The Iron Crown (The Darkest Court)

“Thank you.” I can’t remember the last time he thanked me for anything. Uncomfortable, I turn my attention to something easier to assess. Roark’s abandoned the modern suit he wore home from Mather’s and has traded it out for one of his many sets of armor. The lighter pieces will lend us speed as we ride, but won’t provide much defense to him if we find ourselves in a fight. I frown and he lifts a dark brow.

“Is something wrong?” he asks.

“Did you want any other plate pieces for your armor? We don’t have too far to travel, so it wouldn’t be a burden to the horses.”

He rolls his eyes and moves away. The hobs have prepared a horse for him already and he pats its neck to avoid looking at me. “This will suffice. I doubt they’ve a huge force protecting Sláine. It sounds as though he’s taking shelter in the Wylds until he’s granted full permission to join the Summer Court. Thank the Goddess Oberon’s a stubborn bastard.”

He hauls himself up in his saddle, adjusts his seat, and looks down at me from his new height. “Do you need anything before we ride out?”

A quick glance over my shoulder confirms the Hunt is prepared to leave. Keiran, for all his irritation with me, has Liath ready and waits with his reins in hand. His simple gesture—a peace offering I don’t deserve—warms me and I smile my thanks. Keiran’s frown doesn’t vanish, but his shoulders loosen a little, and I know our disagreement is over. Neither of us likes to ride into a fight angry with the other, especially when the tension between us is caused by something outside our control. And Mother’s will is definitely beyond our control.

Roark makes a thoughtful sound at my back. I return my focus to him and find him watching Keiran with strange intensity. Roark’s pale gaze shifts back to meet mine and his glamour closes us off from the rest of the stables into a quiet, private space. “Does it bother you?” he asks.

“What?”

He lets go of the reins and indicates Keiran. “Watching him grow old. Knowing he’ll die.”

Goddess, the thought makes my stomach swoop and my heart ache. I don’t bother to hide my reaction from my brother and instead push the thoughts away. “Honestly, I don’t think about it. I don’t want to.”

“I realize living in Faerie means death will come far, far later for him than for another human, but it will still happen someday, Lugh. And it will cause you such pain—”

“Of course it will, Roark.”

He looks from me to Keiran and back to me. “How can you stand it?”

The plaintive note in his voice stops me from throwing back a flippant response. Roark never asks me for advice or shares his problems. I doubt he’ll ever tell me what prompted him to ask this. But his bravery deserves to be reciprocated with my honesty.

Safe behind Roark’s glamour, I risk looking at Keiran and giving myself a heartbeat’s worth of time to examine our complicated relationship. To imagine the gray hairs that will work their way into his hair and beard centuries from now. To think about what we’ll do in a millennium or so when he can no longer wander the Wylds because of the way it makes his body ache. To grieve for a single, ragged inhalation when I imagine the world without him by my side. Then, I pack it all away and shove it into the darkest recesses of my mind, next to all the other nightmares, and center myself with the memory of our lives now.

I cling to that and tell Roark, “I can stand it because I know we’re all going to die someday, and at least he and I will die together.”

&nbs

p; “I see,” my brother murmurs. The pressure of his glamour disappears and the full noise of the stables returns to us. Roark’s hand dips again to his waist and his mouth tightens into a thin line. “We need to go. There’s not much time.”

Unnerved by our strange discussion, I abandon him and join Keiran. He waits for me to settle on Liath’s back before passing over the reins and asking quietly, “What was that about?”

“I’m not sure,” I admit. “But the faster we find Sláine, the better.”

Keiran’s smile is small and vicious. “Then we’d best begin hunting.”

* * *

“You realize this happens every time,” Keiran snarls, grabbing a Seelie soldier’s wrist and punching him in the face. The poor bastard goes limp and is tossed aside. “Every fucking time!”

“It wasn’t part of the plan,” I protest.

“Of course an ambush isn’t part of the plan, Lugh!”

Another Seelie soldier closes in on me from the right, brandishing a short sword. I let her take the first swing, duck into the opening the move grants me, and stab at the weak point in her armor—the joint under the arm—with my seax. She cries out and collapses, another casualty left to bleed out, and I kick her sword away.

“That’s the problem.” Keiran adjusts his stance when I return, allowing me to slip seamlessly back into our normal fighting position—back-to-back, facing all comers. “These situations are never part of the plan, yet here we are again—” He blocks an overhead blow with the long handle of his axe. “—and again—” He turns and slams the butt into the soldier’s face, then steps wide and follows the movement with a furious swing. “—and again.” The soldier’s detached head flies back and hits the ground, tripping another Seelie running toward us.

Three soldiers close in on me, adjusting their attack to avoid Keiran. Can’t blame them. I wouldn’t want to go up against him either. One goes down with an arrow to the throat—Drest’s work, no doubt—but the other two are too close to risk a shot. They’re lighter infantry, decked in leather armor and carrying short swords with the awkward grip of battlefield virgins. My short sword’s already lost somewhere out in the field, so I keep my seax at the ready and reach blindly behind me. I find the hilt of another knife without effort, one of the many Keiran keeps strapped to his body. I unsheathe it as the first soldier rushes me. Keiran, sensing my movement, spins with me to block my second attacker, who panics and pulls up on his swing. A fatal mistake, since the blade of Keiran’s axe crunches into his chest a moment later.

I use my seax to throw off my soldier’s blow, losing it in the process, and lunge forward into his space. He tries to draw up his free arm to block me, but it’s too little, too late. A quick stab of Keiran’s knife to the inner thigh, a twist, an upwards rip. Release the knife handle, leave it in the body. Swing down into a crouch and sweep his leg out from under him. He falls backwards with a cry and it’ll just take a quick shot to the chest to finish him off.

Keiran’s already here, grabbing me by the arm and letting my body follow through on the momentum of my sweep. I relax into the movement, swinging up and over his back. I snag another knife on the way. My feet hit the ground and I thrust the new knife down into the fallen soldier’s throat, finishing him off even as Keiran angles his own body to deflect the next attack.