The Iron Crown (The Darkest Court)

by M. A. Grant

  He gives one choked gasp and I want to cry when I recognize the sound of my name falling from his lips in his voice.

  The fight leaves his body and I loosen my grip before he slips into unconsciousness. He hacks and chokes and lets me hold him, though I ease the pressure on his throat. Even before I hear him speak again, I know the shade has retreated. Warmth has returned to Lugh’s skin, to mine, and even to the world around us. The belt’s quiet. The buzz that grew under my skin as we fought has died out.

  “Fuck,” Lugh gasps, and clutches at my arm.

  “It’s gone,” I tell him.

  He makes a horrible, pained noise, and his fingers dig into my arm, smearing in the blood from the knife’s cut.

  “It’s gone, Lugh,” I promise. I loosen my grip even more, trying to release him from my hold, but he doesn’t let me. He reaches up and keeps my arms pinned where they are. It takes a moment to realize the wetness on my arm isn’t more blood; Lugh’s crying, silent sobs mixed with his coughing.

  “Sorry,” he says, over and over, and my heart breaks for him. “Don’t want to hurt you.”

  “I know,” I murmur into his hair. “I know. When I asked you to stop, you did. You chose well, Lugh.” For some reason, that makes him cry harder, so I abandon all hope of fleeing this cursed cottage immediately and cradle him to me instead. We stay there until he calms. Then we gather up our discarded weapons, try to ignore the blood smearing both of us, and flee to the trees, where our horses and our escape back to the Hunt await.

  Lugh

  There’s no avoiding a conversation with the Hunt about my magick, not when Keiran and I ride into camp hours later than we were supposed to, bloodstained, exhausted. With Keiran at my side, I explain my ability to see shades and interact with them, though I hedge on the reality of how entwined we can become. Instead, I tell them I sometimes get lost in the memories, using it as an excuse for our injuries.

  Drest shrugs and goes back to skinning out the hares he shot. Armel says he’ll get us some bandages. Cybel is silent the longest, and I steel myself for his disappointment. As one of the soldiers who fought beside Mother in her war for the Winter Court, he has known me my entire life. He’s trained me, treated me like a grandson, and his acceptance matters almost as much as Keiran’s.

  After a short forever, he sighs, shakes his head, and says, “At least you talked,” and goes about preparing dinner.

  I help Keiran clean and dress his wounds, while he makes me use compresses of snow against my bruised throat in an attempt to lessen the swelling. We sit pressed together beside the fire, silently contemplating what happened to us in that damned cottage, and let the men work. Later, after a hearty meal, we lay our bedrolls down beside the fire and curl up facing one another. The others drift off around us, but we seem to have made a mutual decision to avoid sleep. Keiran lets me brush my fingers over his hair and watches me with thoughtful dark eyes.

  “How did you get it to stop?” he asks me.

  My stomach churns and I worry the hare I ate at dinner is going to come right back up. “What?”

  “I thought I’d lost you to it, but then you were back in my arms. You stopped its attack. But how?”

  “I... I don’t know,” I lie. “I don’t think I was the person it was looking for.”

  “It was looking for someone?”

  The tickle of a memory. A small boy, hands stained crimson, looking up from the carcass of a dead bird he was playing with. His eyes are flat, bored, and I shudder when he reaches out to take my hand, turning it so he can examine the blue veins pressed against the skin of my wrist.

  I shake myself free from the disturbing sensation of small fingers tracing over my skin. “A boy, maybe. I’m not sure. It was hard to understand.” I jolt a little when Keiran reaches up and skims his thumb against my wrist.

  “Why?”

  “Every shade has a reason they’re stuck here. If they tell me, I can help. But this shade... There was no purpose. I couldn’t feel anything except its rage.”

  He frowns. “I’ve heard of those.”

  If he starts a recitation, I’m guaranteed a few more hours I won’t have to close my eyes and see the violent snippets of the shade’s piecemeal memories. “Oh?” I ask, hoping it prompts him further.

  To my disappointment, he tries to hide a yawn before he can answer, “My people called them draugrs. Spirits of the dead who returned to life because of how strong their hatred was.”

  Fuck. “That...sounds about right,” I mumble.

  He squeezes my wrist gently. “Then we’re lucky we escaped unscathed.” My fingers stutter against his temple and he gives an apologetic hum. “Relatively unscathed, I suppose. Draugrs would follow those they wished to devour until they claimed them. Once one attaches itself to a victim, there’s no escape.”

  Fuck.

  He yawns again. “They’re probably just legend though. I remember the warriors my father fought with telling those stories, not the seeress, and she’s the one who knew the real dangers. We should rest. Tomorrow will be a long day of riding.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Even after he’s fallen asleep, I lie awake, staring at his fingers banded around my wrist, and fight off the panic threatening to overtake me.

  Earlier, I promised Keiran that I would be safer, that I would think before I acted. But in the cottage, body caught in the throes of the shade’s death, Keiran broke through the memory long enough for me to claw my way free of the draugr’s dark pull for a split second. I saw Keiran’s resignation, his willingness to die rather than hurt me, and I knew I’d do anything to keep him safe. So I reached out to the shade who had forced its way into my mind, and invited it to stay.

  It didn’t believe me at first, but when Keiran turned the fight in his favor, the shade gave in. It retreated into the darkest shadows of my mind where most other shades fear to tread, and buried itself deep in that blackness. It hasn’t stirred since, but I’m sure it will awaken again. And when it does, what the fuck am I going to do? I don’t know if its memories will ever be coherent. If I can’t figure out how to help it, it’ll live inside me like those ancient shades who follow Mother and who came to me as a child, settling into my mind before I knew how to deny them. The draugr’s reappearance will force me away from Keiran, from everyone, to keep them safe. How will I be able to face him then and admit I chose something I knew could lead to our separation?

  I chew on those painful questions as the fire burns down, as the storm clouds finally clear and expose the glittering night sky, as the moon passes and dawn pierces the horizon. No answers come to me. By the time the men start to shift and wake, the only thing I’ve decided is to keep this to myself until I know what to do. It may be a foolish decision, but it allows me to smile when Keiran opens his eyes and act as if all will be well.

  Maybe it will be, in the end.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Keiran

  Slowly, the nightmare of Lugh’s run-in with the draugr begins to fade. We close the distance to Eyjar at a steady pace. The promise of the warmth and comfort of Meðalhall, Aage’s great hall, is alluring, but at night after everyone else is asleep, Lugh whispers his worries to me. He fears Aage is losing control of his people. He fears the restless shades are signs of darker forces at work. He fears everything we’ve done here will be lost to his mother’s war. I won’t lie and promise him all will be well. Instead, I listen until he falls asleep and when we rise in the morning, I ride on beside him.

  Lugh’s worries weigh on me for the rest of the ride. It’s nearly dusk when we finish making our way up the narrow, winding mountain path and emerge on the snowy ridge overlooking the valley. The evergreens stand proud and dark against the pale ground. The open meadows and fields stretch out below us and the well-used paths leading in and out of the village promise a short burst of easy riding in this last stretch.

 
; Eyjar, the unofficial center of Sluagh culture, sits comfortably at the far edge of the valley. Smoke rises from its fires, and pinpricks of lantern light grow as we watch. The vast scale of the settlement had astounded us when we visited for our first time centuries ago as young men. Aage’s clan and those who choose to live in his court make their homes inside the giant central ring. Fortified by tall, thick wooden walls and only offering four gates for entry or exit, Eyjar is a fortress, a place of protection and safety for those Sluagh seeking refuge in it. Or for road-weary travelers like us.

  “Isn’t that a sight for sore eyes?” Armel asks with a smile. “We’ve been away too long, seidhr.”

  Lugh nods in agreement. He takes in the scene with a quietude that could be mistaken for mild indifference. I know better. This is a homecoming, truer than any visit to the Winter Court’s sídhe, and he’s letting it wash over him.

  I urge Dubh to Lugh’s side and ask quietly, “Shall I ride ahead to announce your arrival, seidhr?”

  My formality rouses him from his thoughts. He offers a rueful smile, and shakes his head. “They’ll recognize us soon enough. Come on.”

  We follow him down the lazy switchbacks to the valley floor. Down here, the scent of wood smoke and home cooking hangs heavy in the air. We urge our horses faster to get us to the gates before the sun dips too far behind the mountains. The horses recognize this place. They know comfortable stalls with good hay and friendly grooms wait for them. It takes no coaxing for them to fly over the powdery ground.

  The nearby river glints and flows like a liquid sunset, reflecting the colors back up to the sky, though the presence of ice on its banks promises it won’t flow for much longer. In our absence, Aage’s clan has diverted a few more feeder streams to irrigate the fields. The farmlands stretch out farther from the walls, and the newest silos mean this past harvest must have been even more successful than usual. My heart soars to see their good fortune, though I wonder why other clans’ lands have fallen so far in comparison.

  Ahead, the gates loom. The watchtowers on either side are manned with warriors who lean closer to the edge of the ramparts as we approach. One of them, older, rears back when he sees us and sends up the call, “The seidhr returns!”

  Soon his words are echoed around the ramparts and the sentries rush from their placements to come see our entry into the village. I glance at Lugh, curious what he thinks of such a reaction. The man riding beside me is the courageous faerie prince I devoted myself to all those centuries ago. He offers me a half smile, but I can read the worried lines pinching the corners of his eyes and mouth. The gates creak open in welcome to us—and our disturbing news.

  Past the gate, Lugh pauses to stand in his stirrups and cast a wide view over the buildings around us. His delay means I’m still close enough to the gate to hear the heavy thud of the timbers closing and the resounding echo of the drawbar settling into place. I sigh with relief from the sudden release of tension through my neck and shoulders. Safe at last.

  “It’s bigger than I remember,” Lugh remarks as he sits back down. Liath’s already turned toward the path leading to the center of the village, with its stables and great hall. He’s stubborn enough about his destination that Lugh laughs and gives him his head. The contrast between this place and the rest of the Mainland is stark. Here, Sluagh briefly abandon their homes or work to greet us. Some of the elders even reach out to brush their hands over Lugh’s boots, which makes him flush under the Horned King’s illusion.

  The thegn’s most loyal retainer, Breoca, waits for us outside the hall’s entrance. He leans against one of the great pillars, an island unto himself despite the rapidly gathering crowd. He’s older now, with deeper creases around his eyes. We’ve been away too long. The last time I fought beside him, his light hair didn’t have nearly this much silver in it. At least his smile is as familiar and easy as I remember. “The Wild Hunt arrives in Eyjar once more.”

  Lugh tilts his head in acknowledgment, a theatrical movement to draw attention to his horned helm. “If our thegn will graciously allow us to greet him in person, we would report our errand.”

  Breoca unhooks his thumbs from his belt. “Oh?”

  “We come to receive the thegn’s counsel,” Lugh says, then adds, “and to offer our own.”

  It’s a bold statement. The past few weeks have left us all haggard, exhausted in body and mind, and I’ve no doubt it shows. Whatever misgivings Breoca may have, his voice is warm as he assures, “Seidhr, the doors of Meðalhall stand open to you always.”

  The crowd fills in behind us as Breoca leads us into Meðalhall. Heavy beams extend high above us, lifting the roof like an offering to the gods. The fires quickly melt away our ride’s chill, and illuminate the tapestries and decorations hung around the cavernous space. Elaborately carved doors separate the private chambers of Aage and his family, as well as the most luxurious of the guest quarters and the tribute stores from the rest of the hall. It’s taken decades of painstaking work by Aage to provide his people with this kind of luxury.

  “My thegn,” Lugh calls, well aware of the curious audience at our backs. The friendly greeting tells me he has no intention of telling Aage the grim news right now. No doubt he’ll request a private audience before bringing it up.

  “Seidhr,” Aage calls back, rising from his fur-draped chair. He’s a mountain of a man, nearly as tall and broad as me and his smile is wide and bright. “Poet, and all my old friends. What brings you to Eyjar?”

  “A long ride and a desire for friendlier faces,” Lugh answers. “We’ve been away too long.”

  “Your return is a blessing of the gods,” Aage says. “Remain with us as long as they can spare you.”

  We were nervous the ill will we experienced on our journey through the Mainland Wylds might extend to Eyjar, though we believed our old friend would welcome us back. We were right to trust in Aage’s grace and sincerity. Hearing his formal invitation aloud, in front of his people, relaxes us all. The atmosphere of the hall transforms quickly to cheer and a call for community. Cybel, Armel, and Drest wander off to greet old friends and past lovers. Lugh and Aage begin talking. A small horde of children descend on me, happy to inspect the poet they’ve heard about from their parents.

  I answer their questions, sit beside them when the first course of supper is brought to the tables for sharing, and try to be good company by sharing a few short, amusing stories. To my surprise, soon they’re reciting my tales to me with far more embellishments than I could imagine. Their creativity is incredible, though it’s odd to hear others’ interpretations of events I remember so clearly. Their parents taught them my tales well, but they’ve built on them. If we survive this war, perhaps I’ll be blessed to hear their children tell me new versions. Perhaps I’ll live so long at Lugh’s side, watch so many generations grow up that the stories may someday be unrecognizable, even to me.

  I wish Lugh were here to laugh with me over our transforming legend, but his conversation with Aage is more important. They eventually join us at the table, still talking in hushed murmurs, but more at ease.

  “We’re meeting again tomorrow,” Lugh murmurs when he takes the seat beside me and helps himself to dinner. “We’ll have more time and greater privacy then.”

  “Do you need my help?” I ask him.

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  “When you know, tell me. I trust you, Lugh. Whatever it is, I’ll do it.”

  He glances up from his plate with a faint smile. “It’s that easy for you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you.”

  “What now?” I ask. “Did you want to stay and mingle? They’d be happy to hear me share more stories tonight, if you’re up for the attention...”

  He shakes his head. “I need to plan for tomorrow’s audience. You...you wouldn’t mind coming with me, would you? You wouldn’t have to do much, just let me try to organize my t
houghts aloud.”

  “Finish eating and we’ll get to work.”

  He relaxes after that. Later, after our meal we make our excuses and leave for our chambers.

  We move down the halls on memory alone. Lugh opens our door and heads inside; I brush my fingers over the carved serpent in the doorframe and follow him, shutting us away in this private space. The room hasn’t changed much; only the furs on the massive bed have been switched out. The spaciousness, the crackling fire, the elegant furniture... There’s pleasure in recognizing the same sanctuary Lugh and I have claimed time and again since Aage’s rise to power.

  Lugh sits at the small table without another word, while I go to the bed and fall backwards onto it. I raise my arms and lace my fingers together behind my head, lifting myself enough to have a clear line of sight on Lugh. “What do you plan to tell him?”

  Lugh fidgets with the hem of his sleeve before admitting, “I thought it might be easiest to tell it like a story. I know that’s your skill, not mine, but there’s so much to share with him and I don’t know how I’d keep it all straight in my head otherwise.” He offers me a sheepish grin. “I can’t remember what stories I’ve read from books, but I can always remember the tales you tell.”

  “Make it a story then,” I urge him. “The hardest part about it will be knowing when to shut your mouth. No matter how tempted you are to rattle on, trust yourself, Lugh. Stop speaking and leave the final decision to him.”