The thegn’s smile is cruel and vanishes the moment he spins back to the crowd and raises his hands. I have no opportunity to argue with him. I will have to make a choice here and now.
The hall falls into an expectant hush.
“I have found you a seidhr to protect us in the coming years,” he tells them. “Do you approve this choice?”
A short, sharp cry of affirmation.
“He shall ride through our lands. He shall be our Horned King, and all who see him shall know he bears the gods’ blessing.”
Another agreement.
“So we accept the gods’ will and honor their chosen one.”
The Sluagh in the hall all bow their heads toward me. My mouth is dry, my palms clammy, and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know, so I turn to Keiran and find him on his knee beside me, though he does not bow his head. Instead, he holds my gaze and reminds me in a whisper, “You are their seidhr, and I’m your poet. Prove it to them now.”
Bolstered by his support, I take a deep breath and face the crowd. They think the gods speak to me. They trust me to keep them safe from the Courts. At least I can manage the second.
None of them are watching me now. They don’t know Svend denied me their physical helm. No one would question if it were to appear on my head while their heads were bowed. They would assume Svend had given me the helm. It would be part of the ritual and left at that.
I reach deep into my glamour’s well of magick and craft a rack of antlers tall and wide, whose spikes point up toward the heavens in supplication, and whose bone will glow warmly in the firelight. They extend beyond my hood, so visible no one will be able to deny my role in the Wylds. I will not be the spare Unseelie prince hiding in the shadows of his cloak, easily discarded by Svend when he thinks his people have forgotten me. I will be the Horned King and I will serve the Sluagh with all my power and heart.
The young boy with the wooden sword is the first to lift his head and risk a glance at me. At the sight of my new helm, he makes a soft sound of amazement, as if I’ve knocked the air from him, and the Sluagh around him look up, noticing the visual proof of my position for the first time. It’s a heavy helm to bear, especially since my magick isn’t as strong as my brothers’ or Mother’s, but its weight and the focus required to maintain it is nothing compared to the reverence in their whispered prayers of thanks to the gods. I close my eyes and let those voices echo through me.
The Horned King rides. Gods bless us, the Horned King rides.
Chapter One
Seven Centuries Later... Keiran
“I hate this,” Lugh mutters again, forcefully pushing a whippy branch out of his horse, Liath’s, path.
I reach forward and brace for the sting that inevitably comes when Lugh releases the branch without warning. It slaps into my palm and I growl against the heated line. Still, better to be hit in the hand than in the face. Or for the branch to hit my poor mount, Dubh, who’s flighty enough from Liath’s ill temper, which mirrors his master’s far too well.
“This is all Sláine’s fault,” Lugh continues to grumble. “Such a hypocrite. Spends centuries lecturing me on duty and honor and assorted fuckery and he goes off and defects with the Seelie’s High fucking Princess. Now Mother’s obsessed even more with the Triumvirate and you know she’s going to sit me down and have the talk with me again, and—”
I ignore most of Lugh’s complaints. He’s been reciting them for days now, since we received Queen Mab’s royal decree to return to the Winter Court. Lugh’s always had a habit of veering off course to complete odd quests, or uncannily finding people in need, which prevents us from getting anywhere in a clean line. And while I admire his dedication to helping the Sluagh villagers who live in the borderlands of the Courts’ territories, showing defiance for the queen’s commands by arriving later than expected is a dangerous game to play.
The world is becoming more complicated. Lugh’s existence alone used to be enough. He was the third son, necessary to balance the Triumvirate’s power in a sustainable way, but never due to inherit anything. Most of the Court’s magick was balanced between Queen Mab, High Prince Sláine, and Prince Lyne. Lugh’s magick has never been as stable or as powerful as theirs, and he struggles to draw on it for anything more than the glamour he uses to create his helm. In a way, his ineptitude is the only reason he’s enjoyed such freedom. But after his eldest brother’s defection to the Summer Court months ago, Queen Mab’s patience for Lugh’s antics and wild ways has lessened and his magickal responsibilities have grown.
The message she sent a few days ago by raven was a brutal reminder of how swiftly circumstances could change. A Seelie attack against Prince Lyne while he was on the grounds of Mather’s School of Magick, a neutral territory for all pantheons, means the rumors we’ve been hearing through the Wylds may be true. A second civil war is coming and Queen Mab is moving her pieces into position while she can. The risk of losing Lugh so soon after his eldest brother’s defection is unacceptable to her. She will corral Lugh in the Unseelie sídhe in a heartbeat if she thinks it would keep him safe and stabilize her Court. She will take the experienced soldiers who ride in his Hunt—Cybel, Drest, and Armel—from him. She will take me from him. Try to, at least. Lugh knows this and has no intention of bringing her wrath down on our heads. He promised to return to the sídhe. He just avoided specifying when.
Now, less than a day’s ride from our destination and incapable of putting off our return any longer, it takes every ounce of my willpower to not push Lugh out of his saddle and leave him for some creature to eat. He’s been stuck in his head since we camped near a stone circle a few days ago. It was a bad night, one full of an unending line of nightmares. Since then, he hasn’t slept, which means I haven’t slept, and he won’t talk to me about what’s bothering him.
Instead, he snarls his displeasure under his breath as we duck branches and give our horses their heads through the worsening undergrowth. The other men in the Hunt have given Lugh and me greater and greater distance as the days progress. They withdraw from us with the same deliberate silence they direct toward lovers’ quarrels observed in Sluagh halls. They know their limitations and when Lugh enters one of his dark moods, it’s wisest to abandon care of him to me. Our centuries-long friendship means I know all his tells and how far he can be pushed. We’ve fallen into something akin to marriage, with good-natured bickering and affectionate patience aplenty. Though at this moment, even my patience is running thin.
“I swear to the Goddess, if Mother thinks she can force me to stay for all the Samhain festivities, she’s going to be sorely disappointed,” Lugh declares. It’s a hollow challenge, one I know he’ll fail at when he’s forced to face Queen Mab in person. I don’t mention that though, unwilling to provide fuel for Lugh’s rant.
Dubh’s ears prick forward. Ahead of us, Liath’s slowed, his head turning to take in something slightly off to our left. Lugh continues to ramble, but I ignore him and try to see what’s caught the horses’ attention.
Ahead of us, on the edge of a small clearing, I catch a flash of movement.
“Lugh,” I murmur.
“No,” he snaps back at me. “I’m not done yet.”
Dubh starts forward when I press my heels into his flank. We catch up to Liath and I reach over to take hold of the reins. Lugh swears when the horses come to a sudden, jolting halt, and turns to glare at me. “Keiran, what’s gotten into you?”
I point and whisper, “There’s someone up ahead.”