The Iron Crown (The Darkest Court)

by M. A. Grant

  “How will I know when to stop though?”

  “Tell me your story, and we’ll figure it out together.”

  He sputters, but soon enough, he begins laying out his version of events and weaving his persuasions into the flow of his tale. The room echoes with the passionate rise and fall of his voice and I close my eyes, soaking it in, enjoying this moment of peace together before we face the war’s reality tomorrow.

  Lugh

  Meðalhall is eerily quiet, even beyond the closed door of Aage’s study. All of Eyjar seems to wait in silent expectation as this audience draws to a close. Keiran and the Hunt sit on a long bench behind me. They don’t speak or move, but their support bolsters me nonetheless. Aage sits across from us, with only Breoca at his left. Neither has spoken since I began. We used to share stories around campfires during our quests together, laughing and joking over foolish things. Now, we face each other with grim solemnity and I cannot ignore how Aage is no longer the intrepid adventurer who wished to share in the Wild Hunt’s glory. His life and purpose are dedicated to the protection of his people above all else, and my place in his kingdom will never be worth more than Sluagh happiness.

  I’ve given Aage our observations from the Wylds, from the unrest and turmoil seen throughout the lands to Roark’s kidnapping and the open hostility shown to traditionalists. I warn him of the mysterious deaths that seem tied to the shadow man, and of the vanishing population of young Sluagh and the lack of concern the Mainlanders seem to have about their disappearances. I’ve only briefly framed these discoveries within the context of the looming war in Faerie, including Roark’s kidnapping by presumably rogue Sluagh, not wanting to push too hard for him to choose against Sluagh neutrality. I don’t want to drag his people into the war if they’re unable to defend themselves from internal threats. Threats no one expected, it seems. As I talk, Aage’s expression grows darker and darker. Now, near the end of my speech and my recounting of the village massacre, I offer my strongest evidence of the brewing storm, and the man behind it.

  “Keiran,” I call quietly.

  He rises from the bench and steps forward. The bundle of cloth he lays on the tabletop beside our travel maps doesn’t look like much. At least, it doesn’t until he deftly flips back a few corners of the fabric, exposing the cleaver. Aage’s spine goes rigid and Breoca’s jaw clenches at the sight of the paltry weapon.

  “Clearly, those who attacked the Seelie village were not trained warriors,” I say.

  Keiran returns to his seat, but the brush of his fingers against the back of my hand offers quiet reassurance for a job well-done.

  “This blade was abandoned in the thicket,” I explain. “The attempt to frame the Winter Court for the massacre may have worked, but if Oberon questions it, he’ll soon realize there is no one else near that village except Sluagh settlements.”

  Aage reaches out and lifts the cleaver. The dull edge catches the light as he twists and turns the blade. As he finishes his inspection, he offers it to Breoca, who repeats the process.

  I swallow, more nervous at the end than I was when I began, and clasp my hands behind my back. “I fear Oberon’s actions after he learns of this attack. I fear the influence of the man in my visions or whoever is convincing those young people to abandon their homes. And I fear the unrest in your lands will grow as more go missing and as supplies run out before the worst months of winter. You were our friend before you became our thegn, and you know your good heart matters more to us than your title. We don’t know what your huscarls have shared, and doubt some have been fully honest. That’s why we’ve returned to Eyjar.”

  Keiran’s calm advice from last night echoes in my mind. I’ve offered all the information I can. Now all I can do is shut my mouth and wait.

  Breoca returns the cleaver to the cloth and glares at it. Aage’s moved his attention back to the maps. He spins the documents to better examine our notes, his finger tapping here and there thoughtfully. It’s a familiar action.

  Even when he was a young huscarl, Aage’s measured responses were well-known throughout the Wylds. After he won the title of thegn, he relied on those traits to keep the tentative peace secure. At last, Aage’s finger settles on the massacre site and he glances toward Breoca.

  “Weren’t Dreher and Bouchard visiting each other recently?” he asks his retainer.

  “For their children’s wedding, yes.” Breoca leans over and points at another spot on the map. “And we sent aid to Resnik and Boros a few months ago.”

  “Boros is a liar, if he told the seidhr he received no aid. There’s no point questioning him about their troubles. Resnik will give us anything he’s heard though. He doted on Liv.”

  I tense a little at the mention of Aage’s deceased wife. It was she who convinced Aage to turn to peace, refusing to marry him until he’d found a way to protect all the Sluagh, who had only recently installed him as thegn. The moment peace was declared through the Wylds, they were wed. Keiran and I met her a scant decade before she passed. I remember her smile most, and her needless apologies for Aage’s increasingly frequent absences from our Hunt’s questing. He had far more important matters to spend his time on by that point, but she never wanted us to feel as though our youthful friendship with him had been forgotten or outgrown. She laughed off our promises that visiting Eyjar and spending time in her bright, warm company was as enjoyable as going off on another adventure. Facing her teasing when we practiced swordplay against a blushing Breoca, listening to her share stories of her time as a healer before her marriage, and helping her in her small garden offered measures of peace to us all. Her loss rippled through all the Wylds, and through our Hunt. Mentioning Liv now—a woman who taught Aage to treasure peace above all else—and the bonds of loyalty she inspired means he’s made a decision.

  “We always knew Boros, Chayka, and Bouchard would likely turn on us,” Breoca says after one final look at the map. “Bouchard’s been agitated since you refused to let him push against the Summer Court’s borders, and Boros hates anyone who can best him in a fight. I bet Chayka’s the one who wanted to work together.”

  “Her armies aren’t strong enough to stand against us alone.”

  Breoca taps a finger against the pommel of his blade. “She isn’t strong enough to stand alone against you. None of them are. If they want the Iron Crown, they’ll need allies to try to unseat you. At least we have enough proof of their alliance at last. You intend to confront them together?”

  Aage nods. “Send messengers to them last. Don’t give them time to rally. Send a light escort of armed guards to ensure they don’t try to delay their travel or send messages to other allies. Let them slink into Krigsmöte with their tails between their legs. A lesson in humility may persuade them to not stir up further trouble.”

  The bench behind me squeaks at the mention of the Sluagh meeting ground. If Aage is going to call the huscarls to assemblage on neutral ground, it means he expects guilty verdicts for those he brings charges against. It also means a solid week of riding to reach Krigsmöte if we want to get there and back before winter closes its icy grasp over the Wylds. Soon the biggest storms will roll in and the lean times will begin.

  Breoca stands. “Rally the men first, then send the messengers?”

  “Yes. I want us to be there before anyone else.” He gives a half smile to his friend. “At least we already had the Northern clans en route for a visit. We’ll meet them at the crossing and tell them of the new meeting place.”

  “I’m sure they’ll be eager to hear why you’ve changed venue,” Breoca remarks.

  Aage waves him away, distracted again by the map. “They’ll understand. It’s time to make a statement about a good huscarl’s responsibility to their people and their thegn. They cannot circumvent tradition simply because they are tired of being found wanting. For everyone else, this will be a pleasant assembly and time to catch up on each other’s news. We s
hould be sure to bring extra wagons for rations and tribute.”

  “I’ll see to it,” Breoca promises. He gives Aage a half bow, offers me and the Hunt a nod, and leaves the study.

  Once he’s gone, Aage sighs and leans back in his chair. His posture is relaxed, but his shrewd gaze latches on to me the same way Mother’s does when she’s about to test me. “A short time ago, I received a missive from Voll, warning me of trade concerns. So it troubles me deeply that you’ve seen no sign of the aid some of my huscarls requested.”

  “Perhaps we missed it,” I say. “Would they have any reason to store it, rather than distribute it?”

  Aage’s smile is hard. “Well, the last time this happened, Thegn Svend had just died.”

  “His death led to infighting.” I rub at my eyes. “They were hoarding resources for their troops.”

  He nods.

  “But we saw no armies—”

  “Yet our young people of prime fighting age are missing.”

  “You think the huscarls are preparing to rise up against you?”

  Aage shrugs. “They’ve tried before and failed. I am far more worried how my people will survive this winter. The crops have been yielding less and less each year, though we cannot find a cause for it. I send what aid our stronger territories can afford, only to learn it never reaches those in most need. There are too many coincidences for me to overlook.”

  “And what shall we do if you fall?” Keiran’s rumbled question dares to ask what I haven’t been brave enough to voice.

  “Continue on, I suppose,” Aage says, with a thoughtful look toward Keiran. “Though I doubt those who overthrow me would be comfortable allowing Lugh’s office to exist in a period of newfound peace. The Horned King leads the storm’s edge of war.”

  “Are there Sluagh using my presence as an example of your failure?” I ask, horrified my friend may suffer if I retain my title.

  “I don’t give a damn what they think. Your reports and stories have allowed me to help them for centuries. They can mark whatever signs they want; in the end, they still must defeat me, and none have managed that yet.”

  All the fire in his eyes vanishes. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, kinder, and I know he’s trying to make up for any unintentional injury. “You and the Hunt will travel with me and my retainers as honored guests. When we reach Krigsmöte, you will testify of what you’ve witnessed. After the fate of the schemers has been decided, we’ll discuss other issues.” Triumph roars through my veins, and I know Keiran’s fighting to stay composed behind me. Aage’s giving me the opening I need to ask him for his help. Publicly testify against the plotting huscarls to secure peace in the Wylds, and he’ll consider our proposal about the war. It’s no guarantee of support—Aage will do what is best for his people—but it’s a step closer to succeeding in my impossible quest.

  “We’ll prepare for the journey,” I promise him. “I won’t let you down.”

  “You never have,” Aage murmurs and his praise soothes the sting of his earlier comment. “I’d suggest you enjoy the amenities of Eyjar while you can, seidhr. Tomorrow, we ride.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Keiran

  Krigsmöte, the ancient fortress that serves as the Sluagh’s place of assembly, sprawls out across a large, raised plateau that stretches up above the surrounding forest. The field where we stand to meet the new arrivals is open, with wooden stakes marking the spots for the practice and tournament rings. Behind us, the main section of the fortress looms. Numerous wings with their own entrances all connect into a central hall. Outbuildings offer space for stables, supplies, and additional quarters, if needed, and there’s even a natural hot spring. We’ve spent days helping Aage and his retainers prepare it for visitors. I doubt the Mainland huscarls will appreciate our work though.

  Aage steps forward to greet them civilly. He doesn’t receive anything but the barest, most begrudging, acknowledgment back from all except Resnik, who crows his delight and grips Aage in a tight hug after making his initial bow. Resnik is short, strong, and sentimental. He waxes poetic to Aage about his family—a new grandchild on the way, it seems—and his land and his plans to improve on next year’s harvest and—

  Then he spots us. Well, he spots Lugh, who watches the Mainlanders from behind the safety of his glamoured helm.

  “By the gods,” Resnik announces, “the Horned King is among us.”

  Aage seizes the opportunity to escape and greet the rest of the new arrivals, forcing Lugh to quickly turn his attention to Resnik. “I am.” Some of the nearest huscarls exchange dark looks. Lugh must notice because he continues, “The thegn requested my presence and I would obey his wishes.”

  “I had not realized you would respond to the thegn’s beck and call,” Kazlauskas, one of the younger huscarls, says with an oily smile. “Surely you have no time to spare for us when you are so busy with your little adventures. Or were you already on your way to Thegn Aage? After all, if the gods send you visions, you must have known you would join us here.”

  “Forgive him, seidhr,” Resnik says, glaring at the younger huscarl until he withers under the scrutiny. “He does not mean to invite the gods’ wrath. His lands are in turmoil and he speaks cruel words out of fear he’ll be displaced.”

  Kazlauskas doesn’t dare challenge Resnik, or his assumptions, but I note his deep, furious flush. The nearest huscarls step away from him, as though close proximity may leave them facing Resnik’s vicious insults as well. Once the old man is content Kazlauskas won’t make further disparaging remarks, he asks Lugh, “Now, seidhr, if you please to come with me, I would ask advice of you and my thegn.”

  Lugh gives me a look that silently begs for assistance, but I have no intention of freeing him from Resnik’s attentions. I smile at him and watch with amusement as Lugh tries to make small talk while being escorted reverently toward Aage.

  It would have been wiser to go with him. The moment he’s gone, one of the older Sluagh who greeted Aage with a sneer approaches me.

  “Poet,” he calls. He says it as though we’re old friends, as though I welcome his company. He’s wrong on both counts.

  I say nothing. Regrettably, it doesn’t deter him.

  “I must wonder why the Horned King and his Wild Hunt are here for our assembly. Are you our entertainment? Though I suppose your stories would have to be entertaining then.” He chuckles, though none of the Sluagh behind him join in.

  I want to break his nose with my axe. Instead, I cross my arms over my chest to fight the urge to reach for my weapons or the belt. I will not embarrass Lugh here, not when this assembly could determine his future.

  The annoying fae takes my silence for some form of consent because he stops laughing to himself and commands, “Tell us a story, poet.”

  “No.”

  “What?”

  I stand to my full height, which forces the ass to look up at me. “I said no.”

  Aghast, he takes a step backwards. “Do you know who I am?”

  “I do not. Nor do I care.” He sputters, but I press on, tired of his posturing and wishing Lugh would return with an excuse for me to walk away. “I speak for the seidhr, and he and the gods have not seen fit to give me your name.”

  The crowd surrounding us has fallen silent. None speak up against me. None defend their comrade. Instead, they leave him to flush and bristle when Aage, Lugh, and Resnik come over.

  “Keiran,” Lugh calls to me. Somehow, his voice manages to chastise and tremble with amusement at the same time. “We must speak. Come.”

  I obey, bowing to Aage before following Lugh, ignoring everything and everyone else as he leads me back into the hall. There’s no one here; all of Aage’s retainers are busy helping move gear into the waiting rooms or are working to untack the horses after their long journey.

  Lugh selects a chair by one of the smaller cooking fires
. He sits astride it and rests his chin on his crossed arms. He waits for me to settle in on the chair across from him before asking with mock solemnity, “Making friends already, I see.”

  “He spoke badly of you,” I grumble.

  He gives a faint snort of amusement. “You did better with him than I would have, Keir, but we shouldn’t instigate if we can avoid it. The Mainlanders are trying to find any cracks they can in Aage’s armor. They’ll be watching us closely in hopes they can demonstrate Aage’s support of us is a poor idea.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. We’ve just got to make it through tonight.”

  “It’ll be better once the Northern clans arrive tomorrow,” I agree. “It’s harder to bully others when their supporters are near.”

  “True.” Lugh gives me a fond smile. “Your presence did seem to deter my brothers from the worst of their teasing.”

  “We must remember those interactions differently.”

  “No.” Lugh shakes his head. “You’ve always been able to influence people. You’re a good man, Keir. The best I know. But even you have your limits, and I’d prefer you didn’t push them too far tonight. I’ll need you tomorrow. You know how eager the Northerners will be to visit with us in the morning. Save your energy and your stories for them.” He rises and spins his chair back toward its original spot before patting my shoulder. “I’ll rejoin Aage. You should go to bed.”

  “I don’t want to leave you alone with them,” I argue.

  “The Hunt will happily shadow me, if it makes you feel better. They’ve had about enough of these bastards and they’ve only just arrived.” Lugh looks toward the doors and grimaces. “Go on. Goddess, and Aage, willing, I’ll be joining you shortly.”

  I laugh and watch him walk away, forcing myself to stay seated. I may not like the newest Sluagh to join us here, but Krigsmöte is a sacred place where bloodshed is forbidden and Lugh is sure he’ll be safe. I’m not filled with the same confidence, but I trust him. I also trust that the Hunt will gut anyone who comes to injure him, which is the only reason I obey Lugh’s order and head for our chambers.