The Iron Crown (The Darkest Court)

“Until the end,” he repeats, and walks back toward the crowd.

He leaves me with nothing but a bundle of bones, a myriad of confused, scattered thoughts, and an unnerving sense of something changing between us, something I don’t have words for yet.

Chapter Eight

Keiran

Lugh’s nightmares have grown steadily worse since we left the village and continued our trek toward Eyjar. He doesn’t talk about the dreams when he wakes, but we haven’t wandered off course to try our mettle against new challenges as we normally do. He’s found a new focus. Maybe he’s caught up in the continued disappearances of young people throughout these lands. Maybe he’s distracted by the worsening state of the villages in this part of the Mainland and the open scorn toward traditions of hospitality that take from people with so little left to give. Maybe he’s noticing the shift in the air, the approach of Samhain and the swing of magick back toward our Court. Maybe he’s distracted from mentally drafting his plea for aid from Aage and trying to find a way to confront him over his seeming negligence. Whatever the reason for his new focus, it leaves him riding point day after day. He was the first to rise this morning, the first to start off on the trail, and continues to lead us as we look for a good campsite.

Drest grumbles on my left as we move on from yet another potential camping spot Lugh has criticized. “What do you think is going on with the seidhr?” Drest asks, keeping an eye on Lugh ahead of us.

“I don’t know,” I reply, “but I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

I can’t read his sideways glance. It’s a mixture of amusement and frustration and concern and something else I’ve seen cross Armel’s and Cybel’s faces before. “Right,” Drest agrees, “fine. I suppose that’s why the seidhr’s about to fall over.”

The tone of his dry warning makes me press my heels to poor Dubh before I can fully process the words. My horse springs forward, bringing me up to Lugh’s side in time to reach out and snag hold of his collar as he starts to tip off his saddle. He jerks awake and flings an arm out to break my hold.

“Dammit, Lugh!” I draw back in barely enough time to keep his fist from connecting with the face. “It’s me!”

He gives a low swear, but doesn’t swing again. A few bleary blinks must help because he flushes and drags a hand over his face. “Sorry,” he says. “Sorry.”

“We’re setting up camp.” I ignore his frown and grab Liath’s reins. “If you don’t like this spot, you can sleep for a few hours and we’ll ride on until we find one you do like. But you’re stopping right now.”

I draw our horses up in the middle of the path and wait. Drest rides past us, doing his best to avoid staring, and failing miserably. Ahead of us, Armel and Cybel have slowed, but don’t stop completely. I transfer both sets of reins to the same hand and wave to them. “Head on to the next village. We’ll meet you there in the morning.”

I’m grateful none of them argue. Cybel just nods and calls back, “We’ll see you in the morning.”

Lugh slides off Liath’s back with a grunt of displeasure and paces the road. I doubt he’s looked up to see our surroundings. The old growth forest we’ve spent the past few days working through is finally opening up to beautiful rolling fields. A series of raised mounds sit in the distance, dressed in carpets of lush green grass. The summer wildflowers are gone, replaced with the heartier breeds capable of handling the rapidly chilling nights. A quick check of the sky confirms no looming clouds, so I dismount and stretch.

“Doesn’t look like rain,” I tell Lugh, who’s still pacing, “but we could stay to the trees if you want.”

He grunts and kicks at a rock on the path. “I wanted to reach the village.”

This is unusually bad-tempered, even for him. I wonder if he had business to attend to there. Perhaps that explains his desire to push so hard. I’ve heard the men whispering to each other about finding a willing partner to warm their beds, and have no doubt they’ll take advantage of our absence tonight to sate themselves. Is that what Lugh wanted as well? I’ve never known him to slip off on his own, to leave my side, but things can change... I rub at my chest, irritated by the growing tightness there.

Lugh is beyond my reach. He’s a prince, a religious figure to the people of the Wylds and I... I have nothing to offer him except my loyalty. Loyalty that prompts me to ignore his bad humor and push on with, “Afraid that won’t happen. So, fields or forest?” He glares at me, but since we both know he doesn’t mean anything by it, I’m undeterred. “Pick.”

He looks past me toward the forest. His body tightens and his eyes narrow. Even in battle, Lugh never tenses. He’s lithe and swift and constantly shifting. He never freezes in place, even when panic seizes hold of him. His reaction now is so unexpected I spin, hand on my axe handle so I can defend us. There’s nothing except

for painted leaves drifting to the ground and a sensation of being watched that scrapes over my skin.

“Fields,” he announces hoarsely, and stalks off the path. His shoulders don’t loosen and he never looks back. He’s braver than me. I check the trees one last time, my sleeplessness and fear combining into a powerful wave of paranoia I can’t quite tamp down. It buzzes and echoes through the berserkir belt, no matter how I try to ignore it. When there’s still no movement, I give up and follow Lugh, walking the horses behind me. My hand never moves off my axe.

We make camp on a flat section where the stars will hang over us like a second blanket. There’s an unobstructed view of the forest, as well as the burial mounds, and a stream a short distance away that will allow us to water the horses without interrupting any local wildlife. Making camp goes well, until Lugh wanders off to collect firewood and I’m left to set up my bedroll.

There’s no reason the thought of laying it beside Lugh’s, of throwing the selection of furs atop us both as I always do, should give me pause. Yet, the promise of sharing the simple intimacy with him, as we have so many times before, sends my pulse speeding.

“It’s just a bed,” I tell myself aloud.

This is not hard. Throw it on the ground beside Lugh’s bed. Grab the furs. Cover the beds. Nothing’s different. Nothing’s changing.

But everything is.

If I touch him again, will it feel the same as it used to? Or will that sensation from the village, that creeping awareness, return?

Unwilling to answer those questions, I abandon this task and turn my attention to another.

The rattle of firewood falling to the ground beside me breaks me from the comforting, empty space I entered sharpening our weapons. I jerk, nearly slice open my thumb, and look over. Lugh stands beside me, faintly amused as he stares at the bedding.