The Iron Crown (The Darkest Court)

“We don’t have much choice,” he points out. “We need horses.”

“A bath sounds nice.” I think a moment longer. “Food too.”

He snorts, but doesn’t argue. Instead, he takes a breath and stands. With his dark cloak, imposing height, and broad shoulders, there’s no way of hiding again. He fiddles with his cloak so a fold of fabric covers up Aage’s brooch before offering me a hand. “Shall we?”

Once I’m upright, we clamber over the wall and begin a slow trudge down the rest of the hill toward the village. The woman who led the defense stands by the gate. Her hand rests on the pommel of her sword, but she smiles as she watches us. She doesn’t speak when we hit the road, but instead waves for us to follow her. The other villagers still on watch don’t seem bothered by our presence, although a few cast curious glances as we pass. Once we’re safely inside the gate, the woman turns back to us.

“I’m Hedda,” she says, still resting her hand on her sword. “You must be the poor bastards they’re looking for.”

Villagers wait around us, watching Hedda. I can’t sense any threat of violence, but their attention is still unnerving.

“Why poor bastards?” I ask.

Hedda laughs. “Dykstra’s men rarely wander into our lands. They never do so en masse, or demand we turn over a pair of traitors. Whoever they’re looking for must be important, and it’s a little too convenient that you appear right after they’ve ridden away.”

“Traitors?” Keiran asks, his brow furrowed.

“There was an attempted coup at the assembly.” Hedda shrugs. “Thegn Aage must have put it down swiftly for the rebels to flee like this. News reached Dykstra’s lands before ours. It’s not uncommon for them to come deliver messages, though I’m not sure why they assume rebels would find safety here. I’m sure we’ll hear all about it from Huscarl Olofsdotter soon enough.”

“Oh, shit,” I mumble.

Keiran digs an elbow into my ribs and scowls, but it’s too late. Hedda caught my comment. She starts to draw her sword. I put a hand on Keiran’s chest and try to step in front of him as I draw a seax, and then, in the midst of our split-second reactions, Keiran sighs and flips the fold of his cloak aside. Aage’s brooch catches the sunlight and Hedda freezes. She stares at the brooch, steps back, and reassesses us with wide eyes.

Keiran doesn’t try to move past me, but he does hold out a hand to show we’re not threats. “We are not the traitors,” he tells her quietly. He glances at me and adds, “Show her, seidhr.”

As my thegn commands. I drop my arm and draw up my glamour. The weight of my helm returns. For a moment, I bury myself in my sorrow at the loss of this title. I’ve missed its solemnity, its purpose. Hedda gasps—perhaps from Keiran’s use of my former title, or from my glamour—and the surrounding villagers begin murmuring and drawing closer.

“You—” she starts, pointing at me, but turns her attention to Keiran before she finished her thought. “The seidhr never travels without his poet.”

Keiran tilts his head in agreement. Hedda abandons her sword and points to Keiran’s cloak. “That crest—It can’t be—”

“We need food and shelter,” Keiran says. “We don’t have anything we can trade you in exchange for such charity but a story.” I know and love the stubborn jut of his chin, the way his voice rumbles and rises so anyone nearby can hear him. “Though the ending is yet unknown.”

The villagers shift around us, looking to each other before deferring to Hedda. She finally releases her grip on the sword and wipes her palm against her dress. “Follow me.”

She takes us to the village’s hall, where we’re shown to a private room and offered some clean clothes to wear while our current garments are washed and hung by the fire to dry. One of the older women is even kind enough to heat us buckets of water so we can scrub the dust of the road away. We emerge to find the whole village—minus the watch—gathered in the hall. Bowls of stew are pushed into our hands, mugs of light ale are plunked down in front of us, and Hedda gives us long enough to eat before asking, “What happened at the assembly?”

Keiran tells them. He holds nothing back; there’s no reason to hide who I am now that Goodfellow will happily share the truth of my position to gain the people’s trust. There are cries of disbelief when Keiran exposes Goodfellow, followed by cries of sorrow when he describes how Aage and Breoca fell. By the time he relates the deaths of Thorburn and Olofsdotter, the crowd has descended into grim horror that can’t be lifted, even when he relates the clan heads pledging their allegiance to him in the forest. There’s no comfort in this tale; there’s nothing but the promise of war and violence.

“Goodfellow marched on the Summer Court,” Keiran finishes, “but a group of his followers are tracking us and the rest of Aage’s supporters. The men who were just here, Dykstra’s riders, have joined with your huscarl’s murderer.”

“We should have killed them,” Hedda says. The crowd murmurs their agreement. Her voice is rough from unshed tears, but her expression is resolute. “What do you need?”

“Time,” I say. It’s the first I’ve spoken and Keiran’s surprised by my interjection. I clear my throat, set down my mug, and add, “And horses, if you can spare them. We’re gathering forces across the Northern Realms in preparation for Goodfellow’s assault. Messengers who survived the assembly are riding across the Wylds to warn everyone and to ask fighters to join us for the battle ahead. The army will rally in Voll’s lands for inspection before the next move is decided. But we can’t do any of that if Goodfellow’s followers find us. Keiran is the rightful inheritor of the Iron Crown and Goodfellow knows it. He intends to murder Keiran before anyone outside his group of supporters hears the truth.”

“I don’t...” Keiran frowns and trails off. Watching his search for words is almost painful. The man can tell stories about me and the Hunt all day without hesitation, but the moment he has to discuss himself, those words vanish. I will spend the rest of my life spreading his legend if we survive this. He finally gives a shake of his head and says loudly, “You don’t know me. You have no reason to place your faith in me. I am no great ring-giver. I am not your thegn. He lies dead in the once-sacred hall of Krigsmöte. But whether you choose to flee from Goodfellow’s army, or fight at my side, I will offer my life in your service.”

A young man, barely past adolescence, is the first to rise and come forward. Keiran lifts his face to meet the man’s frown, but doesn’t do or say anything to sway the situation to his favor. The man nods at whatever he sees and drops to a knee. “I know your stories and have heard of your battles with the Hunt. I know you, and you alone, wear the brooch of my thegn. I pledge my service to you and beg you to let me ride out tonight to spread this tale to our

people.”

Keiran swallows hard. “What’s your name?”

“Toke.”

He reaches out to settle a heavy hand on the man’s shoulder and his voice is low and warm when he says, “You honor me with your pledge. Safe travels.”

Toke rises and strides from the hall with his head held high. His courage opens the floodgates. The villagers come forward to pledge to Keiran. Some promise to come fight for him, others follow in Toke’s steps to ride out and warn neighboring towns, while others still promise to prepare the town for its evacuation. As the pledges go on, I move until I’m standing at Keiran’s back. He leans against me and lets me press my hand against his shoulder blade, offering silent encouragement. At long last, it’s over.