The Iron Crown (The Darkest Court)

“Wait,” I whisper. “What does that mean?”

Jokinen cocks her head and gives me a funny look. “Do you not wish us to protect the seidhr?”

“No, I do, of course, but...” I trail off. All eyes fix on me and my growing panic makes the belt hum. I glance at Lugh, whose expression is marred with pain-tight lines around his eyes. “Why do my wishes matter?”

“Why, he asks.” Resnik chuckles and starts to kick snow into the embers. They hiss and sputter and the noises grate against my already thin nerves. Once they’re completely covered, Resnik reaches into a pocket and draws out a finely wrought brooch. The snarling wolf heads of Aage’s crest catch the faint light and my stomach bottoms out.

“Breoca made sure we had this,” Resnik explains as he draws nearer to me. He moves slowly, cautiously, as if he’s afraid I’ll lash out at him. I can’t promise I won’t. “Goodfellow killed Aage in an unfair fight and claimed the Iron Crown. But you—”

The crest’s sightless golden eyes stare at me accusingly.

“You defeated him.”

“The challenge,” Lugh breathes and steps forward to take the brooch from Resnik. He wipes his thumb over it to remove a smear of blood, and looks back to me.

“No.” I step back, balking at the horrifying thought. I could reach down now, brush my fingers over the belt, and run from this. I could escape still.

The huscarls look to each other with concern. Cybel holds up a hand to keep them from speaking, gods bless him. I don’t want to hear this. I don’t want them to look at me like that, like I’m some kind of savior. I’m not. My duty isn’t to the Sluagh, it’s to Lugh. It’s to the man watching me with loving eyes and a resolute expression, who moves closer with the brooch extended before him like an offering. The man I only now dared to claim for myself, and who will be lost to me forever if this is true.

“Keir,” Lugh says softly, “you forced Goodfellow to throw away his sword because he couldn’t defeat you. You bested him in a challenge before all the Assembly. You’re the only person alive who could challenge his claim to the Iron Crown because, by law, it’s yours. You can command your army to take up arms in the battle to come.” In the war to come, he doesn’t say, but we’re both thinking it. No Sluagh in the North will follow a thegn who takes what he wants without honor. To validate Goodfellow’s method of claiming power would destroy the few laws their society lives by. I honored their traditions. They’re willing to follow me into battle against Goodfellow, will probably fight beside the Winter Court if it ends his supposed rule. If I take the thegnship, Lugh will not return home a failure. But, if I take the thegnship, Queen Mab will have every excuse to separate us permanently on diplomatic grounds.

“Please,” I whisper, “don’t make me do this.”

Lugh shakes his head, his mouth twisted with a sad smile. “You always wondered what the gods’ plan was for you, Keir. Now we know.”

He reaches out and clasps my hand tightly, cutting off access to the belt. He won’t let me run from this, and I wish I could hate him for it. Instead, I close my eyes and try to breathe through the nausea. Lugh doesn’t move away, simply stands there, holding my hand. When I open my eyes again, I find him watching me with an ancient patience.

He has to know the truth. “I didn’t mean to,” I whimper.

“I know,” he assures me, “I know you didn’t. But we can’t undo the past.”

His hands are steady when he reaches up and fastens the brooch to my cloak. It glitters there against the dark blue wool, a golden reminder of my new status, of my responsibility to the people of the Wylds. Lugh presses a hand over my heart and smiles up at me. “To your people in the North, I’m the Horned King and I still serve the Sluagh’s thegn.” He steps back and drops to a knee in front of me. Behind him, the rest follow suit, and I know my fate is sealed.

Chapter Nineteen

Lugh

Three days of peace is all they give us. We knew Goodfellow’s forces would catch up sooner rather than later. The discovery of my raven, message still attached to its leg and an arrow through its breast, confirmed how close they were to us, how prepared they were for our attempt at escape. Still, I didn’t expect the first small group to burst out of the trees in this narrow valley passage and knock me from Liath’s back.

My head snaps against the ground and the world explodes with white light. Frightened horses and shouting and weapons clashing ring through the fog as I struggle to my feet. My ribs and back burn and spark when I try to lift my spear, but at least my vision returns. It’s chaos. Voll and Jensson bark commands at their warriors in an attempt to defend the sparse line from the unexpected assault. Cybel, Armel, and Drest have already dismounted and moved to circle me. Too late, I understand the attack’s true purpose.

The six riders have separated Keiran from us and taken him by surprise so utterly he hasn’t had time to draw an axe. Dubh shies as they close in, swords raised, but his nervousness has nothing to do with them. Keiran’s hand hovers over his belt. I step forward, needing to close the distance between us, and our gazes meet just as Dubh rears up and throws him.

My heart leaps into my throat and I think I shout something because the Hunt and the Northerners all look that way at once. Keiran’s on the ground. Two of Goodfellow’s men dismount and move in for the kill. Of course they would. Keiran is the only risk to Goodfellow’s dominion over the Wylds. Why would they hunt the thegn’s seidhr when they could hunt the thegn himself?

Keiran shakes his head and drags himself up onto his hands and knees. He doesn’t draw a weapon. He finds me, watches me even as he reaches to unleash Mother’s magick, and I need him to know it’s okay to put his own life above mine. To use the belt, consequences be damned, because more than anything else, I need him alive.

“Please,” I whisper.

He couldn’t have heard me, not across all this distance, not with all the noise around us. He understands nevertheless, and he gives in.

When he was first training with the belt, the transformation was a horrible, painful thing. Joints would misalign, muscles would bunch and snap as ligaments tried to adjust, and being caught between selves was more common than not. No matter how much pain he was in, no matter how many times he failed and returned to his natural human form, Keiran would grit his teeth, ignore the sweat dripping from his body, and try again. After the worst practice sessions, I would nurse him out of fevered dreams where he muttered strange promises to no one. He spent years suffering to master this power.

No one would ever know the ugliness of his past from this moment. There’s no sudden, jarring movement from man to bear. He seems to stretch into the new form in an effortless glide of dark fur and long claws and flashing teeth that leaves his clothes and weapons shed to the ground around him. Goodfellow’s men freeze in terror. They should. Keiran, as a man, is imposing. As a bear, he’s awe-inspiring. He stands up, more than twice the height of the man nearest him, and for a breath, the battle ceases.

Goodfellow’s men stare up at him, swords raised, hovering with indecision. The Northerners can’t drag their eyes away from the sight of their thegn in his berserkir form. And I smile, because I know what comes next.

Keiran doesn’t give a single warning to our attackers. No sound, no obvious movement. One second, he’s standing above them, the next, he drops forward and crushes the closest man to the ground. The snapping of ribs throws everyone back into motion. A second man tries to swing his sword and help his compatriot, but it’s too late. Keiran’s jaws close around his throat. He makes short, messy work of it, but there’s one less threat by the time he lifts his head and lunges for the next. The rest of Goodfellow’s men wheel their horses around and flee, abandoning their friend to Keiran’s tender mercies.