The Iron Crown (The Darkest Court)

by M. A. Grant

  Keiran digs his fingers harder into tendon and bone, forcing Dreher to release his hold on the dagger. Without his weapon, the anger in Dreher’s gaze is replaced with doubt and fear. I stretch my glamour further, focusing it on Dreher alone, and create a shifting vision of my helm with its wide antlers. I imagine them weighted with shedding velvet, the fine skin hanging in lank, bloody strips from bright bone. Dreher whimpers and the crowd around us murmurs at his strange response and draws farther away. Only the Hunt remains, unforgiving and unmoving.

  “I’ve seen him. Your shadow man.” I lean closer, until I can watch the whites of Dreher’s eyes flashing as he searches for my face in the illusionary shadow of my hood. “He can’t save you. And when he finds you out there, he’ll bleed you dry, just like the others.”

  Dreher cries out, a ragged, brutal exhalation, and fights against Keiran’s hold. My guess must have hit a little too close to the truth. I look toward Boros and his compatriots. The traitors have paled, and I stare at them until they bow their heads to me.

  At the sight of their surrender, Breoca steps forward. He keeps his expression blank and gives me a low bow. “Seidhr.”

  “This is the gods’ promise,” I tell Dreher. “Your betrayal has sealed your fate.”

  I gesture to Keiran. He releases Dreher, who crumples to the ground. The former clan head lies there before his people. His sobs cut the air around us. I bow my head to Breoca and intone, “The thegn’s justice be done.”

  I don’t stay to watch Dreher’s banishment commence. Instead, I lead the Hunt toward the hall. Aage’s call to assembly remains, and the Horned King’s testimony will not be denied.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Lugh

  The hall has become a battlefield and the clans have divided to occupy opposite sides. Even with Resnik, the only Mainlander who dared side with the Northerners, the odds are severely out of favor should a brawl break out. And one hovers in the air.

  “For a peaceful assembly, I see a lot of weapons,” Armel mutters to Cybel before wiping his watering eyes.

  I remind myself to breathe steadily, ignoring the warning burn in the back of my nose that urges me to start sneezing. No weapons have been drawn, but the sheer volume of iron in this space makes my skin itch and my lungs ache. Even Cybel and Armel, less powerful Unseelie fae, can’t ignore their bodies’ reactions. Of our Hunt, only Keiran shares the Sluagh’s lack of affliction, though he keeps a close eye out as we enter to take our places near Aage’s chair at the end. After Dreher’s attempted attack, Keiran is taking no chances. It was his idea to make Drest pack up our rooms and ready our horses so we can leave if something goes wrong. His distrust, when the Sluagh are more our family than the fae of my mother’s Court, was painful to witness in our chambers.

  Now, feeling the punishing weight of the Mainlanders’ stares as I settle into my seat, I think I understand his cynicism. For every dark glance the Sluagh on that side of the hall exchange, our Northern friends bristle. Hands find their way to hilts, teeth are bared, and violence is written in every careful, slow shuffle of another body resettling on the benches to ensure the best position for attack. Despite my best efforts to quell its influence, the draugr hums its contentment with the rising tension.

  Aage sits on a simple chair facing the three accused clan heads. Breoca waits at his back. They face Bouchard, Chayka, and Boros, who stand alone in the center of the hall. The traitors’ handful of retainers have all taken seats on the edge of the Mainlanders’ side, nearest the door. Several of Aage’s people stand near them, clearly on guard against weapons or other mischief.

  Defending themselves will be difficult. The Sluagh measure each other by their actions, on the legend built. You can’t easily worm your way out of anything with archaic loopholes or carefully planned misdirections like you can in the Courts. It’s why Aage doesn’t waste any of our time with useless pleasantries. He simply lifts a hand toward the three accused and states, “You stand before the assembly to defend yourselves. You are accused of plotting insurrection against the rightful thegn with the aid of a hostile power, of ignoring the plight of the people inhabiting your lands, and of upsetting the balance of the Wylds in a bid to gain greater power over your fellow huscarls. Begin your defense.”

  The moment his hand drops, Bouchard steps forward to speak. “We need no defense, not when these are baseless accusations. Tell us, what hostile power have we been plotting with? What sign of Winter or Summer Courts have you found in our lands? You cannot produce evidence of this. Your erroneous charges of treason prove nothing but your pitiful attempt to hold on to your title in the face of a new age.”

  Bouchard’s speech must inspire Chayka. She steps forward, but doesn’t bother to look at Aage. Instead, she turns to the Mainlanders. “We have not ignored the plight of our people. My lands lie near the Summer Court’s sídhe. Our poor harvests and struggles with humanity’s encroachment have left us weaker than in our past. The thegn has a point. My people lack food and some of the pleasant fripperies that make life seem more civilized. But what is more important? Worrying about how pretty our villages are in a vain effort to mimic the Summer and Winter Courts? Or should we be finding ways to defend against the warring factions of those same Courts, whose battles have begun to spill over into the Wylds? Battles our thegn refuses to defend us against while he lounges in the splendor of Eyjar? Do you not find it odd that he clings to neutrality and self-reliance when we’re strong enough to take both Courts ourselves? We should be the leaders of Faerie, not their cast-offs!”

  Most of the Mainlanders nod and murmur. Some of the younger Northerners look thoughtful, but their opinions matter little to me. I’m busy watching their elders, those I’ve known the longest, the tried-and-true huscarls who have always lived near Mother’s lands. They’re familiar with her strategies through the stories their elders shared about the first Faerie Civil War. They know what breaking neutrality with the Courts would bring. They know Mother’s wrath would overspill her lands and break over them like a rogue wave on the shore. They know the cost they would suffer if she considered them a threat to her power. They may want recognition as a Court, but trying to wrest that distinction by force will only lead to bloodshed and misery. Aage’s desire to secure peace and grow steadily until they can’t be ignored, to prove the Sluagh worthy of recognition by their own merits, will take time, but won’t risk his people’s lives. Chayka hasn’t given a good enough reason to side against Aage.

  Strangely, Boros doesn’t speak. He stays near the door, glowering at Aage without making any effort to defend himself. Bouchard and Chayka speak for a few more minutes, repeating their points again and again with slightly different wording, trying to plead a case they clearly can’t defend and simply want to drag out. It’s frustrating and annoying as hell and I’m surprised Aage lets it continue on. What purpose is there to politicking and lying to save your own skin when there are people—good people—suffering for your greed or pride? How many people will starve this winter because these two pretend they’ve done nothing wrong instead of asking for aid or support? How many more young Sluagh like Ingjaldi have left home to follow after the shadow man and his promises of a better life because their huscarls have failed them? How many other shades are being created as we sit here and do nothing?

  The brush of Keiran’s hand against the outside of my thigh jolts me out of my thoughts. I’ve been bouncing my leg up and down. My jaw aches from how hard I’ve clenched it. My glamour shields me, but the vibrations from my fidgeting would still travel through the shared bench to Keiran. He doesn’t look away from the accused as they drone on. He doesn’t drop his hand either. He keeps it there, steadying me, until Bouchard and Chayka finally fall silent. Both sides of the hall look up toward Aage, waiting for him to present his evidence.

  He sits a little straighter in his chair. His expression is solemn, his hands clasped lightly in his lap, nowhere near the hilt o
f a blade. “You say I have nothing to support my claims of your treason,” he says quietly. “You clearly have no idea how a true thegn behaves. How a true thegn guarantees the security of his people by removing the corrupt from power and ensuring procedures exist to keep his own office in check. I took the weight of the Iron Crown on the solemn oath to protect all my people, and I do not take that promise lightly. I have not come here empty-handed.

  “The gods have spoken,” Aage says. “They have shown us proof spanning the breadth of the Wylds. They have shown us the growing darkness festering in your lands and how it has begun to spread, threatening everything our people have worked to create. They have shown us the work of the murderer you now pledge your allegiance to. They have seen your greed and willingness to raise war when you should have secured your people’s lives for the coming winter, and they demand recompense for your actions.” He points to me and I stand, nervous under the intense scrutiny of both Sluagh galleries, of the accused, and of the thegn who gave me a place among his people. “Seidhr, begin your testimony.”

  I open my mouth to speak, to weave my testimony into the story of the Wylds’ decay, but a booming knock from the main door cuts me off. Aage’s retainers are beaten to the door by Boros, who looks far too triumphant when he swings it open. A hooded man steps forward into the hall and the galleries leap to their feet, weapons at the ready.

  I wince against a sharp pain that pierces my temple. The shades whisper, their unintelligible warnings mixing with the rising noise from the hall and the draugr’s keen.

  The intruder walks down the center hall as if he owns this space and never bothers to look at anyone except Aage. Breoca takes a half step in front of the thegn, sword drawn in warning, but it doesn’t seem to deter this man. He stops a few steps before the chair and says, “Sorry I’m late.”

  I know that voice. I’ve heard it before. Where?

  Cybel swears, a sharp, discordant sound in the stunned silence of the hall, and the stranger glances his way before reaching up and drawing off his hood.

  For a moment, the draugr’s memories blur over the figure before me. He’s a boy, surly and aching in his loneliness, too clever for his own good. His shrewd gaze rakes over the Hunt, lingering for a moment on Keiran and halting entirely when he reaches me. The veil of the memory rips away, and only the eyes remain. The same dark, cruel eyes set into the face of Robin Goodfellow.

  A sick smile bunches his cheeks. Glamour can’t hide this from him. He knows who I am. Who I really am. I’ve been so careful to never spend time with him, since he wanders freely between Courts, but he’s heard the legends. He, like all the Winter Court, thinks I’m playing dress up. To see me here, to see me testifying, is another beast entirely. A single word of familiarity from him, and all will be lost.

  “Someone’s far from home,” he says quietly.

  “Robin Goodfellow,” Aage says, trying to draw his attention away from me, “you have no place here.”

  “I’m just curious what’s going on,” Goodfellow pleads. I don’t trust his hands’ swift motions, the quick glances he uses to take in the hall. His cloak flares out when he moves and I catch a glint of metal at his hip. A knife, at the very least. “It seems you’ve been busy. Dreher’s an outlaw, three well-meaning huscarls are being charged with treason—”

  The news has spread so quickly? Keiran creeps up beside me, his two short axes drawn, and the magick of the berserkir belt pulses with every beat of his heart. The draugr slides from my mind and begins to creep into my muscles, searching for a way to defend itself. I lower a hand to the hilt of the knife I’ve tucked against the small of my back, for once in equal agreement with its wishes. It retreats from my body when my fingers clasp the weapon, content to growl and promise pain to the fae threatening us.

  Me. Threatening me.

  “Enough.” Aage’s voice thunders above Goodfellow’s. He glares at the messenger. “You have no clan. You swear no allegiance. You dance between the Summer and Winter Courts, and show no heed to our people’s neutrality—”

  “That’s rich, coming from you,” Goodfellow interrupts, his words tight and sharp. He reaches toward his belt. With that hint of threat, the rest of the scene snaps back into focus.

  The Mainlanders’ weapons aren’t pointed toward Goodfellow. They’re pointed toward us, toward everyone in the hall who stands against the traitors. Aage’s retainers who were near the accused huscarls are now held captive, knives pressed to their throats or against the soft, easily rent flesh protecting their kidneys and livers, while Bouchard, Chayka, and Boros follow in Goodfellow’s wake like carrion birds.

  Goodfellow’s lanky figure casts eerie shadows on the wall as he stares down Breoca and Aage. “Have you told them?” he asks the thegn. “Have you told them who spies for you throughout the Wylds?”

  “The seidhr belongs to the gods,” Aage begins.

  Goodfellow laughs and draws his knife. I know this blade. I’ve felt its edge in my throat. No, not my throat. Odhrán’s throat. I stare at it, remembering its weight in my hand, the sections of handle worn from decades of use, though I’ve never wielded it myself. They’re the ghostly impressions left by Odhrán’s shade. This is their father’s knife, the knife taken by Ingjaldi as tribute when he left home. Which means...

  “Keir,” I murmur, the shades’ reminders and warnings coalescing into a flash of terrifying connection. “It’s him. It’s him—”

  Time falters into broken moments of panic. The weight of my drawn short seax in hand. Goodfellow’s wry smile as he flings his stolen blade at me, slow enough for me to see it coming. Keiran yelling. The blade singing as it slips over my shoulder, never touching, never cutting. It doesn’t matter. Goodfellow’s landed the killing blow regardless. The iron’s singed through my glamour, burned it away because I was too frightened to focus on holding it up against the onslaught. I’m stripped of my helm and left naked before all the Sluagh.

  “Behold, your thegn’s false prophet,” Goodfellow intones with mock solemnity. “Queen Mab’s youngest son, Prince Lugh.”

  False prophet. The pieces fall into place. Goodfellow needed a flash point to start his rebellion against Aage and unmasking me is the perfect spark. Charging his huscarls for breaking their neutrality has made Aage, aligned with the Winter Court, a hypocrite. His crown, his reign, will be lost because of me. Because of the secrets he held for me.

  Goodfellow reaches out and takes a sword from Bouchard. With their leader armed, the Mainlanders throw themselves forward with weapons raised, even as Keiran, Cybel, and Armel push me behind them. The Northerners rise and crash against the oncoming wave of Goodfellow’s supporters. Blood and screams and the sound of metal shrieking fill the hall as weapons slide against each other.

  Kill him, the shades scream. The draugr’s rage cannot be denied. It’s fighting to reach Goodfellow, to destroy him, and as it claims me, I find him in the midst of the battle’s confusion and see his path.

  “Protect the thegn!” I cry to the Hunt, forcing the words out past the draugr’s hold.

  * * *

  They don’t hear me. I cross toward the throne, but it’s too late. The distraction works perfectly. A flick of Goodfellow’s wrist sends a thorned vine whipping up through the floor and toward Breoca’s face. It slashes him across the eyes, but he’s a warrior, tried and tested during Aage’s rise to power. He keeps his sword, giving a half swing to clear space as he steps to the last place his thegn stood. He doesn’t fall, so Goodfellow sends more vines at him. They wrap around his arms and neck, digging their thorns deep, killing him slowly. With the threat of Breoca’s strength removed, Goodfellow darts forward toward Aage.

  The Sluagh thegn stands unarmed. Goodfellow’s sword flies toward him, but Aage reaches out in a final effort to withhold death. Flesh can’t stop an iron blade, even in a moment of desperation. The sword slices into his hands as it slides farther, deeper, pierci
ng Aage through his heart. He holds Goodfellow’s gaze, even when the blade is ripped free. He collapses beside the still twitching Breoca, the two greatest Sluagh warriors fallen before their people realize it. Goodfellow reaches down to remove Aage’s crown. He settles it on his brow as he straightens, his bloody work finished.

  The shadow man is before me, and the jagged pieces of the shades left behind in my mind scream as the world crashes down. My head splits with the draugr’s roar of challenge and my heart weeps. I let the draugr unleash its rage, guiding its focus with one plea: stop him.

  Keiran

  Blood spatters the floor and the walls and leaves fighters slipping in puddles of gore. The hall’s wooden floor is hidden beneath piles of rent fabric, broken flesh, and bright bone. Swords lay scattered among the corpses. The low moans of the dying underscore the cacophony of the fighting. I’ve abandoned my short axes, given them up for the defensive strength of my father’s axe.

  The quest is lost. The war will be lost. The Sluagh have seen the truth. Our few friends will die to secure our escape. Have already died. Breoca and Aage have fallen and, gods, I swear I see the glinting eyes of great wolves staring at me from the shadows just beyond this chaos. The world’s ending and Lugh isn’t here beside me.

  His battle cry pierces through the discord and the belt’s magick scratches over my skin in a panicked response to Lugh’s fury. I whip my head toward the sound in time to watch him attack Goodfellow. Except, this isn’t Lugh. His movements are too rough. His graceful attacks and precise footwork are replaced with wild swings and lurching attempts to close the distance between him and Goodfellow. Everything about this fight is wrong. Short seax against short sword. Incoherent rage against dispassionate precision. Pain against triumph. He can’t win fighting this way.

  I won’t lose him. Not like Aage watched Breoca taken from him. I’m not that strong. Never have been. I’ll stop this because I’m too weak to live without Lugh.