The Iron Crown (The Darkest Court)

Cybel, Drest, and Armel have already settled in at one of the tables set up for the day’s supper. The trio looks happier with their ale and hot meal. I need to remember to have us stop in places like this more often. Cybel’s older than Mother, and Drest and Armel are both old enough to be my father. They’re weathered from centuries in the Wylds, but strong enough they could trick others into believing them to be far younger, if not for their white and graying hair. They’re more than my childhood tutors. They’ve become my family and deserve to be treated as such.

“Keiran let you off the hook?” Drest asks as I walk by.

“There’s always a price,” I reply, focused on getting to a private room and a hot bath.

Drest grins despite my ominous answer and holds his hand palm up toward Armel. “Pay up. I told you he’d cover for the boy.”

Armel grumbles, but digs in his pocket for a coin. I roll my eyes, ignore their jokes, and follow one of the men preparing supper upstairs. The room’s clean and simple, but the tub is fairly large and some helpful boys lug in pots of hot water. One is even wise enough to leave a pot with some chips of soap soaking in the water so I can wash my clothes. Clearly, they’re used to treating visitors well here. We’ll have to leave some of our better pieces of treasure when we leave. Even at that cost, it’s a good end to a messy day.

Almost an hour later, I emerge from the bathing chamber in clean breeches and find Keiran sitting in one of the rickety wooden chairs near the dingy window, sharpening knives. A fire’s already going in the grate and he’s only using a tiny portion of the table for his work because a big bowl of hearty stew and a hunk of bread are sitting in front of the other chair, along with a tall flagon of what must be local ale. He doesn’t bother to look at me as I come farther into the room.

“Took you long enough,” he grumbles. He hitches his chin toward the chair, eyes never leaving the whetstone as he continues to work on the blade’s edge. “Saved you some dinner. Eat.”

The scrap of fabric I was provided for washing is completely sodden after drying my hair, and perfectly weighted for battle. Keiran’s got a bad habit of ordering me around. Usually I’d call him on it. But there’s something painfully domestic about the scene before me and I’m loath to disrupt it completely. I make sure to telegraph the move when I toss the cloth toward his face. He blocks it and it lands on the floor near my chair with a wet splat.

“I can take it back down to Armel, if you’re going to be an ass.” It’s a fond growl though and I know he’s not irritated by my childish attack.

“What new legends did you spread after I left?” I ask, dragging out the chair and slouching down until I’m comfortable. I don’t reach for the spoon or the bread.

“Oh, nothing too awful. You went to the river and learned the stealing of the kraken’s egg left it too suspicious of fae. You had no choice but to end its suffering. It was a painful decision for you to make, since you love all creatures of the Wylds so deeply, but the village’s fishing sites are safe once more and the children will no longer starve.”

I blink when he pauses, aware once more of the crackling of the fire and the steady rasp of metal on stone. His voice has always managed to smooth the tangle of thoughts in my head, to help me focus in on his words, but usually I’m better at hiding it. At least he’s too distracted to notice my less-than-subtle pining. “You really played up the noble warrior thing this time, didn’t you?” I manage.

It coaxes a half smile from him. “It never hurts to be well loved by children.”

I groan and rub a hand over my face. “Goddess, they’re going to mob me tomorrow morning when we ride out.”

It’s a full-blown smile now, broad and charming and mine. Keiran doesn’t smile like this for anyone else. When he spins his web of tales for the people of the Wylds, he smiles, but it doesn’t crinkle the corners of his eyes or hold that same warmth it does when he directs it at me. “At least ten of them have promised to be your escort to the edge of the village’s defenses.”

“I don’t have enough trinkets to give them.”

“You don’t have to give them anything but yourself. Wear the helm as we ride away. That sight alone will have them repeating the story to their children someday.”

The thought of wearing the Horned King’s helm long enough to awe the village children with the impressive illusion makes my head ache. “I’ll think about it,” I mutter, half-heartedly kicking at the washrag and missing it over and over.

“Lugh.”

I dart a glance at Keiran and find him watching me. His hands have stilled their motion and the concern in his dark gaze makes me squirm. I hate worrying him. “What, Keiran?”

“You haven’t eaten since breakfast. Are you hungry?”

I try to change the subject. “Have you eaten yet?”

“Downstairs with the men,” he parries. He waits and I know if I don’t start eating, he’ll start asking truly invasive questions.

I reach out and take hold of the spoon. His attention returns to the knife. He doesn’t have to look away from me as I eat. It’s probably smarter if he kept watching me to make sure I’m not just pushing around the chunks of parsnips and carrots instead of actually eating them. That’s why his unfailing trust in me, even when I don’t deserve it, is something I never want to lose.

I take a bite of the stew and chew carefully. No bones or gristle. My confidence grows with every bite, as does the hunger I’ve been ignoring for most of the day. Keiran’s almost done with the second knife by the time I sop up the remaining gravy with the bread. He’s moved on to the third knife by the time I finish draining the ale.

“That was good,” I admit.

He continues to work the blade’s edge. It’s the seax I handed him after using it in our battle this morning. It’s clean now and shining from the water on the whetstone. I accept it with a murmured thanks and watch him work. We sit in near-silence for so long the fire’s nothing but banked coals before Keiran nudges my foot under the table with his. “Go to bed,” he urges. “I’m almost done.”

Yet another of Keiran’s orders I don’t mind following. Maybe I should be more concerned about this, my desire to acquiesce to his wishes without question when I’m tired, but it’s late and I’ve no energy left for that much self-examination. The hazy edges of sleep make the room waver and bend and the sheets are blessedly clean and smooth compared to the thin bedrolls and blankets we normally camp with. I crawl under the top layer and shift until the pillow is a comfortable cushion under my head instead of an annoyance. Keiran’s good enough to let me start drifting off before he asks, “How bad are the nightmares, Lugh?”

I hold up a rude gesture in his general direction and try to ignore him. It doesn’t work well when all he has to do is repeat my name with his honey-sweet inflection that screams I’m worried, let me take care of you, trust me.

“Bad,” I grunt.