The Iron Crown (The Darkest Court)

by M. A. Grant

  He grunts in acknowledgment, which is the best I’m going to get right now. Until he receives news that the villagers who aren’t fighting have found safety behind the massive walls of Járnhelm, the most ancient fortress in Voll’s territory, he won’t stop worrying. Still, my reassurance must have helped because a moment later he asks, “Did you send your raven?”

  “Yes. Hopefully we’ll know if she received our message by tonight.”

  “And if she doesn’t?”

  Now it’s my turn to worry. “It’s Yule, so the sealing spell she cast will weaken as our power ebbs. If the raven’s message doesn’t reach her, we’ll have to try scrying. Honestly, I’m not sure what we’ll find until we get there.”

  For some reason, that comment makes Keiran smile. He glances down at me and the warmth in his gaze alone makes me forget the wind’s bite. “What’s so funny?” I ask.

  “It seems everything we do works that way,” he says. “We ride, we find some strange quest, we’re woefully unprepared, we somehow defeat a monster, and we go home to feast and tell stories about it until the next time.”

  “When you put it that way, I guess there’s nothing special this time. We ride to war, kill Goodfellow, go home, and feast. The stories should write themselves.”

  Keiran’s smile fades. “They may have to.”

  “Don’t,” I warn him. “I have no intention of dying, and the Horned King is no good unless he has a poet to spread his legend.”

  “And what will you do when your poet must leave you?” he asks quietly.

  The waves rise and spill over the shoreline, tugging greedily at strands of seaweed. One by one, those dark, drifting ribbons are plucked away and vanish into the retreating water, gone from my sight.

  “I will go with him, of course,” I promise.

  Keiran hums and nudges me with his shoulder. At least he finally turns away from the sea. I draw my cloak tighter around me and pick my way over the rocky shore after him, hoping we’re almost ready to depart. To my right, near the frozen spindrift, a nervous movement catches my eye.

  “Give me a moment, Keir,” I call, just as Cybel, Resnik, and Voll come to the top of the natural breakwall and gesture for us to join them.

  The shade waiting for me is young and difficult to make out against the backdrop of the surf and sky. “Need something?” I ask him.

  He reaches out a hand to me. Too new to know how to speak yet, it seems. The thought of digging through his memories this early isn’t pleasant, but he seems anxious for assistance.

  “Lugh, do you need me to stay?” Keiran asks.

  I wave off his concerned question, not wanting to distract him from his duties and not a jot afraid of the spirit in front of me. I hold out my hand in offering, and watch as he stretches to make contact.

  My efforts to work with the shades in the Wylds have made it easier to control the initial surge of memories and to communicate with them in more than broken thoughts or desperate pleas.

  What do you need me to see? I ask.

  Simple, homespun clothes and a short, well-maintained sword. His father’s, passed on after his death. He swore his fealty to Keiran on it. I’m in the hall, my knee pressed to the floor, my sword held in offering, my mouth moving over my plea to let me follow him into battle, to die with honor so I can feast beside my dead father and mother as promised by the gods. Keiran’s exhausted smile removes all fear of the war to come, and his gentle, “You will fight in my army and, gods willing, you shall see your parents’ faces when you wake,” leaves me at peace.

  Devotion. Fraternity. Honor. Noble reasons to remain and share a message. But how did you fall even before we crossed the sea to the Unseelie lands?

  Traveling across the Wylds with the rest of the forces. Tired, hungry, and limping from aching feet. Proud to be part of this, to stand against a usurper to all the Sluagh hold dear. Making camp, night after night. Last night, camping on the outskirts, as the rotation calls for. A shadow moving outside the firelight in the night. My vocal chords flex, but the arrow to my throat turns my call into a gurgle as blood drowns me.

  The young man who darts into the fire’s light seems too young to be a murderer. He keeps looking up to check for witnesses, but none come. I was the last to go to bed in this area, too excited and nervous about the crossing to fall asleep. My killer strips me and changes into my clothes. He doesn’t bother to dress my corpse, simply throws my body over his shoulder, and carries me away from the camp. He drops me in the ruin of a fisherman’s shack to finish bleeding out. The last sounds I hear are his retreating footsteps...

  Fuck.

  I wrench myself from the memories and step back. The shade moves closer, as if he wants to steady me. He was murdered last night and the man who did it is wearing his clothes and is posing as one of our troops. Rocks scatter underfoot from how quickly I spin, searching for Keiran, but he’s vanished over the breakwall with the others. Out of sight. Out of reach. Out of distance for me to warn him.

  I hate how long it takes to cross the icy beach. I hate even more how Keiran’s doing exactly what he should—standing tall on the back of a loaded wagon to give a rousing speech to the troops before we depart. I hate how it’s only now that I notice the flickering presence of shades throughout the crowd. Five shades at least, counting the one following in my wake. That means there are at least five of Goodfellow’s murdering soldiers making a last-ditch effort to stop us.

  Drest notices me first. He reaches to his belt to draw his short sword. His movement catches the attention of Armel and Cybel. And there, behind Cybel’s shoulder, a blessing from the Goddess herself—the face of the shade’s murderer as he moves in closer to Keiran. Cybel’s eyes widen when he sees me draw my seax and flip it, preparing to hurl it at a target, but he freezes as we’ve practiced so I can take the shot. The seax whips through the open space in front of Keiran and buries itself in the man’s eye. Chaos erupts. Dark shapes push through the crowd toward us. Toward Keiran, who still stands in the center of it all, only now realizing the danger.

  Protect him! I command the shades, throwing all my will behind the order.

  I’ve never asked such a thing from them. I’ve never needed their help so desperately. I don’t expect it to work. But they obey.

  They’re too incorporeal, too new to do much. They try to block Goodfellow’s men from reaching Keiran, but only slow them for a moment. But it’s enough. The Hunt take on the three closest attackers, which leaves the last to me. He’s at Keiran’s back, in the perfect position to stab him from behind. His sword comes up. A shade reaches out and grabs the blade. The man yelps, shaking his hands against whatever terrible sensation he felt through the metal, and his weapon lands on the ground.

  Finally, an opening. I hurtle toward the wagon, new seax drawn and in hand. Keiran watches my approach, guesses my path, and drops to his knees. He folds forward, offering me the strong, steady plane of his back as a step to vault from. It gives me the extra height I need to clear the far wagon side. I leap with all my strength and keep my knife raised. I land on top of the would-be killer, crushing his ribs as we crash back to the ground, and use his breathlessness to stab the blade into his throat.

  The moment I rip the seax free, the shades vanish. There’s no sign of them in the dazed and angry crowd. Keiran abandons the wagon to come toward me, but I ignore him in favor of the Hunt. “Are they all dead?” I shout.

  “Of course,” Drest replies. He wipes his sword on his cloak, grimacing at the wet stripe of blood it leaves behind, and kicks the nearest corpse. “Care to tell us who they are?”

  I would, but Keiran requires my immediate attention. He reaches a trembling hand toward my face, rubbing his thumb along my cheekbone and inspecting me for injury. I reach up to clasp his wrist. “I’m fine,” I promise. “I was afraid I wouldn’t get to you in time.”

  Jokinen and Jensson step forward
in front of the other soldiers. They kneel by the bodies and inspect them, frowning at whatever they see. Jensson asks, “How did you know?”

  I lock eyes with Keiran. I can’t make him lie to his people, not when it could risk their loyalty. Though this admission may frighten them even more than the sight of his transformation. But I will not make him keep my secrets, not when it could kill him as it did Aage.

  “They’re going to find out sooner or later,” I murmur.

  “Only if you’re sure,” he replies. “This is your story to tell, Lugh. Not mine.” He waits for me to decide. There’s no time left for fear. I have to face this. Once I nod, he turns away from me and raises his hands to quiet the crowd. “The seidhr will explain all.”

  Hundreds of faces turn to me and this time, Keiran won’t save me from their curiosity. The only person who can save me now, who can secure a place among the Sluagh and at Keiran’s side, is me.

  “When I rode as the Horned King,” I begin, wishing my voice would stop trembling, “the poet told you stories of my visions. The Goddess speaks to me, but not directly.” I give a pained smile. “I’m not that deserving.”

  The nearest warriors chuckle, though they still look uneasy.

  “The Goddess sends shades, spirits of the dead, to me. They need help to find their rest and I offer that.” Despite the murmurs of doubt in the crowd, I press on. “What you just witnessed—your thegn’s survival—is because one of your fallen brothers found me and warned me of Goodfellow’s troops in our midst. Goodfellow’s men murdered him and others last night and thought they could sneak past us. They thought they could kill your thegn and secure the place of their imposter, their false prophet—” I don’t hide my bitter joy at using Goodfellow’s moniker for me against him now. “—over you. They underestimated the honor of the warriors in the North. Even in death, your brother’s duty to his thegn prevailed. His actions were their undoing.

  “I know my magick is frightening.” I clench my hands to fists and deny myself the safety of glamour. If I want to stay at Keiran’s side, if I want his people’s acceptance, they deserve my honesty. “And I know being Queen Mab’s youngest son is a mark against me, and rightly so, considering her history with the people of the Wylds. But I swear to you, if you let me, I will serve your thegn as my sole liege.”

  The Sluagh are silent. I remember Keiran’s suggestion and keep my mouth shut. This choice is theirs and, for Keiran’s sake, I will honor whatever their decision may be. But with every second stretching out longer, I fear what they’ll demand of me.

  From somewhere in the crowd, a voice shouts out, “Pledge!” Another joins the call, then another, a chorus rising in fervor until their chant drowns out the sound of the ocean. I turn to Keiran, who watches his people with an expression of awed surprise.

  “May as well give them what they want,” I say, smile growing until I can’t contain it. I’ve never been happier to obey a missive.

  Keiran looks back at me, lips parting on a command I refuse to hear, and I kneel before him. His stunned reflection in my drawn and offered blade makes the moment sweeter. At my back, the crowd stops their chant and waits to hear my words.

  “Thegn of the Iron Crown,” I say, “I offer you my blade, my magick, and my heart. Let me serve at your side until the end.”

  His breath hitches when he hears his own promise repeated here before all these witnesses. And when I dare to look up at him, his answering smile is fierce with pride. He reaches to pull me to my feet and the Sluagh roar their approval.

  “Until the end, Lugh,” he agrees.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Keiran

  Kermode’s and Thorburn’s forces are waiting for us when we arrive on the borders of Queen Mab’s lands. They’ve established a camp in one of the clearings on the edge of the Wylds, offering us a clear view of the snowy, rolling fields of the Unseelie sídhe, with its cairns and standing stones. They’ve chosen a defensible space, one beyond Queen Mab’s immediate reach. The huscarls set to work expanding the encampment, while the Hunt and I find Kermode, who has a message for us.

  We find him unloading the new supplies, and he smiles when he sees us approaching. “About time you arrived,” he says. “I didn’t fancy facing those messengers again.”

  “What messengers?” I ask.

  “The Winter Knight and the Prince of Air and Darkness,” he says. “Moment we halted here and began setting camp, they appeared out of nowhere. Felt like being struck by lightning. Had a blade at my throat before I could say a word. They thought we were part of Goodfellow’s forces. Once they heard we were with you and the seidhr, away goes the blade, out comes the politeness, and the question of where the hell you were. When I said I didn’t know, the prince gave me a message to deliver. He said to scry as soon as you arrived.”

  “Shit,” Lugh mumbles. He brushes his fingers against the back of my arm. “I should go.”

  “Not far,” I tell him. “If they want you to meet with them, I’m going too.”

  Kermode beams at that. “So the talk is true? You’re going to face down Queen Mab? Gods, I’d love to know my territories were secure from her reach. You lived in her sídhe, so you must know how to negotiate with her.”

  If only he knew what life under her rule was truly like. “I intend to try.”

  He nods and gives my shoulder a meaty slap before turning back to the wagon. “Good luck then. We’ll be eager to hear your story when you return.”

  The Hunt exchange wary looks. They know Queen Mab. They’re far less optimistic about the coming encounter.

  “We’ll stay here,” Cybel tells me quietly. “Do what we can to help. We’ll make sure our tents are set and ready when you get back.”

  It’s easier to walk away to find Lugh when I know I’m leaving the minutiae in capable hands. The huscarls and the Hunt are all experienced and confident leaders. They provide good counsel and I trust them. If we win this war, I’ll reward them for their loyalty and service.

  Lugh will also share in those rewards. For the first time in decades, I’m buoyed up with hope. Lugh relies on instinct more than planning when he makes decisions, but he’s not foolhardy. His choices always have a reason attached. The pledge he made to me in front of the Sluagh means something, something I’m scared to examine until after Lugh faces his family and makes a final decision about his future.

  That moment may arrive sooner than I think. I find Lugh sitting on a rock just outside the shelter of the trees and wrap my arms around him from behind. He hums a greeting, but isn’t distracted from the small bowl of water in his hands. After a moment, the edges of the water shiver and ripple toward the center, obscuring the reflection of Lugh biting his lower lip as he focuses on the task. The movements of the water stop and Lugh swears.

  Leaning down to kiss his cheek is easy now. I’m allowed to steal these intimacies because we’re both hopelessly entangled in each other’s pasts, presents, and, gods willing, futures. “What’s wrong?” I ask, shuffling so I can drape the edges of my cloak around his shoulders.

  “Haven’t scryed in a while,” he grumbles, leaning back against me so the cloak covers him more fully. “It’s so much easier to send ravens.”

  “Armel will be so disappointed in you. He’ll probably bring back your practice until you can scry in your sleep again.”

  “Don’t you dare tell him about this,” Lugh says. “I won’t go through that hell again.”

  “Should you try again or—?”

  The hairs on my arms prickle and a wave of sensation crawls up my spine, reminding me of the charge in the air when lightning splits the heavens close by. The bowl tumbles to the ground and Lugh’s beside me in a moment, nimbly stealing one of the knives from my belt as I draw a short axe. Our tension melts away the moment we see who steps from the forest behind us. Prince Lyne and a blond man with mussed hair and an easy smile inspect u
s.

  “You’re late,” Prince Lyne remarks.

  “We didn’t plan for a coup among the Sluagh,” Lugh shoots back.

  Prince Lyne’s utter lack of surprise at Lugh’s statement unnerves me. He knows something’s gone wrong, but he doesn’t seem angry. In fact, he awkwardly clears his throat and declares, “You’re safe. That’s all that matters.”

  Lugh flushes a little at the unusually obvious affection from his older brother.

  The prince gestures to the other man, who steps forward nervously. “Smith, this is my youngest brother, Lugh, and his guard, Keiran. Lugh, Keiran, this is Smith, my consort. Now that that’s out of the way, we need to get back.”

  “Consort?” Lugh asks, just as I ask, “Isn’t the sídhe sealed?”

  Prince Lyne stalks past us toward the edge of the sealing spell, ignoring our questions. He focuses instead on Smith, who takes position beside him. “Ready?” Prince Lyne asks.

  Smith flicks a hand toward the boundary and the same magick we felt earlier flashes again, ripping a heated line through Queen Mab’s spell. Torn between amazement and terror, I gape at the magnitude of Smith’s power.

  Prince Lyne steps through first and gives us an irritated gesture to hurry. Following after him is strange, like running through a dense fog. The sealing around the sídhe clings to my skin. I can’t imagine the intensity of the sensation for Lugh, who can feel the magickal film against his glamour. Smith steps through behind us, makes another gesture, and the sealing closes back into place.

  Lugh spins to Smith, eyes wide with wonder. “How did you do that? You aren’t fae.”

  “No,” Smith admits, rubbing at the back of his neck and glancing toward Prince Lyne for guidance. The prince doesn’t offer any help; he simply rolls his eyes and continues walking across the field. Smith makes a face at his retreating back, but offers, “I’m Phineas Smith. Human. Ley line host. Winter Knight.”