The Iron Crown (The Darkest Court)

Like that, his ill humor vanishes. He leans forward in the saddle, already reaching for his hunting spear. “You take left?” he asks. A question, not a command. He didn’t see what I did, so he’s trusting me to make the call.

By now, the men have caught up to us. Drest already has an arrow nocked, while Cybel and Armel have their spears at the ready. I don’t take my eyes from the clearing ahead, still waiting for another sign of motion. “Cybel and Armel will go left, we’ll go right. Drest, cover us. I saw something.”

“Quiet or fast?” Armel asks, already turning his horse in preparation.

I risk a glance at Lugh. He’s vibrating out of his skin, eager to charge ahead. Best to use that to our advantage. “Fast,” I say.

I forgo my father’s double-handed iron axe on my back and instead draw one of the short axes hanging from my belt. Lugh notices and grins at me, all feral teeth and open challenge. He tilts his head toward the clearing. I nod, and he looses a wild whoop before charging ahead, the rest of us behind him.

We crash into the clearing and fan out, but it’s easy enough to see there’s only one creature there, one unfit for hunting. It’s nothing more than a scrawny, sickly looking faerie who trips and falls over himself in an effort to escape us. It’s a hopeless endeavor. Cybel’s already cut him off on the left, and Lugh lets Dubh and I surge forward to cut off his escape on the right. When the faerie realizes the game’s lost, he collapses to the ground, cowering and covering the back of his neck with clasped hands.

“Well?” Lugh calls to me as he rides closer.

The f

aerie lifts his head and meets my gaze, only to whimper and hide his face again. It’s too late to avoid recognition. I know what he is.

“Ljósálfar,” I spit out. A fucking Seelie. Worse, a Seelie close to the Unseelie sídhe, who’s somehow gotten this far undetected. A danger to the Winter Court and all who reside there. A danger to Lugh. I can’t allow that. “Let’s kill him and get home.”

Cybel and Armel grunt in approval. Drest, who’s hanging back, nods. We’ve always understood each other, especially when it comes to ensuring Lugh’s safety. All Unseelie military retirees, they accepted Queen Mab’s offer to act as tutors and personal guards to Lugh and me. Their service under the queen in the first Faerie Civil War means they know the dangers posed by the Summer Court and its inhabitants, and even Drest, the easiest going of the group, has an arrow trained on the cowering faerie.

If I aim for the Seelie’s neck, I should be able to put him out of his misery quickly enough.

“Wait,” Lugh commands, his head tilting to the side as he inspects the faerie.

I glance at him, shocked at the showing of his mercy. “What?”

“Hear me out,” he urges. This time, Lugh takes Dubh’s reins out of my hand and says over his shoulder to Drest, “Don’t let him get away.” He must get some form of confirmation because he leads Dubh and me farther away.

The distance doesn’t help. Lugh’s so close to me now, his body blocks my view of the Seelie threat. The fervent need to put myself between him and the unknown faerie makes me want to spin our horses. As always, Lugh seems to read my mind and keeps the reins tightly in his grip.

“Listen,” he says. He repeats it until I’m paying attention, then tells me, “We can’t kill him.”

“We have to,” I argue. “How did he get this close to the sídhe? What’s he doing so far from home and why is he alone, without any sign of supplies or possessions?” I clutch tighter at the handle of my axe and wonder if I could still throw it hard enough to kill the faerie instead of just maiming him. “Something’s wrong. I can feel it.”

“That’s exactly why we can’t kill him,” Lugh says. He reaches up and clasps a hand around my bicep, his thumb digging in just enough to hurt and draw my attention back. Something in his canny hazel gaze stops me from protesting further. “Sláine defects and a short time later, Roark is attacked at university. Now we find a lone Seelie in the Wylds. You’re right. None of this makes sense. But this isn’t the time or place to find out why. The best we can do is take him home and leave him to Mother’s and Roark’s care.”

Dubious care, more like. Prince Lyne’s prowess with torture once surpassed the queen’s. The poor bastard we’ve caught will likely face the full brunt of Prince Lyne’s attention. Gods help him if he’s been at all involved with Prince Sláine or the attack on Mather’s. Such information will not take long to coax out.

Still, enough doubt pricks at me that I can’t help but say, “Perhaps he was sent after you. The High Prince knows you frequent these lands. This could be a trap, Lugh, and I won’t risk your safety—”

“Keiran.” It’s a spell, the way he says my name. Centuries of amusement and friendship and brotherhood and affection hold me in place, unable to resist or argue, unable to do anything but listen to whatever it is he has to say. “I have you here. How could anyone possibly get close enough to hurt me?”

Some of the tension in my chest eases when he points that out.

“Besides, you’ve got the belt,” he adds. “Even if he did try anything, you could transform and squish him before I realized anything had gone wrong.”

He waits and I don’t argue. I can’t. Lugh’s reasoning is fine. Actually, his reasoning is better than mine right now. The sight of a ljósálfar so close to home has all the dark memories of my childhood—of the Seelie raid that destroyed my family—churning in the back of my mind. Combined with the lack of sleep, it’s obvious my judgment’s impaired. Lugh’s isn’t. I can trust him. I’ve always been able to trust him.

“Fine,” I say. “But we knock him out and bind him on the trip home.”

“Deal,” he agrees easily. “You won’t regret this. I bet bringing him home as a present will keep Mother from turning her attention to our tardiness.”

I highly doubt that.

Lugh

“Your Highness, welcome home,” one of the hobs says when the Hunt and I ride into the stables of the Unseelie sídhe.