The Iron Crown (The Darkest Court)

“The Sluagh,” I mumble.

Roark nods. “Except they won’t fight for us.”

I focus on the boxes with matching numbers inside, comparing the two sides and noting how uneven it seems. The Mainland Sluagh wouldn’t risk fighting with us; their territories are too near the Seelie sídhe to risk Seelie vengeance. The Northern Sluagh might be convinced though. They know Mother, have benefited from the stability of our kingdom and our sídhe. If the Seelie come to the current thegn and demand to know why some Sluagh fight for the Unseelie, there’s an easy excuse available: If they didn’t, Queen Mab would have killed them rather than risking another enemy at her back. Everyone—Seelie, pantheons, any Sluagh angry at the broken neutrality—would accept that reasoning. Mother is a force unto herself and no one would doubt her giving such an ultimatum or following through on it.

If we had the Northern Sluagh, if Thegn Aage gave us his permission to have them join our cause, perhaps we would have enough troops to face the Seelie. And if we had the Sluagh’s iron weapons...

“They might,” I say cautiously. Roark straightens beside me and I don’t dare look at his face. I don’t want to see hope there, in case I can’t pull this off. “It would be difficult to get their agreement, but if I...if you can give me some time, I might be able to convince them to join us.”

“How?” he asks.

“There are two main factions of Sluagh. One of them might be sympathetic to our plight.”

“So convince them.”

I manage not to snort at my brother’s foolish command. Roark doesn’t know Aage like I do. A warrior king risen from the ashes of the worst decades of clan wars, he earned the Sluagh’s respect through his fierce fighting and utter dominance of all comers. He won his throne fairly and has defended it through ceremonial armed combat ever since. Though he is supportive of my place as Horned King, and has been a friend to our Hunt since his boyhood, he is also wary of the fickle nature of the Faerie Courts. He is not easily led. Convincing him to break the neutrality that has protected his people for so long will not be easy.

Rather than try to explain—or reveal—any of this to Roark, I settle for warning him. “It’ll be a fight to win them over.”

Roark nods. “Can you manage it alone?” His fingers tremble as he reaches out and skims over the boxes. “I... I’ll have responsibilities here that I cannot abandon.”

I glance to Mother. “Give the Hunt leave to return to the Wylds. Bringing anyone else would be an act of war.” When her mouth thins, I add quickly, “Threats and shows of force won’t help us. Either I can negotiate their help, or I can’t. And whatever decision they make will be final.”

“Then what do you need to ensure the decision goes in our favor?” Mother asks.

“What will you give me?”

She lifts a dark brow and her smile chills me. “I’m not sure yet. I do not normally negotiate with...such fae. They’re so changeable. They age, they die, their leadership changes and all those centuries of hard work is lost. They’re little better than the humans they so often mingle with.”

I bite my tongue, swallowing my defense of Keiran.

Mother notices and moves on. “My point, Lugh, is that I do not ha

ve the slightest idea what they could possibly desire. But you’ve spent centuries in their lands, haven’t you?” She takes a sip of her tea and watches me over the rim of the cup. “So, enlighten me.”

Keiran

“Well,” Drest asks casually from his spot on the rug near the fireplace, “have you learned anything from this experience?”

I glare at him, but don’t have the energy to throw anything at his smug face.

The Hunt have settled in around the room. Cybel’s taken his usual seat on the stool, the only other piece of furniture in my chambers, and continues his whittling. The man’s terrible at it, but swears it helps his hands stay nimble. Armel stands against the wall at his right shoulder, watching the flames in the fireplace flicker.

Cybel comes to my rescue. “Leave him be,” he orders Drest. “He won’t do it again. Will you, lad?”

“Of course not,” I say.

“You used to lie better than that,” Armel remarks, pushing himself off the wall and angling toward me. The firelight catches the silver strands in his hair and I know there’s no escaping his scrutiny. There’re too many centuries of experience working against me. Old even by fae standards, these three men have spent the past few centuries watching me and Lugh grow up. They can read through my bullshit almost as easily as he can.

“You know I don’t like using the belt,” I say, “but it’s to keep him safe. The queen won’t allow us outside the sídhe if Lugh’s in danger.”

“He’s more capable than she knows,” Drest argues. “After all he’s done in the Wylds, the boy deserves to have some trust given him—”

“No one can know what he does,” I interject. “They can’t.”

“But if they did—” Armel begins.

“It would jeopardize everything we have done,” I interrupt. “The queen would leverage Lugh’s care against him. She would use his office to control the Sluagh and it would break Lugh.” The men won’t look at me, but I press forward anyway. “He would give up the title and return to the sídhe before he let his mother interfere with Aage’s people. Can you imagine how he would fare if he were trapped here?”