The Iron Crown (The Darkest Court)

by M. A. Grant

  Lugh stands behind Igna and rests his hands on her shoulders. She stares at the blanket. Her lower lip begins to tremble.

  “Reach out,” Lugh tells her. “And remember, I’m here with you.”

  “As am I,” I add. For Igna’s benefit or for Lugh’s, I couldn’t say.

  Igna shuts her eyes tightly, but lifts her hands and reaches for the bundle. The air around us tightens, coalesces like a thunderstorm about to break. She’s barely made contact with the fabric when she makes a wounded sound. Her fingers dig into the blanket and a shudder wracks her, even as she tries to breathe through whatever she’s experiencing. Lugh appears a statue, unmoving, unflinching, his hands secure on Igna’s shoulders.

  “Do you need more time, Igna?” Lugh asks.

  “N-no,” she says. Tears spill down her cheeks, but she shakes her head once, twice, and takes a deep breath. “No. This is enough.”

  “When you’re ready, let go.” Lugh doesn’t drop his hands until Igna’s released her hold on the bundle, and the moment he does, all the energy vanishes. His shoulders hunch, though he straightens a moment later and glances at me. “When we leave, we’ll stop by their farm and bury him.”

  “Thank you, seidhr,” Igna whispers. “I... I should see to Mother. She needs to know.”

  Lugh nods. “Tell her what you can. We’ll be by in a few hours.”

  I don’t waste my time watching her return to the crowd. I’ve seen the moment time and again after Lugh completes an impossible task. There’ll be weeping, there’ll be wonder, there’ll be another story woven into Lugh’s legend. I don’t watch the crowd because the man standing in front of me is far more important.

  “Lugh,” I say.

  “Hmm?”

  “How did you know?” I ask. Distantly, I hear a dozen different voices rising as questions and comments begin. He doesn’t answer, so I press harder. “Did something happen to you to give you this vision? Was it the nightmare?” Gods, no wonder he fought so much against its hold. I should have woken him sooner. “Next time, I won’t let it get so bad, I promise—”

  “Keir... Keir, listen to me!” He waits for me to stop talking before saying slowly, “Someday I’ll tell you. But not now. I don’t think I could. Can you wait for me that long?”

  There’s a note of fear in the question. I wish I could destroy his doubt. I wish I could see his face. I wish I could figure out what he’s hiding from me and give him whatever it is he needs, show him the same care he shows for the Sluagh villagers we meet in our travels.

  “Until the end, Lugh,” I promise. I cradle the blanket and reach out with my free hand. He shivers when I brush the backs of my fingers down his arm, then leans into the touch. A zing of warmth, unexpected and completely different than anything I’ve felt before, shoots through me. I jerk my hand back, but the warmth remains, subtle and sweet. My thoughts scatter, distracted by the set of Lugh’s shoulders, the sound of his breathing, and the way he turns toward me, his glamour slipping aside for just a moment, long enough for me to see his exhausted smile under the hood.

  “Until the end,” he repeats, and walks back toward the crowd.

  He leaves me with nothing but a bundle of bones, a myriad of confused, scattered thoughts, and an unnerving sense of something changing between us, something I don’t have words for yet.

  Chapter Eight

  Keiran

  Lugh’s nightmares have grown steadily worse since we left the village and continued our trek toward Eyjar. He doesn’t talk about the dreams when he wakes, but we haven’t wandered off course to try our mettle against new challenges as we normally do. He’s found a new focus. Maybe he’s caught up in the continued disappearances of young people throughout these lands. Maybe he’s distracted by the worsening state of the villages in this part of the Mainland and the open scorn toward traditions of hospitality that take from people with so little left to give. Maybe he’s noticing the shift in the air, the approach of Samhain and the swing of magick back toward our Court. Maybe he’s distracted from mentally drafting his plea for aid from Aage and trying to find a way to confront him over his seeming negligence. Whatever the reason for his new focus, it leaves him riding point day after day. He was the first to rise this morning, the first to start off on the trail, and continues to lead us as we look for a good campsite.

  Drest grumbles on my left as we move on from yet another potential camping spot Lugh has criticized. “What do you think is going on with the seidhr?” Drest asks, keeping an eye on Lugh ahead of us.

  “I don’t know,” I reply, “but I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

  I can’t read his sideways glance. It’s a mixture of amusement and frustration and concern and something else I’ve seen cross Armel’s and Cybel’s faces before. “Right,” Drest agrees, “fine. I suppose that’s why the seidhr’s about to fall over.”

  The tone of his dry warning makes me press my heels to poor Dubh before I can fully process the words. My horse springs forward, bringing me up to Lugh’s side in time to reach out and snag hold of his collar as he starts to tip off his saddle. He jerks awake and flings an arm out to break my hold.

  “Dammit, Lugh!” I draw back in barely enough time to keep his fist from connecting with the face. “It’s me!”

  He gives a low swear, but doesn’t swing again. A few bleary blinks must help because he flushes and drags a hand over his face. “Sorry,” he says. “Sorry.”

  “We’re setting up camp.” I ignore his frown and grab Liath’s reins. “If you don’t like this spot, you can sleep for a few hours and we’ll ride on until we find one you do like. But you’re stopping right now.”

  I draw our horses up in the middle of the path and wait. Drest rides past us, doing his best to avoid staring, and failing miserably. Ahead of us, Armel and Cybel have slowed, but don’t stop completely. I transfer both sets of reins to the same hand and wave to them. “Head on to the next village. We’ll meet you there in the morning.”

  I’m grateful none of them argue. Cybel just nods and calls back, “We’ll see you in the morning.”

  Lugh slides off Liath’s back with a grunt of displeasure and paces the road. I doubt he’s looked up to see our surroundings. The old growth forest we’ve spent the past few days working through is finally opening up to beautiful rolling fields. A series of raised mounds sit in the distance, dressed in carpets of lush green grass. The summer wildflowers are gone, replaced with the heartier breeds capable of handling the rapidly chilling nights. A quick check of the sky confirms no looming clouds, so I dismount and stretch.

  “Doesn’t look like rain,” I tell Lugh, who’s still pacing, “but we could stay to the trees if you want.”

  He grunts and kicks at a rock on the path. “I wanted to reach the village.”

  This is unusually bad-tempered, even for him. I wonder if he had business to attend to there. Perhaps that explains his desire to push so hard. I’ve heard the men whispering to each other about finding a willing partner to warm their beds, and have no doubt they’ll take advantage of our absence tonight to sate themselves. Is that what Lugh wanted as well? I’ve never known him to slip off on his own, to leave my side, but things can change... I rub at my chest, irritated by the growing tightness there.

  Lugh is beyond my reach. He’s a prince, a religious figure to the people of the Wylds and I... I have nothing to offer him except my loyalty. Loyalty that prompts me to ignore his bad humor and push on with, “Afraid that won’t happen. So, fields or forest?” He glares at me, but since we both know he doesn’t mean anything by it, I’m undeterred. “Pick.”

  He looks past me toward the forest. His body tightens and his eyes narrow. Even in battle, Lugh never tenses. He’s lithe and swift and constantly shifting. He never freezes in place, even when panic seizes hold of him. His reaction now is so unexpected I spin, hand on my axe handle so I can defend us. There’s nothing except
for painted leaves drifting to the ground and a sensation of being watched that scrapes over my skin.

  “Fields,” he announces hoarsely, and stalks off the path. His shoulders don’t loosen and he never looks back. He’s braver than me. I check the trees one last time, my sleeplessness and fear combining into a powerful wave of paranoia I can’t quite tamp down. It buzzes and echoes through the berserkir belt, no matter how I try to ignore it. When there’s still no movement, I give up and follow Lugh, walking the horses behind me. My hand never moves off my axe.

  We make camp on a flat section where the stars will hang over us like a second blanket. There’s an unobstructed view of the forest, as well as the burial mounds, and a stream a short distance away that will allow us to water the horses without interrupting any local wildlife. Making camp goes well, until Lugh wanders off to collect firewood and I’m left to set up my bedroll.

  There’s no reason the thought of laying it beside Lugh’s, of throwing the selection of furs atop us both as I always do, should give me pause. Yet, the promise of sharing the simple intimacy with him, as we have so many times before, sends my pulse speeding.

  “It’s just a bed,” I tell myself aloud.

  This is not hard. Throw it on the ground beside Lugh’s bed. Grab the furs. Cover the beds. Nothing’s different. Nothing’s changing.

  But everything is.

  If I touch him again, will it feel the same as it used to? Or will that sensation from the village, that creeping awareness, return?

  Unwilling to answer those questions, I abandon this task and turn my attention to another.

  The rattle of firewood falling to the ground beside me breaks me from the comforting, empty space I entered sharpening our weapons. I jerk, nearly slice open my thumb, and look over. Lugh stands beside me, faintly amused as he stares at the bedding.

  “Forget something?” he asks.

  No answer is the best answer. I grunt and hope he doesn’t press me on it. The response earns me an eye roll before he heads over to the messy pile. A minute later, my bedroll is butted up against his and our usual stack of furs has been laid out, ready for nightfall. I wish he could neaten my confused thoughts as easily.

  “Sorry you’re stuck with me,” he says as he kneels near me and begins to prepare the fire. “I’m not good company right now.”

  “Haven’t been for days,” I throw back. He glares at me, so I add, “Hasn’t scared me off yet.”

  “Still isn’t fair,” he mutters.

  Twigs twist and crackle in his hands as he breaks them into more manageable kindling. He sighs, fully aware of my staring, and gives up on the fire in favor of sitting down. “I know you’re worried,” he admits after a painfully long pause.

  “You’re acting strange. What’s going on?”

  “When Mother resettled the Triumvirate’s power, Roark and I gained access to more magick. Adapting to the new power has been...” He trails off and stabs a stick at the pile of kindling. “There’s just more. I don’t know how to explain it.”

  “I wouldn’t understand anyway,” I tell him, trying to soothe his frustration. “No glamour, remember?”

  “Lucky,” he mumbles. “Anyway, I’m trying to figure it out.”

  “Is that why you’ve been having more dreams than usual?”

  “Maybe,” he hedges. “Can’t shake them, no matter how hard we ride.”

  He eyes the axe and does a poor job of hiding his exasperation when I draw myself protectively around the iron head. I’m too sleep-deprived to let him close while I sharpen it. Over time, Lugh’s grown seemingly immune to the constant presence of iron in the Wylds. He’s far less sensitive to it than the rest of the royal family at least. Still, I won’t risk him getting burned or nicked by a potentially deadly weapon. “Is there anything I can do?” I ask.

  “You’ve already done it.” He snorts at whatever expression I’m wearing. For the first time in days, the hint of a smile tugs at his mouth. “You got me out of the sídhe before Samhain.”

  “It wouldn’t have been so bad. A quick feast, a few speeches, and you’d be done. Probably better than a boring night of camping.”

  “No. Not this year.”

  Should I ask him why? Is that what he’s waiting for, or is this his way of telling me not to dig for more information? Unsure, I use the pad of my thumb to do a careful test of the weapon’s edge. Almost there. A few more passes and I’ll be content. Lugh tries to wait me out, but I’m dedicated to avoiding his gaze and to finishing up my task. After a while, he returns his attention to the fire. By the time I’m done with the axe and have put it away, we have a cheery blaze going and we’ve both found better footing in our own minds.

  We sit together in more comfortable silence, chatting quietly from time to time, as the day gives way to twilight. There are too many good memories of slipping out of the Winter Court to camp together for the dark thoughts hanging over us to remain. The stars sparkle overhead by the time we’ve finished dinner and cleaned up for the night. We strip down to our shirts and breeches for bed, a familiar habit requiring no thought or complicated what-ifs. Lugh crawls into his bedroll first and watches when I follow suit, keeping the iron axe within arm’s reach. He helps arrange the furs over us before rolling onto his side, cradling his head against his arm while he watches me adjust on the slightly uneven ground until I’m comfortable. Sleep hovers a short distance away, promising an end to aching muscles and worries about tomorrow.

  “You know tonight might be difficult,” he says.

  I bite back my immediate response of Every night with you is difficult. The sarcasm isn’t warranted when faced with Lugh’s utter sincerity. “We’ll manage.”

  Lugh doesn’t answer, so I close my eyes and imagine my body melting into the earth beneath me. Everything relaxes and the knots of tension in my back begin to loosen. Yes, all we need is one night of good rest and the world will be righted. Lugh will be happy again and I’ll be able to think clearly, without pesky thoughts sneaking in, and we’ll carry on for another handful of centuries.

  “Keir?”

  “Hmm?”

  He speaks so softly I miss the first few words. “—you to promise me something. No matter what happens tonight, don’t leave.”

  I roll over and reach for him, too exhausted to open my eyes. I find his shoulder and slide my hand up to the back of his neck. His hair’s getting long. It tickles the back of my hand and tempts me to bury my fingers in it. I wonder how long he’ll be able to stand it before he begs Armel to cut it for him.

  My hand stays curved around his neck, and his muscles tense as he opens his mouth and starts to speak. He needs sleep, not conversation. Make him stop talking...

  He gives a choked sound when I use my grip to drag him close. We lie inches apart, breathing together, while I wait for the tension to leach out of him. It’s as though he’s actively fighting against dozing off. I rub my thumb along the base of his skull until his pulse slows. Only then, when I’m sure he’s going to listen, do I scrounge enough conscious thought to mumble, “Not leaving.”

  “Keir—”

  “Sleep. Try. Please.”

  A heavy exhalation gusts against my throat and Lugh shivers. The pressure of his arm settling over my side makes it hard to breathe. In all our time together, I am always the one to hold Lugh. He is careful to never reach back. I’m not sure why. I like it better this way. Moving my thumb over his skin is hypnotic. I could stay like this forever. Intend to.

  All the fight leaves him. “Night,” Lugh whispers, and I know he’ll let himself sleep now. Content, I give in to my own exhaustion at last.

  Lugh

  There’s no comfort in the cold light of the stars overhead when I wake. Keiran’s stretched out beside me, an imposing mass beneath the furs, breathing easily. He turned onto his back again in his sleep, but his hand still lies between us, loosely g
ripping the bedroll. I want to reach for it, reach for him, but am afraid if I do and I wake him up, he’ll deny what happened between us, deny that his cradling me to his chest might indicate something more than simple friendship. I’m not ready to give up this memory and the fleeting hope it holds quite yet.

  The fire’s little more than glowing embers and fading heat. It wouldn’t hurt to throw some more wood on. I sit up and grimace at the swing in temperature as the night air slips underneath the bedding. Keiran grumbles and shifts, rolling back toward me. He needs rest. He’d never admit it aloud, but all week he’s been flagging, too stubborn about staying up with me to realize how much he’s hurting himself. I slide out from under the furs and settle them back over him. It takes a moment, but he gives in to the pull of the blankets and doesn’t stir again.

  It’s an ungodly hour. No sign of dawn on the horizon, no movements from the horses, and no more stored warmth seeping up from the ground. At least there’s a task to keep me occupied. I add wood to the fire and shiver while I wait for it to catch. A few hours of sleep makes the world less horrific. We’re out of the woods and the field sings a lullaby all its own, echoing Keiran’s and the horses’ breathing back to me while the breeze teases through the grass. Farther away, the woods stand like silent guardians. I must have been seeing things earlier. I could have sworn I saw the flitting movement of shades dancing amidst the trees, but now, there’s nothing. Probably sleep deprivation finally taking its toll.

  A small branch rolls out of the flames, so I use another stick to nudge it back into place. The fire spits and pops, too loud at this hour, a living creature unwilling to die with a whimper.

  He lay me down on a bed of harebell and kissed me till I sighed. And then he sliced into my heart and bled me till I died.

  Terror grips me and steals the air from my lungs when the singing reaches me from the burial mounds. No. She couldn’t have found me here, not after so many days of riding. Except, the shade isn’t alone. Shadows move across the field, drifting over the grass toward me. The stick drops to the ground when I press my hands over my ears and close my eyes. But her singing continues, so I give up protecting my ears and dig the heels of my palms into my eyes instead. The pressure sends up bright starbursts of pain flickering against my closed eyelids.