The Iron Crown (The Darkest Court)

To my disappointment, he tries to hide a yawn before he can answer, “My people called them draugrs. Spirits of the dead who returned to life because of how strong their hatred was.”

Fuck. “That...sounds about right,” I mumble.

He squeezes my wrist gently. “Then we’re lucky we escaped unscathed.” My fingers stutter against his temple and he gives an apologetic hum. “Relatively unscathed, I suppose. Draugrs would follow those they wished to devour until they claimed them. Once one attaches itself to a victim, there’s no escape.”

Fuck.

He yawns again. “They’re probably just legend though. I remember the warriors my father fought with telling those stories, not the seeress, and she’s the one who knew the real dangers. We should rest. Tomorrow will be a long day of riding.”

“Yes, of course.”

Even after he’s fallen asleep, I lie awake, staring at his fingers banded around my wrist, and fight off the panic threatening to overtake me.

Earlier, I promised Keiran that I would be safer, that I would think before I acted. But in the cottage, body caught in the throes of the shade’s death, Keiran broke through the memory long enough for me to claw my way free of the draugr’s dark pull for a split second. I saw Keiran’s resignation, his willingness to die rather than hurt me, and I knew I’d do anything to keep him safe. So I reached out to the shade who had forced its way into my mind, and invited it to stay.

It didn’t believe me at first, but when Keiran turned the fight in his favor, the shade gave in. It retreated into the darkest shadows of my mind where most other shades fear to tread, and buried itself deep in that blackness. It hasn’t stirred since, but I’m sure it will awaken again. And when it does, what the fuck am I going to do? I don’t know if its memories will ever be coherent. If I can’t figure out how to help it, it’ll live inside me like those ancient shades who follow Mother and who came to me as a child, settling into my mind before I knew how to deny them. The draugr’s reappearance will force me away from Keiran, from everyone, to keep them safe. How will I be able to face him then and admit I chose something I knew could lead to our separation?

I chew on those painful questions as the fire burns down, as the storm clouds finally clear and expose the glittering night sky, as the moon passes and dawn pierces the horizon. No answers come to me. By the time the men start to shift and wake, the only thing I’ve decided is to keep this to myself until I know what to do. It may be a foolish decision, but it allows me to smile when Keiran opens his eyes and act as if all will be well.

Maybe it will be, in the end.

Chapter Thirteen

Keiran

Slowly, the nightmare of Lugh’s run-in with the draugr begins to fade. We close the distance to Eyjar at a steady pace. The promise of the warmth and comfort of Meðalhall, Aage’s great hall, is alluring, but at night after everyone else is asleep, Lugh whispers his worries to me. He fears Aage is losing control of his people. He fears the restless shades are signs of darker forces at work. He fears everything we’ve done here will be lost to his mother’s war. I won’t lie and promise him all will be well. Instead, I listen until he falls asleep and when we rise in the morning, I ride on beside him.

Lugh’s worries weigh on me for the rest of the ride. It’s nearly dusk when we finish making our way up the narrow, winding mountain path and emerge on the snowy ridge overlooking the valley. The evergreens stand proud and dark against the pale ground. The open meadows and fields stretch out below us and the well-used paths leading in and out of the village promise a short burst of easy riding in this last stretch.

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; Eyjar, the unofficial center of Sluagh culture, sits comfortably at the far edge of the valley. Smoke rises from its fires, and pinpricks of lantern light grow as we watch. The vast scale of the settlement had astounded us when we visited for our first time centuries ago as young men. Aage’s clan and those who choose to live in his court make their homes inside the giant central ring. Fortified by tall, thick wooden walls and only offering four gates for entry or exit, Eyjar is a fortress, a place of protection and safety for those Sluagh seeking refuge in it. Or for road-weary travelers like us.

“Isn’t that a sight for sore eyes?” Armel asks with a smile. “We’ve been away too long, seidhr.”

Lugh nods in agreement. He takes in the scene with a quietude that could be mistaken for mild indifference. I know better. This is a homecoming, truer than any visit to the Winter Court’s sídhe, and he’s letting it wash over him.

I urge Dubh to Lugh’s side and ask quietly, “Shall I ride ahead to announce your arrival, seidhr?”

My formality rouses him from his thoughts. He offers a rueful smile, and shakes his head. “They’ll recognize us soon enough. Come on.”

We follow him down the lazy switchbacks to the valley floor. Down here, the scent of wood smoke and home cooking hangs heavy in the air. We urge our horses faster to get us to the gates before the sun dips too far behind the mountains. The horses recognize this place. They know comfortable stalls with good hay and friendly grooms wait for them. It takes no coaxing for them to fly over the powdery ground.

The nearby river glints and flows like a liquid sunset, reflecting the colors back up to the sky, though the presence of ice on its banks promises it won’t flow for much longer. In our absence, Aage’s clan has diverted a few more feeder streams to irrigate the fields. The farmlands stretch out farther from the walls, and the newest silos mean this past harvest must have been even more successful than usual. My heart soars to see their good fortune, though I wonder why other clans’ lands have fallen so far in comparison.

Ahead, the gates loom. The watchtowers on either side are manned with warriors who lean closer to the edge of the ramparts as we approach. One of them, older, rears back when he sees us and sends up the call, “The seidhr returns!”

Soon his words are echoed around the ramparts and the sentries rush from their placements to come see our entry into the village. I glance at Lugh, curious what he thinks of such a reaction. The man riding beside me is the courageous faerie prince I devoted myself to all those centuries ago. He offers me a half smile, but I can read the worried lines pinching the corners of his eyes and mouth. The gates creak open in welcome to us—and our disturbing news.

Past the gate, Lugh pauses to stand in his stirrups and cast a wide view over the buildings around us. His delay means I’m still close enough to the gate to hear the heavy thud of the timbers closing and the resounding echo of the drawbar settling into place. I sigh with relief from the sudden release of tension through my neck and shoulders. Safe at last.

“It’s bigger than I remember,” Lugh remarks as he sits back down. Liath’s already turned toward the path leading to the center of the village, with its stables and great hall. He’s stubborn enough about his destination that Lugh laughs and gives him his head. The contrast between this place and the rest of the Mainland is stark. Here, Sluagh briefly abandon their homes or work to greet us. Some of the elders even reach out to brush their hands over Lugh’s boots, which makes him flush under the Horned King’s illusion.

The thegn’s most loyal retainer, Breoca, waits for us outside the hall’s entrance. He leans against one of the great pillars, an island unto himself despite the rapidly gathering crowd. He’s older now, with deeper creases around his eyes. We’ve been away too long. The last time I fought beside him, his light hair didn’t have nearly this much silver in it. At least his smile is as familiar and easy as I remember. “The Wild Hunt arrives in Eyjar once more.”

Lugh tilts his head in acknowledgment, a theatrical movement to draw attention to his horned helm. “If our thegn will graciously allow us to greet him in person, we would report our errand.”

Breoca unhooks his thumbs from his belt. “Oh?”