The Iron Crown (The Darkest Court)

by M. A. Grant

  I swallow down my argument and pretend my acceptance. Even with my hood raised, he sees through me. “Trust me, Keir,” he murmurs, and a moment later his helm is in place, the wide rack of antlers stretching up toward the cloudy sky.

  “We stick together,” I tell the men as we follow after Lugh. They agree with solemn nods and I know they feel the same thing I do. There’s no denying it anymore. We’ve finally crossed over the invisible boundary separating allies from adversaries. Anything could happen now, out here in this vast expanse of nothing.

  The sharpened poles lashed together to form a wall around the village loom ahead of us and I grip Dubh’s reins tighter as we cross over the threshold of the open gate. The few Sluagh moving inside pause their work as we head for the central square. Nothing but hard faces and harder eyes greet us. They say nothing to Lugh, but the sight of Cybel, Armel, and Drest draws angry whispers of Unseelie, and several of the oldest inhabitants spit on the ground as I ride past, though they don’t utter any words against me. I must not warrant the breath necessary for them to curse me. My role as Lugh’s poet and bodyguard doesn’t make up for the fact that I am human and my people, my real people, have brought misery and pain upon the Mainland Sluagh for centuries thanks to their close proximities.

  I do my best to ignore their hostility, but more and more villagers appear at our backs and remind me how outnumbered we are. The urge to reach down and wrap a hand around one of the short axes at my belt grows and the belt wakens from my increased nerves. I grit my teeth against its promise of protection and focus on Lugh’s back. He won’t risk our deaths. The moment this looks like it could go completely wrong, Lugh will give us a sign and we’ll bolt.

  The narrow street we’re on finally opens out into the main square, where the hall waits. The building is worn, like the rest of the houses here, with faded paint and broken shingles. The doors leading inside are open, but there’s no warmth from welcoming fires.

  Lugh doesn’t dismount Liath when he draws up in front of the building. Instead, he turns in a slow circle, taking in the crowd surrounding us. “Where is the good huscarl Boros?”

  No reply from the villagers. They just glare at him and, by association, us.

  The antlers of Lugh’s helm tilt as he cocks his head, seemingly thoughtful at their utter lack of response. The breeze is back, colder than before, and ruffling the fabric of our cloaks. Lugh sucks in a sharp breath before calling out again, “Where is the good huscarl Boros?”

  “Here,” a low, irritated voice replies from the darkness of the hall.

  We turn toward it and watch as a tall, lean man emerges into the daylight. His dark hair is short, cut more closely to Seelie styles than Sluagh, and he can’t quite hide his frown when he takes us in. He doesn’t offer Lugh a bow; the closest gesture of respect he affords is a bare inclination of his head. “The Horned King is welcome here.”

  I’m tempted to call out his lie, but Lugh speaks before I can. “We have been riding for many days and hoped to take shelter with you tonight.”

  Boros contemplates the request for a long moment that borders on outright insolence before replying, “Such an illustrious figure is always welcome in my home. Yet I should caution you that we have but little to offer you and your company—” His eyes dip down to our saddlebags and his thin lips curl in a sneer. “—despite the generosity you could surely show us. It has been a difficult year.”

  Behind us, the villagers murmur their agreement. The hissed syllables they whisper are not fond. Not kind. I rest a hand on my thigh, close to my weapons and notice Cybel is doing the same.

  “Surely a being so great and wise would understand our struggles,” Boros continues. “And he would not hold us responsible for our caution. We’ve heard rumors of a false prophet roaming these lands.”

  “A false prophet?” Lugh asks.

  “Yes,” Boros replies. “A man who has risen to claim a place never meant for him. A man hungry for power. It would be wise for us to be wary of such a man.”

  The conversation twists, transforming into something far more threatening. The air ripens with simmering frustrations and hostility at our intrusion into this place. Lugh senses it; he leans forward toward Boros, a movement that makes Liath’s ears flick as he waits for the next command.

  “Truly, a wise decision,” Lugh agrees calmly. “I am sorry for your troubles. I have seen the suffering in your lands and will not burden you or your people in such a time. Thank you for your honesty. And know, I will not hesitate to tell the thegn of your people’s need.”

  That draws an angry flush to Boros’s cheeks. He clamps his jaw and bows his head again. “Thank you, seidhr,” he says, without any gratitude in his voice. “Safe travels.”

  The crowd parts for us with deliberate slowness. Lugh leads us out of the village at a sedate pace. He doesn’t glance back once, doesn’t show any sign of his unease, and we follow his example. The gates close behind us, a clear warning to not return.

  Armel waits until we’re back at the base of the hill to ask, “Where to now, seidhr?”

  “Onwards, I suppose,” Lugh says. “We can try our luck at the next village.”

  Armel nods and starts to pull out our map. He—and the rest of us—are surprised when Lugh points a finger toward the forest. “Let’s cut through there,” he announces. “That should prevent us from having to backtrack for so long, right?”

  Armel checks the map. He makes a face, but offers Lugh a shrug. “If that’s what you want, seidhr.”

  “It is,” Lugh says. “I’m curious to see what’s there.”

  “Did you not find what you were looking for in the village?” I ask as we pick our way across an overworked field toward the first line of trees.

  “No,” he replies.

  The forest waits for us, a dark smudge against the landscape, and I hold my breath when we pass the first row of trees. Our horses seem displeased by our choice of route. I can’t blame them. The few game trails snaking their way into the forest look old. I doubt they’ll all be clear.

  “Keir,” Lugh says at last. He’s dropped his glamour and watches the trees with a strange focus. “Would you lead?”

  Rather than answer, I give Dubh his head, letting him choose the circuitous route he wants to take, with only minor corrections to keep us in a rough parallel to my memory of the village walls. It’s slow going, either from my own discomfort or from Dubh’s, and the rest of the Hunt follows with unusual quietude.

  We pass through a dense stand of trees. To both sides, there’s nothing but tightly pressed trunks. The only opening I can see in the line is before us. If I get off Dubh’s back, I bet he’ll be able to sneak through, though it’ll be tight. He shakes his head when I dismount. “Give me a moment,” I warn Lugh before returning my attention to my horse.

  I pat his neck until he calms down, then take the reins in hand and cautiously make my way through the gap. He sets himself against me for a moment before giving in and following. Stepping through is like stepping into a winter’s day. The shock of bitterly cold air biting into my lungs and skin leaves me gasping, and I’m so lost in the distraction I misstep. Dubh whinnies when I slip on a patch of moss and lose my grip on his reins.

  For a muddled moment, I see the canopy overhead. Reality comes crashing down when I do. The fall is softer than I deserve, but my head still rings from its blow against the ground. I groan and shut my eyes tightly while taking quick stock. Nothing broken, nothing truly damaged except my pride.

  “Keir?” Lugh’s voice is too tight, too edged with worry. “Keir, are you okay? Dammit, Cybel, take Liath for a moment—”

  Dubh’s velvety nose brushes my temple. It’s the lone source of warmth in this frigid place. He nudges me again, his whiskers tickling my eyelashes, a clear order for me to get up. When I open my eyes, his concern over my foolish behavior is obvious.

  “I�
�m fine, thanks,” I grumble and scramble back up. Thank the gods Lugh hasn’t made his way through the gap in the trees yet. I can still salvage this. A quick check confirms my cloak escaped any new tears, so I settle it more firmly around me. The cold hasn’t abated, though no steam curls from Dubh’s exhalations. Or mine, for that matter.

  I snag hold of Dubh’s dangling reins and turn to look for our path. Instead, the wide stone ahead catches my eye and the world drops out from under me.

  A set of heavy, rough ropes wrapped around the dead fae’s wrists are tied off to the nearby trunks, keeping him lashed down to the makeshift altar, a gaunt corpse abused by the elements. His back is split open, cracked like a walnut shell, and the jagged, bleached white tips of his ribs stretch out like a pair of grisly wings.

  “Lugh,” I call hoarsely.

  I want to flee, to climb on Dubh’s back and race away from this place, but the cold’s grown so intense my muscles cramp and leave me unable to look away. The lesser details make themselves known: the fine weave of the man’s breeches, the delicately wrought golden mask obscuring his face, and the unnatural pallidness of his skin, as if he were bled dry, though no blood stains the stone.

  This isn’t the kind of sacrifice I heard about during the late-night recitations of my childhood. This death does nothing to venerate the gods. There is no sign of appreciation for this sacrifice, no reverence shown the corpse after its purpose has been served. This is a provocation, a challenge against all natural law, and the evil of such an act has soaked into the very ground beneath my feet. It festers and poisons everything around this abandoned, forgotten place.

  “Fuck. Keiran!”

  I battle the dead weight of my fear-struck limbs and turn in time to meet Lugh when he throws himself forward, knocking my hand away from the belt. His touch is so warm, a reminder of vitality and life and everything missing from this cursed clearing. It doesn’t last though. He pushes me back, uprooting me from my place before the stone, and turns toward it. His spine is straight, one hand settled on the handle of the seax at his waist, and he glares at the brutal sight as though he could make it disappear from his will alone.

  A litany of curses begins when the rest of the Hunt works past the trees and finds us. Drest stares in horror at the body, Armel stone-faced beside him. Cybel, still gripping the reins of his and Lugh’s mounts, comes to my side. He doesn’t reach down to help me up, nor does he look away from the sight of Lugh furiously blocking my view.

  “What is this?” Cybel asks.

  “Wrong,” I croak. “It’s wrong, Lugh. There’s no respect in this. He couldn’t have found his way home, not after what they did to him—”

  Lugh doesn’t move, but his voice rings out steadily nonetheless. “I know, Keir. I know. This isn’t what I thought I’d find.”

  I can’t tell if he’s still talking to me, or to the men, or to the shade that must have led us here. I don’t care. I can’t let this kind of evil reach out to Lugh. I won’t let him relive such a blasphemous end. “There’s no helping him. There’s no helping any of the people here. This place is rank with something monstrous, Lugh. We have to go before it’s too late.”

  “What should we do with the body?” Cybel asks Lugh.

  “Leave it,” I say.

  Cybel’s mouth sets in a grim line. “Surely someone in this village will want to give him a proper burial.”

  “This isn’t his village,” Lugh says. “He’s Seelie.”

  Drest shifts uncomfortably and nudges Armel. “Isn’t there a Seelie village nearby?”

  He pulls out the map and makes a cursory inspection before nodding. “Maybe an hour’s ride. Close enough to explain how he got here.”

  “Lugh,” I begin. He finally, finally looks away from the body and I know he’s fighting to keep something else at bay. “Please don’t—”

  The steel in his gaze makes me fall silent. He addresses all of us, even if he looks at me the entire time. “We retrieve the body. We take him home. We end this.”

  I should argue against his kindness. I should remind him of our urgent need to reach Aage. I should, but Lugh is determined and I’m weak. I can’t leave such an affront to the gods lying here. The men watch me with open worry until I reach to my knife belt and draw one of the blades. Without a word, I force myself to walk to the body and saw at one of the ropes, praying to the gods that Lugh knows what he’s doing.

  Chapter Eleven

  Lugh

  We ride toward the Seelie village weighed down by a poorly wrapped corpse and the onerous presence of its shade. It’s a continual shadow in the edge of my vision, though it mostly follows in Drest’s wake, unwilling to move too far from its body. It’s made no effort to reach out to me to share its fate or memories, other than offering the command of Home. The wounds on the body confirmed what I already suspected. The shadow man was at work once again, though the brutality of the execution means this was someone important to him. I don’t know why. I don’t think I want to know why.

  So I ignore the shade and focus on my men. I may be the only one to see it, but they all feel it. They suffer the lingering sense of dread and the tightening of muscles gearing up for violent confrontation, though it’s impossible to understand why the body prepares when there’s no sign of a threat.

  I keep Keiran with me at the front of our column, within arm’s reach. The sight of the shade reaching into him, calling Home as though Keiran would understand, left a jagged burst of terror behind my ribs. When he turned to me and I was able to touch him, to feel how much warmth the shade had siphoned away from him, I knew I had to put it to rest. If I didn’t, it would follow us. It would slip its claws into Keiran’s heart and glut itself on his mortality until he lay beside it, just as cold and lost. I won’t risk Keiran’s life, no matter how badly we need to reach Aage and return to the sídhe. “How close are we?” Drest calls, trying to hide his nervousness. He refuses to let someone else carry the body, no matter how many times we offer. This is the closest he’s gotten to admitting he’s near his limit.

  “Over this hill,” Armel promises.

  The trees open at last, offering us an unobstructed view of the land stretching out before us. Faint curls of smoke rise, too many for cooking fires. “What the fuck?” Keiran asks, staring at the scene below in horror.

  The village no longer exists. Buildings lie in smoldering heaps. The muddy ground is a mess of boot prints and water gathers in the deepest depressions. Food stores lie destroyed and scattered. Here and there, figures move between buildings, and I grip my spear tighter. This isn’t a settlement. It’s the site of a massacre.

  The shade sighs; it’s a pained, mournful sound that makes me flinch. Cybel leans forward in his saddle. Gone is the spontaneous man who taught Keiran and me proper footwork by making us spar within complicated nets of ropes, or who corrected my shooting form with ridiculous bracers while I practiced with my bow. A stern, canny commander sits in his place, taking in details with speed that only comes from experience. “Where are the bodies?” he asks.

  The unexpected question rocks through me. Bodies? I check again and realize he’s right. There are none. Which means the figures I saw weren’t living.

  “Seidhr,” Cybel asks quietly, “your orders?”

  The shade has crept forward in the interim, until its long, pointed, blackened fingers are close enough to brush against the hem of Keiran’s cloak. Keiran shivers, but keeps Dubh standing calmly beside me. My throat tightens when the shade reaches out again, bolder this time, and I shift Liath to cut off the shade’s access to Keiran.

  Home, it whispers to me.

  “Give me the corpse,” I order Drest. “I’m taking it down.”

  “Not without us,” Armel argues. I’m surprised he’s the one to speak up. Normally such a protest would come from Keiran or Cybel.

  “Of course not,” I say, desperately trying to f
ormulate a plan that will keep them out of the shades’ grasps. “But we should spread out to keep a better watch for returning forces. Drest will serve as sentry when we head down. Call if you spot any movement.” And, to keep him from arguing, I ride to his side and reach for the body. To my relief, he helps me slide it onto Liath without a fight. I don’t want him near any other shades until he’s had time to recover from this ride.

  “What about us?” Cybel asks.

  The shade presses closer to me, skimming its claws over the body. Liath shies and I struggle to keep him under control. “I want you three to remain on the outer edges of the village. You’ll be close enough to help if I need it, but you won’t get in my way.”

  Keiran frowns. “Get in your way?”

  “This is something I have to do alone,” I tell him. “I’ve seen it.”

  The men do a poor job of hiding their doubt at my lie. I can’t waste time convincing them to believe me though. With an aggressive shade at our backs, and the promise of more shades before us, I need to dump our unwanted burden and get out of here. So I leave it at that and meet Keiran’s gaze. He gives me a wary inspection. Just when I think he’s going to ask me to explain, he looks away and nudges Dubh into movement.

  “As you command, seidhr,” he says. It’s a victory, a formal acknowledgment of my place in our small group’s hierarchy and a reminder to the men to obey me. So why does it hurt to hear my title, without the usual affection, fall from his lips?

  We fan out as we work our way down the hill, listening for any warnings Drest may call out. None come. Liath huffs his displeasure when we hit the mud and the others’ mounts don’t look very happy either. At least it isn’t deep enough to force us to dismount. The horses pick their way cautiously along the wrecked road. The village’s main gate lies in ruins, planks broken and scattered across the ground. We’re forced together for a brief moment as we pass through the threshold, but soon enough I’m alone, surrounded by a loose defensive circle as we make our way toward the village’s center.