The Iron Crown (The Darkest Court)

My simmering frustration ignites with his attempted excuse. “Dammit, Lugh, that makes it worse! Now you obey them without thinking for yourself first? If you’d thought about it, you’d have remembered our agreement. You remember it, right?”

“Keir, how could I—”

“When we were boys, we agreed that if we were going to do this, if we were going to roam the Wylds and put you in such danger, I would be the only one to handle any iron. You promised me that!” He’s silent, eyes downcast, shoulders curving in as if every word I throw at him is a blow. “Why didn’t you tell them no? Why didn’t you ask me to help you? You never—”

Never think how I would break if you were taken from me.

I swallow those words down. They’re honest, but they bare my worst fear, expose my most dangerous secret, and I’ll be damned before I admit it aloud. My skin itches and prickles when I hold it in, and words fail because there’s no way I can explain why this hurts so much. I can’t properly express why him risking his own safety is such an ugly, raw betrayal.

“Keiran.”

I blink through stinging moisture I didn’t realize had obscured my vision and find Cybel before me. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepen when he offers me a sad smile. He waits for me to focus on him, then lightly shakes me by the shoulders. “Move your hand, lad.”

I glance down and choke with horror and regret when I find my fingers a breath away from brushing over my berserkir belt. I almost let it take me, the same way Lugh let the shades take him. “I didn’t mean... I don’t want to...”

“I know,” Cybel says. He clasps my trembling hand in his and squeezes, lifting it so it’s out of reach of the belt. “I understand.” He tips his head to Armel and Drest—when did Drest ride down here, and why is he gripping his bow like that?—and continues to hold my hand away while my trembling slows. “We all understand.”

“Yes, all’s well with us,” Armel promises. Drest doesn’t loosen his grip on the bow, but he nods in agreement. Then his gaze flicks to the side and I follow the movement without a second thought.

Lugh stands there, staring like he’s never seen me before, and I wonder if he finally understands what his mother’s gift means now that it was nearly turned on him. I don’t speak to him. I grab the cleaver from the ground.

It’s not a weapon of war. This is a butcher’s tool. The wooden handle’s worn from overuse, the blade curved unnaturally from excessive honing. No Seelie could have wielded this. Lugh was right. The Sluagh are behind this attack, though I refuse to believe they are acting with Aage’s support. The man I know, the man I fought beside, would never risk Queen Mab’s wrath. He would never send his people into a battle so woefully unprepared, armed with tools of their trade alone. Someone else must be moving in these lands, someone who dares to challenge King Oberon himself. And if Aage is unaware of what’s happening, Lugh’s determination makes sense. If Aage falls, the Sluagh will fall, and Lugh will tumble down with them as his position is lost.

This new perspective doesn’t offer much comfort, though it does help me understand Lugh’s focus on finding such proof. The blade’s weight is unnatural in my hand. There’s no balance, no symmetry to its shape, and I’m sure Aage will instantly recognize the piece for what it is—a workingman’s tool turned to warfare. With this, we could sway the thegn to our side. This may be enough to convince him to join us in battle in exchange for help against the internal threat. If it fails, I fear what else Lugh would risk to secure the Sluagh forces.

Cybel remains silent as I pack the blade away in my saddlebags. He’s silent as I mount Dubh, and he’s still silent when we begin a slow walk back toward the road. Lugh and the others can follow us if they wish. The day’s travel is already off. Finding a campsite away from this destroyed place is the wisest course. The quiet helps more than any platitudes. Slowly, carefully, I begin to piece myself back together. Even with my emotions under better control, the belt still hums to me, promising an escape from all of this for a little while. Gods, the temptation to transform is so strong. I cling to the reins and wrap them around my hands and fingers, ordering myself to not touch the belt.

It’s a battle I’m not positive I’ll win. “Would you take it from me?” I ask Cybel quietly.

No judgment in his eyes. No disgust for my weakness twisting his mouth. He simply returns my question with another. “Do you really want me to?” When I don’t answer, he adds, “We’ve still a few hours’ ride ahead of us.”

&nb

sp; It’s a valid point. If we run into the Sluagh forces who slaughtered this village, I may need it. I shake my head and Cybel nods. “Good lad.”

I put my heels to Dubh and ride, Cybel keeping pace beside me. The trees flash by and I pray to the gods I can leave it all—the murdered Seelie, the village, Lugh’s single-mindedness—behind me. But I doubt they’re listening.

Chapter Twelve

Keiran

Lugh gives me space. The first day, I’m appreciative for it. I need time to sort through the overwhelming tide of emotions that nearly drowned me in the destroyed village. The men seem to understand that the distance is mutually accepted, and say nothing. The next day, Lugh tries to talk to me, but I rebuff him, still frustrated by his actions and my own response. Hurt, he withdraws to his own company. The Hunt remain quiet and observant. By the third day, I’ve come to the realization that most of my anger shouldn’t have been directed at Lugh. Too bad I don’t know how to share that with him, especially since my attempts to coax him into stilted conversation die horrible, painful deaths thanks to his monosyllabic responses and sudden need to go hunting for our dinner. This time, Cybel and Armel exchange exasperated looks, and even Drest clucks his tongue at our behavior.

Our silent battle of wills stretches on through the awkward meal. Neither of us can summon the courage for a confrontation, though we shoot enough awkward glances at each other that they become their own form of conversation. We’ve been together too long to handle this separation well.

Maybe that’s why I’m not completely surprised when I wake up to discover the men have already torn down their part of camp and packed their horses. Drest and Armel are both mounted, while Cybel sits beside the fire, waiting for me or Lugh to rouse ourselves. A quick look to the bundle of furs across the fire from me confirms Lugh’s still sleeping, so I sit up and wait for Cybel’s speech with grim acceptance.

“Nearest town’s a half day’s ride,” he says, scratching a rough map into the dirt with a stick. He hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “A storm’s coming in, so we’ll ride out now and resupply. We’ll meet you here.” He indicates a point halfway between the town and our current location. “There should be some abandoned cottages there where we can set camp for the night.”

“Sounds like a good place to ride out the storm if necessary,” I agree, the words raspy in the still of the morning.

He nods and rises. “We’ll see you tonight.”

He starts to walk away, but I reach out and snag the hem of his cloak. “What do you want us to do?”

He gently pulls his cloak free of my grasp, which is so at odds with the stern look he pins me with. “Talk.”

“But—”