isn’t the worst in the royal family, not by a long shot, but there’s little we can say to defend him, especially when he’s raised Lugh’s ire.
“Did something happen?” Cybel asks. He phrases it as a casual question, the same way you would ask someone if they’d ever tried mutton, but it gives Lugh the opening he needs to vent his anger.
“You should have heard him in this meeting,” he says. “He’s so focused on winning the war, he hasn’t even stopped to consider the cost. All he sees is numbers. Doesn’t he understand that if we can’t face the Seelie head-on, the fighting will go into the Wylds and no one will be safe?”
“Did you tell him that?” I ask, sitting up in the bed and ignoring the way the movement makes my bones radiate fresh pain through my healing body. “Does he know about the Sluagh?”
“Not completely.”
“But you mentioned them?”
“I had to, Keir. And when I said I might be able to convince Aage to side with us—well, get the Northern clans to side with us—Roark and Mother finally started to listen. Mother’s even willing to consider what the Sluagh may request in exchange for their support. I mean, she wasn’t happy about it, and she kind of laughed when I suggested they be raised up as a third Court, but at least she listened this time and—” He trails off when he notices that none of us have moved. “Keiran?”
Breathe. Remember to breathe.
“Lugh,” I say, as calmly as I can manage when all I want to do is crawl from bed and wring his neck, “did you tell your mother and brother you would broker support from the Sluagh?”
“Well, of course I did. If we can’t get Sláine back and the Seelie attack us right now, we’re fucked. Mother needs the Sluagh. We might as well make sure they come out ahead on the deal, rather than being swept away by another war.”
“Lugh. Lugh,” I repeat, words failing me.
The men have all risen and move silently toward the door. Funny how they can complain about aching joints one minute and move like shadows the next.
“Let me see if I understand correctly,” I say. Lugh watches me with confusion, whether from my words or my deep breathing. “You told your brother, Prince Lyne, in a war council meeting with your mother, Queen Mab, that the Wild Hunt would call on the Sluagh to fight in the war. The Sluagh, who have stated in every village we’ve visited that they’d rather die than be tied to Courts who do not consider them political equals. The Sluagh, who hate these Courts so much that we have to hide you in costume for you to be safe traveling through the Wylds. You told your family you could bring those Sluagh to fight for the Winter Court in a war which isn’t theirs, without any binding promise of reward or recognition for their efforts?”
If this weren’t the end of the Hunt, it would be amusing to watch Lugh untangle all of that. He looks for help from the men, but they consciously avoid his eyes. He fiddles with the hem of his sleeve and mumbles under his breath, “Yes?”
I’m too exhausted for anything but brutal honesty. “They will strip you of your helm for suggesting this.”
Lugh sucks in a sharp breath.
“Give us a moment?” I ask Cybel. I’m proud of how even my voice is.
He leads Armel and Drest past Lugh and out the door, closing it behind them. I give it a few seconds for them to be away from the door before I speak again.
“Do you really intend to ask Aage for help?”
“I have to, Keir.”
I scrub a hand over my face. I wish this were some horrible dream I could wake from. “Lugh...” He steps toward the bed when I say his name, face screwed up in an expression of utter misery. “You can’t complete this quest.”
“You doubt me?” he asks. It’s barely more than a whisper, scarcely louder than the crackling of wood in the fire. “You?”
“Don’t turn this back on me. Don’t be so petty. I have only ever chosen your side.” Some of the pain in his eyes fades at that, and despite my misgivings, I add, “I will until the end.”
He takes that for the invitation it is and hurries to my bedside. He settles himself at the foot of the bed and clasps his hands in his lap as he begins to speak, earnest in a way I haven’t seen before. “I don’t have a choice about this. You didn’t see the battle plans, the number of troops, or Mother’s resolve. She will win this war however she can, and I can’t stand by and watch the Sluagh suffer at the Courts’ hands when I could warn them. Aage deserves to know what’s coming so he can prepare. His people deserve to know so they can decide how to survive the war.
“Aage trusts me,” he continues. “He trusts my counsel. He trusts that I want what’s best for his people. I’m sure that if we talk to him and explain the situation, he’ll listen.”
“Maybe,” I concede.
Honestly, it’d be a miracle if that happened, but those have happened before. The small boy who watched Lugh’s official acceptance of the Horned King’s helm grew into a fine soldier. He fought with the Hunt when he was younger, but I never suspected he would gain the respect of the Sluagh clans and become their thegn. And I never dreamed he would support Lugh’s work in his lands. Yet, as the centuries have passed, we’ve watched Aage grow and turn to diplomacy and tradition, building a legacy while we build amusing legends. But through his support, we’ve found a place in the Wylds. We’re almost more Sluagh than Unseelie now. No matter what I think of Lugh’s plan, the urge to protect the Sluagh we’ve met in our travels rises in me too.
As if he knows what I’m thinking, Lugh says quietly, “I don’t care how it ends, but I need you to know I won’t allow Aage or his people to become pawns in this war. They deserve better than that. They always have.”
“I know.” And I do. The desires to be left alone to live my own life and to finally be acknowledged as worthy by the fae of the Winter Court wage a never-ending battle in my heart. Still, I’ve only faced the weight of this conflict for centuries. I can’t imagine living with it for millennia as the Sluagh have, for generations past and future.
“I have to try,” he says. “I have to give them the choice before Mother or Roark forces them into it.”
An impossible quest for an impossible man. I suppose there are worse ways to die.
“Fine.”
“You’re with me?”
“When am I not?”
He sighs and the dark mood hanging between us lifts. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “I couldn’t do this without you.”
“That’s true,” I agree, and lie back down. Shit, I need about a week to sort through Lugh’s news. I need the gods to come down and remind me to trust him because, no matter the harebrained scheme he comes up with, it always seems to work out in the end. Most of all, I need sleep. Start with sleep. “Are you telling the men, or am I?”
“I will. We need to start preparations for the trip.”
“In a hurry to go die, are we?”
&nbs
p; His nose scrunches in obvious distaste. He used to make the same face at the pickled herring I tried to get him to eat when we were young. “I have no intention of dying. But, yes, we’re in a bit of a hurry.”
“Queen Mab’s choice or your brother’s?”
“Both.”
Of course. I adjust my pillow and turn so I can face him as I drift off. The need to see him always lasts for a few days after the transformation. He doesn’t seem to mind, thankfully. “Do you need me to help?”
He shakes his head. “I’ll handle everything. You need to sleep.” He gives a wan smile. “Let me take care of you this once. Please?”
It’s the please that does it. I bury my head in the pillow so I don’t have to see his face and grumble, “This once.”
“Thank you. Now, for the love of the Goddess, get to sleep.”
I needed to know something else, but his suggestion sounds wonderful. He waits with me while I drift off, only rising to go to the door once my eyelids are too heavy to keep open. The hinges squeak, his footsteps begin to fade, but I remember what I needed to know and call out, “When do we leave?”
Surely that wasn’t him answering, “Tomorrow.” Couldn’t be...
Chapter Five
Lugh
Two days into our ride away from the Unseelie sídhe, our journey to reach Aage abruptly changes course. A shade visits me during my sleep to warn of a feral river kraken; the creature attacks anyone who visits its small, comfortable estuary. Unfortunately, the nearby village relies on it for water and fishing. The local huscarl, Voll, promised to send aid, but none has come—at least, not before a young fisherman was killed.
I don’t have it in me to resist his quiet, mournful ghost, so when we set out in the morning, he leads us to the creature’s nest. Our battle with the kraken is short and messy. I’m not sure I can really count it a victory, thanks to all the cleanup required. I’ve taken the brunt of the mess and am covered in a combination of slime, fish-scented blood, and river water. Cybel, Armel, and Drest grant me a wide berth as we ride. Keiran complains about my stench, but stays within a horse’s length.
“Seidhr,” Armel calls over his shoulder to me, “food or bath first?”
“Bath,” the rest of the men say before I can answer.
I must stink more than I realize, if they’re so adamant. I try to subtly sniff at my shirt, but everything smells so bad there’s no discernable difference. Keiran catches me at it and shakes his head. He’s been unusually quiet since we rode away from the kraken’s corpse.
“What’s wrong?” I ask him.
“Nothing.”
Compared to my brothers, I’m pretty stupid. I don’t know a lot about politics and have learned it’s wiser to keep my mouth shut and pretend I’m oblivious than to get entangled in the twisted games of the Courts and the Accords. I don’t have the patience to read long books, even if I like listening to Keiran’s rumbling bass weaving stories by the light of the campfire. But there are two things I know in this life, and one of them is riding next to me, wearing his misery like it’s been woven into the threads of his now-muddied cloak.
“You’re a terrible liar,” I say. “Tell me.”
“How did you know the village needed help? Or that the kraken’s nest would be there?” He sighs and smooths his beard. “How do you expect me to tell stories about this fight if I don’t know how you found it in the first place?”
I want to tell him about the shade, about its memories and how it led us to the site of its death, but I don’t know how he’d react. Killing the creature and securing the village’s future was enough to appease this shade. Keiran would like that we helped it, would see a purpose in that. But he wouldn’t like hearing about the other shades who are still with me, who are stuck in my mind because there’s no way to avenge them or grant them the peace that comes from a fulfilled final request. Learning I’m haunted would upset him, and this journey will be taxing as it is with our short window of time before winter.
Rather than burden him with a weight I’m used to shouldering, I tell him, “The gods work in strange ways. They made sure we were where we needed to be. Explain that however you’d like. You know I’ll agree.”
“That’s not how this works,” he starts to argue, but is interrupted by Drest’s cheery call of, “Seidhr, I can see fences!”
Using my title never fails to bring the Hunt joy. The practice, which started as a way to hide my real identity when we spent time in Sluagh villages, has become a teasing endearment now. It also serves as a reminder that I need to settle my glamour into place. I craft my Horned King’s helm under Keiran’s watchful gaze. Once he assures me the expansive rack of antlers is properly awe-inspiring, I finish the glamoured illusion off by tweaking the charm so the Hunt can see through it. They, not the Sluagh, will be the only ones to look at me and see my true face.
I’m glad I took the time to weave my glamour tighter than normal. By the time we ride into the village proper, most of the townspeople are waiting for us in the main square. Cybel, Drest, and Armel ride through toward the main hall, a colossal two-story affair, without too much trouble, but Keiran and I have to slow when the crowd presses in on us.
It’s almost funny how quickly they give me space once they smell me. The Hunt must not have been lying about my stench. I bet I’ll have to soak my clothes for a while to get the scent rinsed out of the fibers.
A large man appears next to me and slaps a meaty palm against my knee. “It’s a blessing to have you here, seidhr. We prayed to the gods that someone would hear our troubles, but we never dreamed you would answer our calls.”
“Umm—”
“The Horned King in our village!” He doesn’t seem bothered by my pungency or my general air of standoffishness. He doesn’t seem to notice how Liath dislikes having someone unknown this close by. Instead, he’s gaining steam as he continues to speak, his hand still clasping my knee, his other waving expansively toward those around us. “Surely he will help us!”
“I believe we’ve already done that,” I say, hoping he’ll listen to me.
“You found the monster?” one of the older Sluagh calls out to us. Several other of his friends hang back with him, looking serious and concerned. “The kraken’s dead?”
Their cautious optimism makes my chest tight. The Sluagh who live in the Wylds have found ways to make good lives out of very little. The kraken’s attacks limited their already meager supplies by cutting off access to the river, so I understand why they need a definitive answer on whether or not their livelihoods have been secured.
Keiran is careful to not look at me directly, but I know he’s watching, waiting for a moment to take over if necessary. He’s always been better at talking to crowds than I am. I can manage this time. It’s a simple enough answer.
“The river’s yours,” I tell them and the crowd sends up a cheer.
The older man and his friends—I assume they’re fishermen—hurry off moments later, talking excitedly to each other. And then the flood comes.
Questions and comments and praise and people everywhere... I grip my reins tighter and try not to let the tension seep into my legs. The moment Liath notices my discomfort, he’ll lash out and get me away from the crowd. If we were in the midst of a battle, that’d be fine. But we aren’t. Instead, there’s a wrinkly old grandmother ahead of me and a tiny child near my stirrup who’s holding up a flower like she expects me to weave it into the antlers. I smile and shake my head, feeling bad a moment later when I remember my face is hidden in shadow and she can’t see any hint of kindness from the Horned King. It doesn’t perturb her. She lifts her chubby hand higher and looks at me expectantly. I have to wave her offering aside. Sorry, little one, but it’s hard to decorate an imaginary helm.
The large man who has made himself our town crier announces, “This calls for a celebration and a telling of today’s adventure.
It’s not every day we are able to witness miracles firsthand.”
Keiran’s only feet away, holding Dubh in place so the crowd doesn’t sweep us apart in their eagerness. His gaze is fixed on my knee, where the stranger’s hand remains. I swallow hard and, before I can say a single word, Keiran’s gaze lifts and holds mine.
Help me, I silently plead. He never fails me.
“Shall I tell you of this miracle?” Keiran calls out above the crowd. His voice carries like the distant rumble of river ice breaking in the spring sun and the world seems to halt. “Shall I tell you of your seidhr’s dream?”
Like that, the crowd’s attention shifts. The man releases my knee and turns toward Keiran. I can breathe again, even if I can’t urge Liath forward toward the hall. The grandmother hobbles her way toward the crowd circling my best friend and the little girl gives up on me and abandons me for Keiran, who seems far kinder. Better-looking too, if I’m being honest.
He’s a marvel in these moments. It’s not just his voice begging people to pay attention to him. He’s an imposing man, tall and broad, with thick shoulders and thighs. His brown hair—tied back now from battle—usually falls to his bearded chin, and his expressive face adds to the emotional impact of his stories. He’s already started working his audience, who stand rapt at his opening lines.
“We were in our camp when dawn broke overhead. The seidhr emerged from his tent with a grim face. Goddess-touched and goddess-blessed, he had seen the savage suffering of a clan in his mind’s eye. A creature fury-born rising from the murky depths and dragging brave souls to their deaths through the fen. He felt the sorrow and the grief of this clan and, with the grace of a hound, he led us here. To you.” Keiran spins Dubh in a slow circle, taking his time to connect with his audience. As he turns toward me, I catch the glimmer of amusement in his gaze and the almost imperceptible tilt of his head toward the hall. He’s giving me my moment to escape.
I seize it without hesitation. Keiran continues to weave his story while I urge Liath forward and even the sound of his hooves on the packed earth of the square can’t distract the crowd. Once Liath is handed off to one of the stable boys to care for, I slip inside the building with Keiran’s words ringing in my head—an embellished description of me asking for the gods’ blessing and letting them lead me by my sword to the spot on the bank where our triumphant battle will occur.