The Iron Crown (The Darkest Court)

“No,” I whisper. It wasn’t a shade. It was something else. Something worse, I think. But when I search for it, I can’t find a trace. The shades in my head are silent. Even the draugr keeps a fearful peace.

“What do you remember?”

Nothing there. Empty blackness in my mind. “I don’t remember anything,” I tell him.

I lean in, tucking my head against the curve of his neck. He’s sleep-warm and he smells like the forest. Like home.

“Tired,” I mumble. “Just want to sleep.”

“Will you try to stay up with me for a while?”

“It’s not there anymore, Keir. We can sleep.”

He wraps his arms around me and rests his chin lightly on my head. “I don’t want to.”

“Promise me you’ll try to sleep again.” When he starts to argue, I nuzzle in closer and he falls silent. “Please, Keir?”

“Fine,” he whispers. “I’ll try.”

He promised he’d try. He never breaks his promises, not to me. Content, I give in and let sleep claim me once more.

Chapter Fifteen

Keiran

I don’t sleep. I cradle Lugh, and when my limbs start shaking, I lay him down and face him, watching his slumber for any signs of distress. He sleeps like the dead, peaceful and softer than I’ve seen him for years.

When he wakes, he

doesn’t mention last night at all. His glamour is steady when he eats among the glowering Mainlanders in the hall. He’s confused by my worried questions about how he feels, then grows concerned enough that I stop asking altogether. He sobbed so loudly in his sleep last night, I woke up, and now, I would never know anything was wrong.

“Keiran, are you okay?” Lugh asks me.

I glance up from my porridge and find the attention of the entire Hunt fixed on me. Lugh’s brow is pinched with concern, and I doubt I can explain my thoughts in a way that will relieve any of his doubts. So I lie and assure them all, “I’m fine. Just nervous about what will happen when all the clans are present.”

We’ll find out any moment now. The call goes up that the Northerners are on the lone road into Krigsmöte. The mood of the fortress changes with their arrival. We follow Aage and his supporters outside the hall to greet the new arrivals. Of the Mainland clans, only Resnik joins us. The rest watch dourly from the hall. The six groups spread out over the field, with their banners flicking to and fro in the morning breeze. Aage makes a formal welcome, and soon enough there are wide smiles and slapped backs and loud conversations discussing the travel conditions and how things at home are. Lugh’s swallowed up by the crowd, and I stretch myself to my full height, desperate to find him among the milling bodies.

Olofsdotter has Drest’s chin in hand, laughing at him when he starts and sputters from something she said. Kermode gives me a brief wave, but doesn’t stop on his way to the stables. Where the fuck is Lugh?

“Poet!”

Thorburn, one of the few Sluagh larger than me, lifts me in a crushing hug. He’s one of the youngest huscarls, voted into the position by his clan after his father’s death a scant century ago. Even before his ascension, every visit we made to his village has been full of drink and laughter and generosity. He’s a handsome man, according to Lugh, and I suppose I can understand why people think so. His thick arms stretch the fabric of his tunic, and he’s taken the time to braid his honey-dark hair back for the formal occasion. Even his beard has delicate braids worked in. He’s a warrior in his prime, and I never realize it more than when he gives me one final spin and sets me down.

Thorburn doesn’t notice. He keeps a hand clasped on my shoulder. It’s a strange weight, so different from Lugh’s, but his wide smile and bellowing voice distract me from deciding whether or not I like it. “Poet,” he says again, “it’s been too long!”

“It’s good to see you here. Peaceful crossing?” I reply, patting his shoulder twice before dropping my hand and continuing my search for my absent Horned King. Damn Lugh for allowing the Hunt to see through his glamour today. I wouldn’t miss his horned helm if I could see it.

Thorburn’s hand stays where it is. “Aye, it was a peaceful crossing. Gentle seas,” he says. “Even Jensson survived.” The man in question makes a foul gesture in Thorburn’s direction, which only makes him laugh before he turns his attention back to me and leans in closer. “What of the Hunt’s journey?”

“Long,” I admit, “but better now that we’re here.”

“Is the seidhr with you?”

As though his words were a magick spell, the crowd parts to reveal Lugh watching us. Voll chats quietly with him, though she’s curious enough to search out what’s drawn his focus. When she sees me, she gives a pleased smile and lifts a hand in greeting. I try to wave back, relief coursing through me to discover Lugh’s momentarily safe with a friend, but Thorburn’s grip on my shoulder makes it awkward. He notices and releases me so I can complete the motion. He turns to see who has distracted me and makes a low noise when he sees Lugh.

“Ah. There he is,” he says. They watch each other politely before Lugh glances back to Voll. “You still have no plans to leave his company?” Thorburn asks me, his smile slightly dimmed, but still genuine.

It’s difficult to not laugh outright at the suggestion. “No,” I say instead, still watching Lugh and wondering how he can burn away the sensation of Thorburn’s touch with a look alone. “Not until he asks it of me.”