The Iron Crown (The Darkest Court)

“Keiran,” he whispers, too low for Lugh to hear, “our lives are too short for such pain. Talk to him. Promise me this.”

I shake. I thought claiming anything more than friendship from Lugh was as impossible as reaching into the darkness of the heavens to pluck down a star. Yet I find myself reaching for one anyway. Fear and joy and responsibility and love mix so potently they threaten to take my knees out from under me. These thoughts are dangerous. I want to skate my fingers over Lugh’s cheek and wipe away the dirt there. I want to take him in my arms and taste his mouth for the first time. Yes, these thoughts are dangerous and I let them transform me with the hope of a new future at his side, rather than the fear of losing him.

“I will,” I tell him.

Aage gives me one final, gentle shake, and leaves us to rejoin the hunters. Lugh tilts his head and watches him leave, smile faltering just a bit. “What was that about?”

We exist isolated in the midst of the crush, surrounded by exuberant hunters and their eager audience, and my racing thoughts drown out everything else, even my speeding pulse. You’ve grown up and I refused to see it. You’ve been carrying the weight of our friendship by yourself and it’s my fault. I want you, and you alone, out of everyone in the world, and Aage finally helped me see all of it.

“Later,” I tell him. “Right now, I want to hear about your hunt.”

Lugh

If I didn’t know better, I’d think Keiran had been about to say something else outside. I’m not sure what his later means, or why he changed the subject so quickly, but he looked so eager to hear and so happy to see me, I couldn’t deny him.

Still can’t deny him. It’s why we’re sitting next to each other at this small table to Aage’s right, so close our knees keep bumping and our shoulders brush every time we reach for something. He doesn’t shrink from my touch. If anything, he leans into it, tries to maintain contact. A faint flush colors the apples of his cheeks above his beard, and he keeps darting glances at me from half-lidded eyes. I wish I could grab him by the back of the neck and ask him to tell me what he’s thinking. Because when he smiles at me like this, I wonder if the lines we agreed not to cross aren’t in the same places, if they’re slightly mismatched, just waiting for one of us to point out the glaringly obvious flaw in our perceptions.

Instead of giving in to that foolish desire, I focus on the change in the Sluagh around us. Tonight the hall inhabits a different landscape, full of laughter and good humor. It’s a far cry from the polite, quiet meals we had when only the Mainland clans were present. Aage eats his meal, but takes frequent breaks to wander and work the crowd. He checks that the lowest retainers are comfortable in their chambers and have full bellies. He arranges a meeting with the huscarls in the morning, before those charged arrive to face the assembly. It’s a bold move, one that forces the clan heads to acknowledge his place of power over them, though he won’t force them to make decisions without the last three clans present.

By now, everyone knows they were the

last summoned and rumors flew during the afternoon’s hunt as to why they’ve been set up for this public humiliation. It’s not against the laws governing the Sluagh assemblies to embarrass them in front of their peers, but it’s damn close. Aage is toeing a line he needs to be prepared to cross if things go badly. Watching him wander the hall now, I’m certain he’s planning for a worst-case scenario. Breoca sits with Cybel, Armel, and Drest at our table, though he sometimes pauses in conversation to listen to a murmured comment from Aage as he passes.

“You’re distracted,” Keiran comments when he refills my tankard with the aromatic mead Kermode brought from his village. “Is it your helm?”

A carefully worded way to ask if my glamour’s too taxing. I take a sip, enjoying the honeyed sweetness spreading over my tongue, and shake my head. “No. I haven’t felt stronger since we began traveling to Eyjar. Haven’t slept better, either.” This land isn’t tainted; there’s no sight nor whisper of shades anywhere near us. Truly a blessed place.

Keiran freezes and the way his eyes flick over my face, inspecting me, makes me wonder if there’s something I’ve missed. “Even last night?” he asks.

“I think I woke up once, but I don’t remember,” I admit.

He sets down his tankard and I notice it’s nearly empty. “Do you want more?”

“None left,” he mumbles, the words hollow. Keiran rarely indulges in drink, claiming it compromises his ability to guard me effectively. I’ve seen him quaff a wide variety of ales and liquors, mostly by necessity rather than choice. The only drink I’ve ever seen him stop and savor, the only one he voluntarily asks for more servings of, is mead. It reminds him of home.

Hoping to brighten his strangely somber mood, I hold my tankard out toward him. He shakes his head. “No, seidhr.”

“Keiran, just drink it. We both know what’s mine is yours.” Especially my heart, though you’ll never take it.

His gaze darts from my face to the tankard and back. His fingers brush delicately over mine when he takes it and his careful reappraisal of my expression steals my breath. His lips press to the tankard’s rim, right over the place I had drunk from. I’m left achingly exposed and suffused with such heat he must feel it through our clothes.

He takes a long drink and lowers the tankard. I can’t tear my eyes from his mouth. He must notice, because they press together tightly before he finally whispers, “Lugh, I—”

“Poet?”

We both flinch at Olofsdotter’s call. Keiran recovers faster than I do, glancing away from me toward her and offering a polite smile. “Yes?”

She beams at him, thrilled to have his attention before all the Sluagh here. She’s a good huscarl, competent, and I make a silent promise to myself to try to forge a stronger tie with her while we’re here. Any ally of Aage’s deserves the support of our Hunt.

She gestures toward the waiting crowd. “Would you do us the honor?”

Thank the Goddess Keiran understands what she means, because I don’t realize she’s asked him to perform until he sets down our drink and rises from the bench. He moves toward the central fire pit without hesitation, though he brushed his hand against my back as he left. What was he going to say?

As Keiran approaches, the Mainlanders look wary or bored, but the Northern clans send up a rousing cheer and begin chanting, “Poet! Poet!” until he flushes and holds up his hands for their silence. Aage’s returned to his seat now, Breoca at his left, sitting close enough they can lean their heads together while speaking to keep their conversation private. Keiran’s stories will provide them the perfect cover to discuss whatever they’ve learned tonight.

“What would you have of me?” Keiran asks the audience.

Suggestions fly loud and fast. He occasionally points at someone to make them repeat something, and looks far too thoughtful as he considers their requests. The audience eats it up. There’s no one in the Wylds who isn’t aware of Keiran’s importance to the seidhr’s Wild Hunt. He’s a legend in his own right, and an even better one because he’s like the Sluagh in so many ways. He’s not an untouchable, veiled figure like me; he’s a folk hero, a fellow traveler, and willing to make a show of these moments of connection. At least, it’s a show until a nondescript woman in the back row with some of the Mainlanders asks, “Why would anyone wish to follow the seidhr when all he brings is war and suffering to us?”