The Iron Crown (The Darkest Court)

“Wrong,” I croak. “It’s wrong, Lugh. There’s no respect in this. He couldn’t have found his way home, not after what they did to him—”

Lugh doesn’t move, but his voice rings out steadily nonetheless. “I know, Keir. I know. This isn’t what I thought I’d find.”

I can’t tell if he’s still talking to me, or to the men, or to the shade that must have led us here. I don’t care. I can’t let this kind of evil reach out to Lugh. I won’t let him relive such a blasphemous end. “There’s no helping him. There’s no helping any of the people here. This place is rank with something monstrous, Lugh. We have to go before it’s too late.”

“What should we do with the body?” Cybel asks Lugh.

“Leave it,” I say.

Cybel’s mouth sets in a grim line. “Surely someone in this village will want to give him a proper burial.”

“This isn’t his village,” Lugh says. “He’s Seelie.”

Drest shifts uncomfortably and nudges Armel. “Isn’t there a Seelie village nearby?”

He pulls out the map and makes a cursory inspection before nodding. “Maybe an hour’s ride. Close enough to explain how he got here.”

“Lugh,” I begin. He finally, finally looks away from the body and I know he’s fighting to keep something else at bay. “Please don’t—”

The steel in his gaze makes me fall silent. He addresses all of us, even if he looks at me the entire time. “We retrieve the body. We take him home. We end this.”

I should argue against his kindness. I should remind him of our urgent need to reach Aage. I should, but Lugh is determined and I’m weak. I can’t leave such an affront to the gods lying here. The men watch me with open worry until I reach to my knife belt and draw one of the blades. Without a word, I force myself to walk to the body and saw at one of the ropes, praying to the gods that Lugh knows what he’s doing.

Chapter Eleven

Lugh

We ride toward the Seelie village weighed down by a poorly wrapped corpse and the onerous presence of its shade. It’s a continual shadow in the edge of my vision, though it mostly follows in Drest’s wake, unwilling to move too far from its body. It’s made no effort to reach out to me to share its fate or memories, other than offering the command of Home. The wounds on the body confirmed what I already suspected. The shadow man was at work once again, though the brutality of the execution means this was someone important to him. I don’t know why. I don’t think I want to know why.

So I ignore the shade and focus on my men. I may be the only one to see it, but they all feel it. They suffer the lingering sense of dread and the tightening of muscles gearing up for violent confrontation, though it’s impossible to understand why the body prepares when there’s no sign of a threat.

I keep Keiran with me at the front of our column, within arm’s reach. The sight of the shade reaching into him, calling Home as though Keiran would understand, left a jagged burst of terror behind my ribs. When he turned to me and I was able to touch him, to feel how much warmth the shade had siphoned away from him, I knew I had to put it to rest. If I didn’t, it would follow us. It would slip its claws into Keiran’s heart and glut itself on his mortality until he lay beside it, just as cold and lost. I won’t risk Keiran’s life, no matter how badly we need to reach Aage and return to the sídhe. “How close are we?” Drest calls, trying to hide his nervousness. He refuses to let someone else carry the body, no matter how many times we offer. This is the closest he’s gotten to admitting he’s near his limit.

“Over this hill,” Armel promises.

The trees open at last, offering us an unobstructed view of the land stretching out before us. Faint curls of smoke rise, too many for cooking fires. “What the fuck?” Keiran asks, staring at the scene below in horror.

The village no longer exists. Buildings lie in smoldering heaps. The muddy ground is a mess of boot prints and water gathers in the deepest depressions. Food stores lie destroyed and scattered. Here and there, figures move between buildings, and I grip my spear tighter. This isn’t a settlement. It’s the site of a massacre.

The shade sighs; it’s a pained, mournful sound that makes me flinch. Cybel leans forward in his saddle. Gone is the spontaneous man who taught Keiran and me proper footwork by making us spar within complicated nets of ropes, or who corrected my shooting form with ridiculous bracers while I practiced with my bow. A stern, canny commander sits in his place, taking in details with speed that only comes from experience. “Where are the bodies?” he asks.

The unexpected question rocks through me. Bodies? I check again and realize he’s right. There are none. Which means the figures I saw weren’t living.

“Seidhr,” Cybel asks quietly, “your orders?”

The shade has crept forward in the interim, until its long, pointed, blackened fingers are close enough to brush against the hem of Keiran’s cloak. Keiran shivers, but keeps Dubh standing calmly beside me. My throat tightens when the shade reaches out again, bolder this time, and I shift Liath to cut off the shade’s access to Keiran.

Home, it whispers to me.

“Give me the corpse,” I order Drest. “I’m taking it down.”

“Not without us,” Armel argues. I’m surprised he’s the one to speak up. Normally such a protest would come from Keiran or Cybel.

“Of course not,” I say, desperately trying to f

ormulate a plan that will keep them out of the shades’ grasps. “But we should spread out to keep a better watch for returning forces. Drest will serve as sentry when we head down. Call if you spot any movement.” And, to keep him from arguing, I ride to his side and reach for the body. To my relief, he helps me slide it onto Liath without a fight. I don’t want him near any other shades until he’s had time to recover from this ride.

“What about us?” Cybel asks.