The Iron Crown (The Darkest Court)

by M. A. Grant

  I can’t help but laugh when I feel his cock hardening against me. He groans. “Ignore it,” he pleads. “It’ll go away. I’m too tired.”

  “Okay, old man,” I tease, trailing my fingers along his jaw.

  He buries his face deeper against me and I barely catch his grumbled, “You’re awful.”

  “At least you’re smiling again.”

  His sudden stillness worries me. Perhaps I said the wrong thing, accidentally reminded him of what he just walked away from. My doubts wind up until he sighs and lets his body go lax in my arms.

  I’ve nearly dozed off before he speaks. “It hurts to imagine them facing Goodfellow without me. Is that strange?”

  Ah. I wondered when the reality of his freedom—and its cost—would sink in. “It’s not strange,” I assure him, rubbing small circles over his shoulders. “They’re your family. And you’ve never been one to run from a challenge.” I hesitate, but Lugh’s breathing evens out and this might be the best opportunity to coax an honest answer from him. “Do you want to fight beside them?”

  He mumbles something unintelligible.

  “Lugh?”

  “Dunno,” he repeats louder. “I dunno.”

  He’s asleep seconds later, but I lie awake, staring up into the darkness of our tent and thinking too much about dark things I should have forgotten by now. Perhaps my sleeplessness is a blessing. It means I’m awake to hear the tentative knock on our tent’s frame, along with Cybel’s cautious, “Keiran?”

  “A moment,” I call back and check on Lugh. Fast asleep.

  Deeply, too, since he doesn’t stir when I disentangle myself from him and drag on clean garments I’d set aside for the morning. I stuff my feet into my boots and step outside. The Hunt guard the tent entrance, packed together closely enough I have to move them apart with my hands on their shoulders before I can see the reason for Cybel’s alert.

  Prince Lyne and Prince Sláine stand feet away. Prince Lyne’s eyes flick toward the tent. It’s not a threatening movement, but I step into his line of sight anyway, bristling on Lugh’s behalf. “He’s asleep,” I tell them. “First time in a while.”

  “We need to talk,” Prince Sláine says. Quietly, thank the gods.

  “It’s with me alone, or not at all.”

  Prince Lyne tilts his head and examines me before asking, “Is he alright?”

  “Confused. Hurting. Losing your family is difficult to accept.”

  Prince Sláine seems surprised by his brother’s candor. “He told you?”

  Tired of talking in whispers, I jerk my head toward the fire a short distance away. They don’t argue, simply follow as I move to it, and settle on one of the log rounds used as a makeshift seat. “Lugh tells me everything.”

  “Then you know about the shades,” Prince Lyne says.

  “Yes. Why does it matter?”

  “Because he didn’t tell us until tonight,” Prince Sláine mutters.

  “I don’t know what you’re upset about,” I say. “You’ve never been close.”

  The blunt, unsympathetic words earn me a poisonous look, but nothing else. It’s hard to argue the truth.

  “Sláine and I have been talking since Lugh left,” Prince Lyne says. I don’t care much until he adds, pointedly, “Without Mother.”

  “Oh?”

  “A scout brought us word an hour ago. Goodfellow’s army has grown.”

  “The rest of the Mainland clans must have caught up,” I say.

  Prince Lyne frowns. “Goodfellow will march on the sídhe tomorrow. There’s no hope of winning without your force.” If he weren’t Mab’s heir, I might like him. I understand him better now, knowing what it’s like to take on such a daunting burden. The fact that he’s willing to sit across from me in this moment of need, unashamed to ask for help, is laudable. Laudable, but pointless.

  “My army has no intention of dying for you,” I tell him. “Your mother’s methods don’t work well with us.”

  Prince Sláine huffs. “You aren’t Sluagh.”

  “No. But I’m more Sluagh than I am Unseelie,” I point out. “Lugh, as well. They gave him a place and a purpose, which none of you did. Well, except you, Prince Lyne,” I amend, thinking about it a little more and remembering Lugh’s joy at being able to ride with the Hunt.

  “Roark.” His smile glitters in the firelight. “We are speaking as equals after all, Thegn.”

  I chuckle and throw another log in the fire. “Flattery will get you nothing. The Sluagh judge men by their actions. And the only men I see before me are a murderer and a traitor.”

  They stiffen. Sláine sucks in a low, pained breath and glares at his younger brother. Roark’s far more composed, though his smile’s lost some of its sheen. “Could we coax you to fight beside us?”

  Some bitter part of me wants to string them along, only to refuse and watch them reap what they’ve sown tomorrow. But the memory of Lugh mumbling his confusion as he fell asleep is too fresh and kills that unkindness.

  “Can you promise me the Sluagh’s recognition as a third Court?”

  Roark glances at Sláine. “Well?”

  “Aislinn may take some convincing, since Sluagh razed her lands.”

  “Mainland Sluagh,” I correct. “Under traitorous huscarls who obey Goodfellow and who will face the consequences for their treason if we survive this.”

  “Seb has more sway than I do,” Sláine admits.

  Roark frowns. “With time, could she be convinced?”

  “Well, Seb doesn’t want to die and Aislinn trusts us. She stayed to secure the sídhe and protect our people, and sent us here with the few Seelie soldiers left. The real question is what to do about Mother.”

  “I’ll handle her.” Roark waves a hand dismissively. “Or Smith will. She won’t want to lose his favor, not when we need access to the ley line more than ever.” Roark nods to himself and looks back to me. “So be it. The Sluagh’s recognition as a third Court, with all the trim and trappings afforded under the Accords. Anything else?”

  It’s a provocation I never would have dared ask, dared imagine, before. But now, at the end of Faerie itself, I can let myself dream. “Your mother’s abdication.”

  “Impossible,” Sláine whispers.

  I shrug. “Is it? King Oberon is dead. Your mother believes in balance.”

  Roark hasn’t moved. I don’t know if he’s even breathing. Sláine glances at him with horror. “She’d never agree.”

  Roark doesn’t speak and a dangerous hope springs to life in me. The fire crackles, loud in this pregnant silence, and Sláine looks between me and his brother with rising alarm. “Roark, you cannot consider this.”

  “Why not? If she wants to win, she won’t have a choice. If she refuses, her Triumvirate is lost, and with it, our Court.” Roark tilts his head and smiles, a tiny, twisted thing. “Well played, Thegn. We’ll try.”

  It’s more than I hoped for. “Good.”

  Roark rises, which makes Sláine stand as well. I don’t bother. The fire’s warm and this is my camp, not theirs. “What proof do I have you’ll keep these terms?”

  Roark rests a hand over his heart. “If you want proof, here. I, Prince Roark Tahm Lyne, do solemnly promise that the Sluagh and their Thegn of the Iron Crown shall be officially and legally recognized as the third Faerie Court, in the event we survive tomorrow’s fucking battle against Robin Goodfellow and his massive army of traitors. I further swear I will do all in my ill-gotten power to remove Queen Mab from her position in the Winter Court, though I will likely die in the attempt.”

  He winces as soon as he finishes the promise and Sláine makes a sound of commiseration. The magickal bond must have taken.

  “There,” Roark pronounces, rubbing absently at his chest. “Do you deem that satisfactory?”

  I may not feel the magick of his promi
se, but I recognize the set of his jaw. I shrug. “I suppose it has to be.”

  Roark nods and glances once more around the camp. “This is a good place to stay. Hard to find and sheltered from the battlefield’s view. We expect Goodfellow to try a direct assault on the sídhe through the fields.”

  “If he has any power left, he’ll go for the sealing. He’s a flashy bastard with no taste,” Sláine adds. “He’ll want to make a statement.”

  “Could you and your warriors support us from the trees?” Roark asks. “A last resort, I assure you. Mother may not regret her actions tonight, but I have no desire to watch you take such losses again.”

  Is that actual regret in his voice? I never expected that. I shift on my seat, glancing into the flames before responding. “That sounds reasonable.”

  “I’ll send Smith with the battle plans once they’re finalized. I’ll have to draft a second set for you. I don’t want Mother to know yet.”

  “I’ll warn the guards to let him pass.” More likely, one of the Hunt will, since they’ve been subtly eavesdropping this whole time.

  The conversation seems finished, but Roark lingers. His brow furrows and he blurts out an unexpected question. “You said he was hurt when he returned?”

  “His favorite brother gave him permission to walk away from his home and his birthright.”

  “We’re still family,” Roark points out. “He’s always welcome home. But he isn’t happy with us.”

  “Not like he is with you,” Sláine adds. He gestures to the Hunt. “Family is more than blood.”

  “Whatever happens,” Roark says, “we won’t forget who spent centuries protecting Lugh in our stead.” He grows painfully formal, but presses on. “Thank you for keeping him safe. And for letting him be himself.”

  The princes leave quickly, their dark forms vanishing into the even darker night. The Hunt reclaim their fire without a word, but they’re all smiling, soft, gentle expressions horrendously out of place on their weathered faces. Armel murmurs he’ll handle the guard. I nod, intent on getting back to bed and scraping out a few hours of sleep. Really, I shouldn’t be surprised to find Lugh awake when I slip back inside the tent.

  “How much did you hear?” I ask, stripping out of my clothes once more and crawling under the blankets with him. He’s warm and pliant against me, and my body stirs despite the late hour.

  “Roark’s bringing you plans in the morning, which means you agreed to fight.” He skims his hand against my ribs, where the pink lines of the almost fully healed injuries are the worst. “Are you sure about this? Will the clans understand your change of heart?”

  “I think so. They’ll understand more when I turn it into a legend about the Faerie Courts’ capitulation to us. Besides, Roark’s promise is specific. It has value.”

  “Good.” Except, he doesn’t sound convinced. “Still, I know you don’t trust Roark fully. Why did you agree to it?”

  Childhood memories drift forward like gossamer threads. Halfur and I fixing broken fishing nets. His teaching me to split wood after I complained about having to stack it. His bright smile when I snuck him extra rations before he left on his first voyage with Father and the other men. Halfur fighting in the burning village. Dying before my eyes. I clear my throat and answer, “They’re your brothers.”

  “Roark told me to go.”

  “There’s no escape from the Court for him. His path is set. He wanted you to have a choice. My brother—” Lugh’s hand stills against my ribs and I have to fight around my grief for a moment. When it passes and I can speak again, I continue, “Halfur was older than me. Things were harder then, so we were always working or he was off on a voyage with Father, but it never changed my view of him. I never questioned how much he cared about me and wanted to protect me. Even when he fell to the ljósálfar, he did so putting himself between the enemy and me. I may not like your brothers, but I understand their actions. Most of all, I understand the pain you would feel if you lost them.” I tilt his chin up so our eyes meet. “And I would keep you from such pain forever, if I could.”

  He parts willingly with the kiss I steal. I sigh when he combs his fingers through my hair and brush my tongue over his lips, coaxing him to let me taste him. The kiss goes on, growing into something hotter, something bordering on desperation. Lugh crawls a little lower in the blankets, enough so our hips align. Heat licks through my belly, consuming even as the rightness of this settles deep into my bones to comfort me, even as I reach down between us to take him in hand.

  He groans and nips at my throat when I begin to stroke. Learning his desire becomes my life’s purpose. The flex of his muscles when I slow, the teasing scrape of his fingernails over my bicep when I speed back up, the sloppy kisses he tries to take through gasping breaths...all details I intend to memorize and practice over and over until I’ve mastered them. He pants into my collarbone, trying to stay quiet and failing in the sweetest way. I falter when his hand brushes mine and lose my earlier rhythm. Not from awkward hesitation at the thought of his touch, but from the overwhelming desire to feel his hand on me, to go over the edge with him and to lie in each other’s arms in the contented lull that comes after.

  He freezes and I press against him. “Lugh, I need... I want you to... Gods, touch me, please.”

  I kiss him and pull his hand to my cock. His tension disappears and he smiles against my mouth as he explores me. He traces my length from root to tip, wraps his fingers around my girth, and touches me with such reverence I wonder how I’ll last. Time loses all meaning. He continues his attentions until I’m shaking and unable to hold in my rough grunts of pleasure. He pauses when I gasp out how close I am and adjusts his grip, until he has us both in hand.

  “Together,” he murmurs, and hums his approval when I mimic him.

  “Until the end,” I breathe.

  He begins to move and the slide of our skin together is too good. He leads me higher and higher, until I’m arching into him, gasping his name out on a desperate prayer. I move our hands faster, chasing the high of our heat and closeness, and then he’s falling with me. Always with me.

  The afterglow buries itself into my muscles and I can’t rouse myself from our bed, even though I know we’re going to be a sticky mess if we don’t clean up. Lugh laughs and takes it on himself to crawl out from under the furs to find something to wipe away our spend. He mutters complaints about the night’s chill and returns quickly with his ruined shirt. He fusses over me with a brilliant joy. I rarely allow him these kinds of moments when I’m not ill from the transformation. I regret my stubbornness now, when he cleans my skin with gentle caresses and runs his fingers through my hair and beard. He kisses my cheek as he settles into my embrace and whispers his love once again. I don’t need to hear him say it. Every touch declares his feelings, probably always has, though I’ve never let myself notice. Tonight, I finally see how Lugh wants to care for me as much as I want to care for him. In the future, he can dote over me all he wants.

  The future. A precious gift we may not receive. Gods, even if we fall tomorrow, let us find each other. Give me a sign that we will be together in your golden hall.

  No sign comes, no matter how long I wait. I pull Lugh closer, fighting the rising fear of tomorrow’s battle with the reminder that he’s here, safe and sated, in my arms. He must understand, because he doesn’t ask what’s going through my head. He simply wraps an arm around me and squeezes back. We drift off that way, huddled together against the oncoming storm.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Lugh

  Dawn arrives too soon. Keiran and I wake early and join the huscarls around one of the fires. Resnik shuffles to make more room for us, and Voll smiles and serves up two mugs of her spiced tea for us. “Armel said you received royal visitors last night.”

  “I did,” Keiran agrees.

  Jokinen watches him from across the flames. “We heard
they agreed to your terms.”

  Keiran’s hands are steady when he lifts the mug to take a sip of the tea. His calm does nothing to lessen the tension of the moment. “They did,” he says at last, after a slow look around the fire at our compatriots.

  “Were the terms good?” Voll asks.

  I hold my breath.

  “Better than I dreamed,” Keiran says. “If we win, our people will be recognized by all of Faerie and beyond.”

  The huscarls are struck silent. Even I don’t have words. My brothers’ promises are binding. For Keiran to have won this from them...for him to have faced them down last night and for them to have blinked first is legendary.

  “By the gods,” Kermode whispers.

  Resnik reaches up to wipe tears from his eyes. “I thought I’d be dead before this day came,” he says hoarsely. He reaches for Keiran’s hand and clasps it tightly.

  Keiran’s lips press together tightly and I know he’s battling down his own emotions when Resnik continues, “If only our children knew this. Would it be enough to make them lay down their arms and abandon Goodfellow?”

  Jensson wraps an arm around Resnik’s shoulder. His own eyes are wet. “They wouldn’t believe us now, not when we fight at Mab’s side. But maybe later, after this is over...” He trails off, overcome. He clears his throat and says quietly, “Thank you, Thegn. Aage will greet you with pride when your time comes.”

  That grief remains, breathes with us as we finish our tea. By the time our mugs are empty, we’re ready to set our mourning aside and face the day with a new calm. Our people—hundreds of warriors bound by a common purpose—have begun preparing. Facing battle is part of life in the Wylds. There’s no room left for nervousness around camp this morning, only resolution.

  Even Smith’s arrival with the revised plans can’t disrupt our focus, though it does force us to gather together once more. Smith carries his tension openly as he walks through camp behind one of Resnik’s men. He’s pale and drawn, dressed in simple fabrics rather than his armor. He doesn’t bat an eye when Keiran, the Hunt, and I settle in near a fire with the huscarls.