The Iron Crown (The Darkest Court)

by M. A. Grant

  He protests when I end the kiss, but I need space. I don’t recognize the fire smoldering under my skin, but I want to push it, to learn if it can spread, especially when the tip of Lugh’s tongue darts out and wets his lips. He’s hard against my thigh and I know my body’s reacting too, though the sensations are muted, drowned out by my need to memorize Lugh’s mouth, now that I finally can.

  “You’ve felt this way all along?” I ask, amazed by his patience and needing to hear him say it one more time, to make me believe it’s worth the risk we’re taking.

  “Yes.” He draws back to examine my face. “Is it too much?”

  “It’s...intense.” I won’t lie to him anymore, about anything. “It’s more than I imagined,” I admit. “But I like taking the time to touch you. To taste you.”

  “I like that too.” He stretches up on tiptoe and tilts his face toward mine, smiling as he whispers against my lips, “Whatever you want, it’s yours. I’ll never change my mind about that. It’s always been you, Keir.”

  He doesn’t finish closing the distance, content to let me decide what I want. Him. Only him. So I take his mouth again and let the world and war outside our door fade away.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Lugh

  The best part of the morning is how nothing has changed. Well, nothing important, I guess. It’s strange to wake curled against Keiran, and for a half second I wonder why he’s here beside me. Then I remember last night—our confessions and kisses—and have to bite down a smile because this can happen every night now. No more suffering. No more keeping each other at arm’s distance.

  Keiran grumbles when I sneak out from under his arm and escape the tangled blankets, but doesn’t wake. I wash quickly, knowing I’ll be able to take a longer soak later, and get dressed. I’m adjusting the sheath for my smaller seax when Keiran sits up in bed, hair wild and beard in good need of a combing. His bleary eyes search the room until they fix on me, and his shy, sweet smile brightens the chamber more than the winter’s cool sunlight coming through the windowpanes.

  “Morning,” I say, giving in to the smile I can’t tamp down any longer.

  “Morning,” he rumbles back. His stretch is wide and luxurious and for the first time in centuries, I can stare openly. He chuckles when he catches me at it, but only says, “Give me a few minutes. Then breakfast.”

  He takes even less time to ready himself than I did. Most of his routine is dedicated to arming himself. He forgoes the axes, a polite expression of trust for the peaceful expectations of Krigsmöte, though he’s wearing no fewer than five blades when we finally open our chamber door and find Breoca, hand raised, about to knock. The Hunt stands behind him, grim faced.

  “A messenger arrived a few minutes ago,” he informs us. “The last clans are almost here.”

  “Are you expecting trouble?” Keiran asks.

  “Aage needs to speak with you,” Breoca says, an answer without an answer.

  We cross the hall and follow Breoca into their chamber. Aage is up and moving. He’s pulled his hair back so the iron crown on his brow is displayed more prominently. He gives Breoca a stern look when he spots us all.

  “I told you to bring me the seidhr,” he says.

  Breoca scowls. “Keiran deserves to know.”

  “Know what?” I ask, at the same moment Keiran asks, louder and angrier, “Are you expecting trouble?”

  Aage gives his attention to Keiran first in an effort to placate him. “Breoca believes these three huscarls may voice their discontent openly. They’re the root of our people’s troubles.” Breoca grunts his agreement, and Aage continues, “But Breoca’s job requires him to be suspicious and cynical. I doubt they will risk the wrath of the Northern clans by acting out violently against me here. They may not respect our traditions, but this is a sacred place and they will lose much support if they break those expectations. That said,” he continues, looking to me, “it would be wise to stand on ceremony with them. The messenger warned that he found a letter in Boros’s possession discussing the need to overthrow a false prophet.”

  “Could they mean the murderer I’ve seen in my visions?” I ask.

  Aage frowns. “Perhaps. We couldn’t discover the origin of the note without causing greater suspicion, but Breoca worries it may be referring to you.”

  Beside me, Keiran burns even hotter and I can sense a shift in the air around him, one I associate with fur and claws and teeth and Mother’s magick making its presence known. I don’t miss the way his fingers stroke the handle of one of his knives as if he’s feeling something else under his fingertips, even though the motion seems distracted and thoughtless. At least he keeps his hands on the weapon, rather than reaching for the berserkir belt.

  “You think they’ll try to attack Lugh?” he asks. His words are edged with the bear’s anger, the wildness that overwhelms him when he transforms.

  Aage must hear it, but he directs his words to me. “You are the Horned King,” he declares with iron in his voice. “Your title was earned through your service to our people. Your gifts have brought us safety and justice and prove time and again you are touched by the gods. Perhaps it’s time we remind them of that.”

  It’s not a promise to keep me from danger, but it is a promise to reestablish my might before the huscarls, including those who actively discredit my title. Considering all the nasty little details I uncovered during our travels about the shadow man’s work throughout the Wylds—specifically what he’s done in these clans’ territories and how the huscarls’ people suffer from their negligence—I can bring the wrath of the Sluagh majority down on the traitors’ heads through my testimony.

  “Perhaps it is,” I agree. “Am I allowed to speak at the Assembly?”

  “You, and only you.”

  Keiran watches me closely. He knows how much I dislike speaking for myself.

  “You wish to testify?” he asks evenly.

  “I need to.”

  The belt’s magick slowly fades, until I can’t sense it against my glamour anymore. “We’ll be beside you then,” he says, and the Hunt nods at his back.

  A knock on the door interrupts us. Cybel and Breoca go to answer and I steal the momentary respite to reach out and skim my fingers on Keiran’s knuckles.

  “I’ve got my seax,” I tell him, hoping he’ll worry less if he knows I’m armed.

  He nods. “Carry at least one more. I’ll get my axes.”

  A compromise if I ever heard one. He’s not happy about the situation, but he trusts me to stand as the Horned King and won’t get in my way unless absolutely necessary.

  “Deal.”

  Cybel and Breoca return. Breoca only has eyes for Aage. “They’re here.”

  The Northern clans are up when we emerge into the main hall. They watch in respectful silence as Aage marches toward the open doors, Breoca behind him. My Hunt and I follow a few steps after, and one by one, the other clans file in behind us.

  The Mainlanders have already assembled outside and give us nervous glances when we join them and watch the edge of the plateau where the road is.

  Horses approach from the mountain path. Everyone quiets. The hoofbeats come closer, closer, and then, the first of the guards crests the small rise. Behind Aage’s men, small groups of well-dressed Sluagh stare us down.

  When their cool glares cut to me, eyes rising to take in my glamoured helm, I feel something shift in the back of my mind. The draugr waking feels like the sliding of a snake’s scales against my earlier composure. I try to breathe through the irritation taking hold of me, and remind myself that I don’t feel it and I won’t allow myself to be a vessel for the draugr’s anger.

  The clans split apart, the Northerners and Resnik to Aage’s side, the Mainlanders to the other, though some look torn about that decision. Aage ignores the obvious tension of the crowd and strides forward. “Welcome,” he ca
lls as everyone dismounts. “Your rooms have been prepared.”

  Boros, looking just as insincere as he had in the village, tosses his horse’s reins to one of his retainers and walks toward Aage, commanding the empty aisle of space created by the clans. “You welcome us, thegn,” he snaps, “yet you had us escorted here under armed guard. Where is the goodwill required of Krigsmöte and its assembly?”

  Breoca, standing slightly behind his thegn, drops a hand to the hilt of his sword, mirroring the movement of Boros’s retainer.

  “Boros,” Aage says in a bored tone, “you and your compatriots have been brought to Krigsmöte to defend yourself against charges of treason against our people and our way of life. The fact that I called an assembly to hear the evidence, rather than taking the easier route of traveling to your lands to kill you there, is goodwill enough.”

  No one says a word. No one dares to make eye contact with Aage. Even Boros, for all the angry flush on the back of his neck, looks away. Aage lifts his chin, looks past Boros toward the other clan heads and their retainers. “Do any of you challenge these charges?” he calls. “Chayka?”

  She stares at the ground.

  “Bouchard?”

  His hands clench to fists at his side, but he doesn’t respond.

  Aage shakes his head. “Then there’s nothing more to say.”

  It’s Dreher, one of the older huscarls, who breaks away from the Mainlanders’ crowd. He steps in front of Aage and draws his sword.

  The draugr hisses its approval—

  “Oh, fuck,” Keiran breathes behind me. His fingers clamp down around my wrist to stop me from reaching for the smaller seax at my back. When did I do that?

  Keiran’s touch is solid and comforting and I focus on it, ignoring the draugr’s whispered suggestion to stand and fight. It wants blood. I want peace. As I struggle to silence its urgings, Keiran draws my hand away from the blade. The draugr growls and sinks back down.

  No one else notices us. They’re too busy with the scene playing out before us. Aage watches the point of the sword rise until it draws level with his chest. Dreher doesn’t tremble, but the tight lines of his body betray his nerves. He’s one of the older clan heads. When Aage was putting down small insurrections during his rise to his thegnship, Dreher was one of the heads who pledged fealty to avoid a fight. He knows Aage’s skill on the battlefield, yet he dares to raise a sword against him in this sacred place.

  Dreher clears his throat once, twice, and speaks, lifting his voice until all can hear. “I stand before our people as a representative of the accused. For your arrogance and ignorance, which has driven them to this state, I challenge you for your title.”

  “I see,” Aage murmurs. He holds out a hand behind him. Breoca never hesitates. He draws his own sword and passes it over. Their hands linger on the hilt for a moment, then Breoca steps back, part of the crowd. Aage finds a comfortable grip and settles into his fighting stance. “I accept your challenge, Dreher. To the winner goes the Iron Crown.”

  “To the winner goes the Iron Crown!” the surrounding Sluagh call back.

  Aage and Dreher wait, watching each other. No clash of swords comes. No sudden movements. I remember Aage trying to teach us about such challenges. He told us it was a battle of wills, a test of patience and courage. Fighting ability wasn’t as important as standing your ground. Maybe that’s why Keiran always beat me. I got bored too easily. Keiran would stand across from Aage, their eyes locked, and hold his battle stance for minute after long minute. Even though he would eventually take a swing, Aage always complimented him on his fearlessness, which only encouraged him to hold out for longer the next time. Keiran’s stubborn like that.

  Dreher is not. He bellows and breaks his stance to try to land a blow on Aage. His heavy swing is blocked, but it’s Dreher who staggers back when the reverberations of the hit rattle through his short sword. Aage hasn’t moved. His feet are set as firmly against the ground as the stones of Krigsmöte. The futility of the attack spurs Dreher into a second. This one is rushed, emotional, and the moment his sword connects with Aage’s, I know what’s coming and wince with sympathy. Aage twists his weapon and flicks his wrist. I understand Dreher’s confusion, the inability to understand the sudden emptiness of his hand and the sound of his blade falling to the ground. The press of a sword’s edge to his throat is much easier to recognize.

  He hits his knees, but he doesn’t look to Aage for forgiveness. He looks behind him to the three clan heads and realizes no one is stepping forward to help or defend him. He’s alone.

  Aage sees that change in him as well. He drags the sword up Dreher’s throat, until it presses against the soft curve of his jaw, where he holds it. “To the winner goes the Iron Crown,” he declares softly. The crowd around him calls it back to recognize his win, even the Mainlanders, who look sick to see one of their own in the dirt.

  “I should kill you for what you’ve done,” Aage tells Dreher. “But I have received divine counsel from our seidhr. Your death will do nothing to bring me closer to the architect of our people’s ruin, and I have no desire to ask your daughter to attend your funeral when she should be celebrating her life as a newlywed. I will not kill you.” He steps back with lowered sword and gives Dreher a sad smile. “But I will not forgive you either.”

  He lets that statement linger, drawing on it for dramatic effect before announcing, “You are now outlawed from our lands. You will be escorted home to bid your family farewell, while news of your status is announced in every village and town in our people’s lands. May the gods protect you from this point on, for none of our people shall.”

  Aage looks out over the crowd, taking his time to make eye contact with as many Sluagh as he can, especially Dreher’s retainers. “Justice has been meted in accordance to our laws. Now, it is time to hear the arguments of the accused. The assembly shall begin in one hour’s time, that we might pass judgment on the cowards who left Dreher to this fate.” Aage’s gaze holds mine. “Seidhr, you shall attend. Your Wild Hunt is forbidden from engaging in discussion during these proceedings. You alone, as the speaker of the gods, have that right.”

  I wouldn’t disobey his command, even if I wanted to. I bow my head to him and say, “Yes, Thegn. Blessings to the bearer of the Iron Crown.”

  And, like that, the moment is over. Some of Dreher’s retainers stifle tears, while others in the crowd exchange horrified looks before drifting away from the scene of Dreher’s ruination. Aage may not have killed the foolish man outright, but with winter’s arrival and a Faerie Civil War on the doorstep of the Wylds, his death is all but assured. Dreher realizes it as Aage walks back to the hall and the other Sluagh leave without offering him a single word of farewell. He’s a living shade, unseen by all others and separate from their lives from now on. His face flushes, mottled with barely controlled rage. He struggles to his feet and for a frightening moment, I think he may hurl himself after Aage.

  His furious glare lands on me instead.

  “You,” he snarls.

  It’s all the warning I get. He’s two steps from me with his iron dagger drawn, the promise of death written across his face. Before I can settle into a defensive stance, the draugr roars and swallows me.

  Dreher’s face is gone, replaced with a younger man whose mouth parts in a feral scream. The dagger in his hand angles at my chest and my blood will be spilled—

  The memory passes, but it’s too late. The draugr uses my distraction to force itself into my skin. It grips my muscles, digs for the seax, and tries to lunge forward.

  Keiran gets to Dreher first. Dreher chokes when Keiran wraps an arm around his throat, hauling him close and fighting for control of the dagger.

  The draugr’s desire to wield my seax consumes all my thought. Anyone standing before it, anyone in its path, will fall. They will pay for its unfair death—

  Keiran’s standing there too. I won’t
hurt Keiran. I won’t.

  My body screams against the denial of movement, and I claw at the draugr, fighting for control.

  Kill, the draugr promises.

  No. Not this time.

  It doesn’t go easily. I regain independent thought first and force myself to work through its grip on every muscle, on its bony fingers clamped around my knife. Eventually, the draugr makes a hissing retreat into the hidden places of my mind. Shaking and sweating, I’m alone in my body and can check on Keiran without the urge to destroy the man held in his grip.

  Keiran’s wrenched Dreher’s arm back until the shoulder threatens to dislocate. Every time Dreher tries to struggle, Keiran tightens his choke hold. My legs burn and ache after ending the draugr’s control over me, but I force myself to step forward, until I’m facing my would-be attacker.

  Up close, almost nose to nose, Dreher isn’t frightening. He’s a tired old man desperate for others’ approval, and he brought this tragedy on himself. If I hadn’t seen the plight of his people and the other Sluagh the shadow man has hurt, I might pity him. But his actions serve no purpose except to sate his own wrathful need to restore a destroyed reputation.

  “You thought killing me would help?” I ask him. When Dreher doesn’t respond, I chuckle and reach out to pat his cheek. “My death may prevent the gods’ mouth from moving, but it will not stop them from speaking.”

  “You’re worthless,” Dreher claims. His shrill words, mangled from Keiran’s hold, climb in one final, desperate effort to turn the crowd’s minds in his favor. “The gods have no need for you. Our people will go on without you, in spite of you. Your words have no power over us!”

  “Oh? So you wouldn’t like to know what’s coming for you?” I ask. He stills in Keiran’s arms. He may speak bravely, but tradition and old beliefs are not easily forgotten. He fears what I will say. Now’s the perfect time to follow Aage’s advice and remind the Sluagh who I am. I let my voice climb so everyone around us can hear. “I can tell you what the gods have told me.”