The Iron Crown (The Darkest Court)

“Nothing.”

Compared to my brothers, I’m pretty stupid. I don’t know a lot about politics and have learned it’s wiser to keep my mouth shut and pretend I’m oblivious than to get entangled in the twisted games of the Courts and the Accords. I don’t have the patience to read long books, even if I like listening to Keiran’s rumbling bass weaving stories by the light of the campfire. But there are two things I know in this life, and one of them is riding next to me, wearing his misery like it’s been woven into the threads of his now-muddied cloak.

“You’re a terrible liar,” I say. “Tell me.”

“How did you know the village needed help? Or that the kraken’s nest would be there?” He sighs and smooths his beard. “How do you expect me to tell stories about this fight if I don’t know how you found it in the first place?”

I want to tell him about the shade, about its memories and how it led us to the site of its death, but I don’t know how he’d react. Killing the creature and securing the village’s future was enough to appease this shade. Keiran would like that we helped it, would see a purpose in that. But he wouldn’t like hearing about the other shades who are still with me, who are stuck in my mind because there’s no way to avenge them or grant them the peace that comes from a fulfilled final request. Learning I’m haunted would upset him, and this journey will be taxing as it is with our short window of time before winter.

Rather than burden him with a weight I’m used to shouldering, I tell him, “The gods work in strange ways. They made sure we were where we needed to be. Explain that however you’d like. You know I’ll agree.”

“That’s not how this works,” he starts to argue, but is interrupted by Drest’s cheery call of, “Seidhr, I can see fences!”

Using my title never fails to bring the Hunt joy. The practice, which started as a way to hide my real identity when we spent time in Sluagh villages, has become a teasing endearment now. It also serves as a reminder that I need to settle my glamour into place. I craft my Horned King’s helm under Keiran’s watchful gaze. Once he assures me the expansive rack of antlers is properly awe-inspiring, I finish the glamoured illusion off by tweaking the charm so the Hunt can see through it. They, not the Sluagh, will be the only ones to look at me and see my true face.

I’m glad I took the time to weave my glamour tighter than normal. By the time we ride into the village proper, most of the townspeople are waiting for us in the main square. Cybel, Drest, and Armel ride through toward the main hall, a colossal two-story affair, without too much trouble, but Keiran and I have to slow when the crowd presses in on us.

It’s almost funny how quickly they give me space once they smell me. The Hunt must not have been lying about my stench. I bet I’ll have to soak my clothes for a while to get the scent rinsed out of the fibers.

A large man appears next to me and slaps a meaty palm against my knee. “It’s a blessing to have you here, seidhr. We prayed to the gods that someone would hear our troubles, but we never dreamed you would answer our calls.”

“Umm—”

“The Horned King in our village!” He doesn’t seem bothered by my pungency or my general air of standoffishness. He doesn’t seem to notice how Liath dislikes having someone unknown this close by. Instead, he’s gaining steam as he continues to speak, his hand still clasping my knee, his other waving expansively toward those around us. “Surely he will help us!”

“I believe we’ve already done that,” I say, hoping he’ll listen to me.

“You found the monster?” one of the older Sluagh calls out to us. Several other of his friends hang back with him, looking serious and concerned. “The kraken’s dead?”

Their cautious optimism makes my chest tight. The Sluagh who live in the Wylds have found ways to make good lives out of very little. The kraken’s attacks limited their already meager supplies by cutting off access to the river, so I understand why they need a definitive answer on whether or not their livelihoods have been secured.

Keiran is careful to not look at me directly, but I know he’s watching, waiting for a moment to take over if necessary. He’s always been better at talking to crowds than I am. I can manage this time. It’s a simple enough answer.

“The river’s yours,” I tell them and the crowd sends up a cheer.

The older man and his friends—I assume they’re fishermen—hurry off moments later, talking excitedly to each other. And then the flood comes.

Questions and comments and praise and people everywhere... I grip my reins tighter and try not to let the tension seep into my legs. The moment Liath notices my discomfort, he’ll lash out and get me away from the crowd. If we were in the midst of a battle, that’d be fine. But we aren’t. Instead, there’s a wrinkly old grandmother ahead of me and a tiny child near my stirrup who’s holding up a flower like she expects me to weave it into the antlers. I smile and shake my head, feeling bad a moment later when I remember my face is hidden in shadow and she can’t see any hint of kindness from the Horned King. It doesn’t perturb her. She lifts her chubby hand higher and looks at me expectantly. I have to wave her offering aside. Sorry, little one, but it’s hard to decorate an imaginary helm.

The large man who has made himself our town crier announces, “This calls for a celebration and a telling of today’s adventure.

It’s not every day we are able to witness miracles firsthand.”

Keiran’s only feet away, holding Dubh in place so the crowd doesn’t sweep us apart in their eagerness. His gaze is fixed on my knee, where the stranger’s hand remains. I swallow hard and, before I can say a single word, Keiran’s gaze lifts and holds mine.

Help me, I silently plead. He never fails me.

“Shall I tell you of this miracle?” Keiran calls out above the crowd. His voice carries like the distant rumble of river ice breaking in the spring sun and the world seems to halt. “Shall I tell you of your seidhr’s dream?”

Like that, the crowd’s attention shifts. The man releases my knee and turns toward Keiran. I can breathe again, even if I can’t urge Liath forward toward the hall. The grandmother hobbles her way toward the crowd circling my best friend and the little girl gives up on me and abandons me for Keiran, who seems far kinder. Better-looking too, if I’m being honest.

He’s a marvel in these moments. It’s not just his voice begging people to pay attention to him. He’s an imposing man, tall and broad, with thick shoulders and thighs. His brown hair—tied back now from battle—usually falls to his bearded chin, and his expressive face adds to the emotional impact of his stories. He’s already started working his audience, who stand rapt at his opening lines.

“We were in our camp when dawn broke overhead. The seidhr emerged from his tent with a grim face. Goddess-touched and goddess-blessed, he had seen the savage suffering of a clan in his mind’s eye. A creature fury-born rising from the murky depths and dragging brave souls to their deaths through the fen. He felt the sorrow and the grief of this clan and, with the grace of a hound, he led us here. To you.” Keiran spins Dubh in a slow circle, taking his time to connect with his audience. As he turns toward me, I catch the glimmer of amusement in his gaze and the almost imperceptible tilt of his head toward the hall. He’s giving me my moment to escape.

I seize it without hesitation. Keiran continues to weave his story while I urge Liath forward and even the sound of his hooves on the packed earth of the square can’t distract the crowd. Once Liath is handed off to one of the stable boys to care for, I slip inside the building with Keiran’s words ringing in my head—an embellished description of me asking for the gods’ blessing and letting them lead me by my sword to the spot on the bank where our triumphant battle will occur.

What a load of shit. Keiran knows I don’t like to fight with swords. They’re too long and cumbersome. It’s why he keeps so many knives on him; I’m better with a seax in hand.