The Iron Crown (The Darkest Court)

Prince Lyne stalks past us toward the edge of the sealing spell, ignoring our questions. He focuses instead on Smith, who takes position beside him. “Ready?” Prince Lyne asks.

Smith flicks a hand toward the boundary and the same magick we felt earlier flashes again, ripping a heated line through Queen Mab’s spell. Torn between amazement and terror, I gape at the magnitude of Smith’s power.

Prince Lyne steps through first and gives us an irritated gesture to hurry. Following after him is strange, like running through a dense fog. The sealing around the sídhe clings to my skin. I can’t imagine the intensity of the sensation for Lugh, who can feel the magickal film against his glamour. Smith steps through behind us, makes another gesture, and the sealing closes back into place.

Lugh spins to Smith, eyes wide with wonder. “How did you do that? You aren’t fae.”

“No,” Smith admits, rubbing at the back of his neck and glancing toward Prince Lyne for guidance. The prince doesn’t offer any help; he simply rolls his eyes and continues walking across the field. Smith makes a face at his retreating back, but offers, “I’m Phineas Smith. Human. Ley line host. Winter Knight.”

Herne and the hunters, even I recognize the name. Lugh didn’t give me all the details, but I know Smith’s kidnapping and torture while Prince Lyne was at university was the reason for his falling-out with Prince Sláine.

“Goddess,” Lugh breathes. “Mother snagged you at last. Was Roark part of that deal? Please tell me he was part of the deal.”

Smith’s laugh is bright and amused, completely at odds with the scowl Prince Lyne throws back over his shoulder. “Not quite. Hurry up,” Prince Lyne orders, which only makes Smith roll his eyes.

“Maybe later we’ll have time to talk,” he tells Lugh.

We all follow in the prince’s steps, crossing the snowy fields at a quick pace. He doesn’t slow for us, but Lugh ends up rushing after him, leaving me and Smith to trail behind.

“The message we were given sounded serious,” I say.

“The war council’s convened,” Smith says. Ahead of us, Prince Lyne disappears into one of the doors of the sídhe, Lugh still at his heels.

“We have important news to share on that front.”

Smith’s expression darkens. “We probably know most of it. It’s all gone to hell faster than we anticipated.”

At the door, he waves for me to precede him. Ahead of us, Prince Lyne and Lugh have come to a halt in the hall. Lugh speaks in his usual animated way, but whatever he says takes Prince Lyne by surprise, because the man rears back like he’s been slapped. His furious shout of “What the fuck?” echoes back to us.

“Or,” Smith begins, his brow furrowed with concern, “we may need to hear you out.”

Lugh

Before we were old enough to create the legend of the Wild Hunt, Keiran and I wandered into the Wylds regularly. One winter, we decided to go hunting. The river between us and the best hunting grounds was frozen over, with a pale dusting of snow coating the top layer of ice, and there was no choice but to cross. Keiran, with his greater age and experience, wanted to take his time and find a safe place to do so. I, being an impulsive boy who thought he knew better, darted ahead across in the widest spot. I still remember Keiran’s shout of warning, the clicking beneath my feet that transformed into a sharp crack, and the terrifying plunge into the water below. The shock of the freezing river squeezed the air from my lungs and seized my muscles. If not for Keiran’s quick thinking and quicker hands, I’d never have survived.

Stepping back into the sídhe reminds me of that moment. The chill of passing shades claws at my lungs, stronger than ever now that I’ve accepted my magick. None offer to help me though. They see me and fear me, a child of their murderess, and their whispers of Mother’s bloodied deeds dog my steps as Roark leads me deeper toward the war room. The redcap guards open the heavy doors and I step inside, hoping for a reprieve. I should have known better. At the head of the table, Mother sits on a simple throne. Two empty chairs, Roark’s and Smith’s, are at her right hand. At her left, my eldest brother, Sláine, sits beside another empty chair.

Sláine sucks in a breath when he spots me and I don’t know what to make of his cautious warmth when he says, “Brother. It’s good to see you.” His voice is unrecognizable, harsh and broken.

“You defected,” I say.

“No. I lost sight of my purpose. Goodfellow used that against me. Trapped me.”

It would be so easy to mock him for that failure. He was quick to mock me when we were children for being distracted and making foolish mistakes. The irony of our reversed circumstances holds its own bitter joy.

As if he knows what I’m thinking, he clears his throat and tries with, “I doubt it surprises you.”

“Not really.” And, because I know Keiran’s probably glaring at me for my rudeness, I decide to be charitable. “You’re not the only one he manipulated. Goodfellow made a habit of killing and using Sluagh across the Wylds to gain power.”

Sláine shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Perhaps we should have listened to you when you told us of their value.”

“You should have. Now he marches on us with a force armed with iron. It’s amazing how easy it is to be convinced of someone’s power when they hold a blade to your throat.”

Sláine nods slowly, but he doesn’t lash back at me for my bitterness as he would have centuries ago. Instead, he says, “True. And after facing them, I admit they are stronger warriors than I gave them credit to be.”

“You were there when the Summer Court fell to their armies?”

He looks away, but I catch his haunted expression. Whatever he saw, whatever Goodfellow did, is something he can’t escape. “I was.”