The Iron Crown (The Darkest Court)

Igna appears at my elbow. The smudge of dirt on her cheek matches the patch of dirt on the back of her hand, probably from her work in the garden out front. She crosses her arms and glares up at me with all the authority a little girl can muster. “You need to go after him, Odhrán,” she says. “He didn’t just take a satchel. He took the loaf Mother made this morning, and some cheese, and...” Despite her glare, her eyes tear up. “He took the knife too.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from swearing. Over the years, we’ve had to barter a number of things to stay afloat, but Father’s knife was sacred. This is too far. Brother or not, Ingjaldi will face the consequences of his actions. “Can you manage Bos?” I ask Igna. I’ve been teaching her how to manage the giant oaf of an animal, but am still worried about leaving her alone with him.

She nods and holds out her hands. “I’ve been practicing, you know.”

“Have you?” I ask, handing over the leads.

“Don’t get angry with me. I make sure Mother knows in case anything happens.”

I pat her head, proud of her initiative. “Good. Finish this field and make sure he’s cared for before you put everything away. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

She hugs me. “Be safe,” she whispers into my stomach.

“Always, little one,” I promise.

The woods are dense and shadowed despite the rising sun. I found the footprints on the road and followed the trampled grass past the tree line. Ingjaldi isn’t alone. Ahead, I hear the murmur of voices. I recognize them all and my anger grows, giving me the strength to push past the

saplings and the undergrowth. I stumble out into the center of a small copse and am greeted with the shocked expressions of five of our village’s young men and two young women. All are dressed for travel, all carrying satchels or bags laden with supplies. Ingjaldi gapes at me and clutches the satchel tighter to his chest.

“Well, well, well,” I say into the loaded silence, “how nice to see you all here.” No one speaks. I’m not surprised. I’m their elder by several decades and all of them were children more prone to daydreams than the practical matters of survival. “I’m sure your families are looking for you. You should get home.”

No one moves.

“Wh—what are you doing here, Odhrán?” Ingjaldi stammers. “You need to leave. Now.”

“Not without Father’s knife.” I hold out my hand to him. “I don’t give a damn if you walk away from our family for good, but you will not take that with you.”

“I can’t give it to you. Please, Odhrán, trust me and go.”

Ingjaldi has never been a good liar. Something in his tone, the high note of fear, gives me pause. I drop my hand. “What kind of trouble have you gotten into?”

One of the other boys—Sigund’s grandson—gathers his courage and steps toward me. “No trouble. We’re going to save our village, and all the rest of our people.”

“And how will you do that, Knut? How will you save anyone when you won’t even stay at home to help your grandfather survive the winter?”

He shrinks back at that and I stare down the rest of them. They wilt under my gaze, but not a single one of them takes a step toward home. So be it. I turn back to my brother and my heart breaks with the knowledge that he’s beyond my reach now. “Ingjaldi...the knife?”

“I can’t,” he whispers. “There’s always a cost to freedom.”

“Who did you give it to? I need it—”

“And so you shall have it,” a silky voice says from behind me.

My vision flashes red when something slices into my neck. Poor Odhrán—

We stumble forward, falling to the ground in the midst of the group. Tears track down Ingjaldi’s cheeks, but he makes no move to interfere. Behind us, our murderer speaks. We ignore it. We focus on clawing our way forward across the forest floor, on getting away. The man who attacked us with our father’s knife doesn’t come after us. Instead, he speaks of our weakness, of our blood strengthening the cause, even if it couldn’t strengthen us. With each bit of distance we create from the man, our vitality slips away, dripping out to the forest floor with our blood... A fallen log, overgrown with moss and partially hidden by ferns, awaits us. We curl ourselves into the shelter it provides and stare up into the canopy of leaves overhead. A bird flits here and there and the sun’s rays have stretched far enough to create a patchwork of blue sky and brilliant green leaves backlit like stained glass. We try to swallow, but it’s so hard. And we’re growing colder. And no one will ever find us—

* * *

I can’t breathe. The sobs have stolen all the air from my lungs and I cough and gasp and pant. Tears stream down my cheeks and I can’t tell if they’re mine or Odhrán’s... Oh, Goddess, I know his name. I know his name now, and that little space in my head has been carved out for him. He won’t leave. He won’t leave me alone. He’ll stay until...until I...

Someone shakes me, rattling my brain in my skull, and startling me into taking a full inhalation. I blink and my heart twists at the terror in Keiran’s familiar face. His hands squeeze harder on my shoulders. “Do you see me now? Are you back?”

I throw my arms around his neck and bury my face against him, the unstoppable fall of tears soaking into his shirt. He hugs me back, squeezing me to him tightly.

From the darkness of our room, the shade whispers, Please help me. Help my family.

I don’t want to. I don’t want this. I never asked for this curse.