Devotion. Fraternity. Honor. Noble reasons to remain and share a message. But how did you fall even before we crossed the sea to the Unseelie lands?
Traveling across the Wylds with the rest of the forces. Tired, hungry, and limping from aching feet. Proud to be part of this, to stand against a usurper to all the Sluagh hold dear. Making camp, night after night. Last night, camping on the outskirts, as the rotation calls for. A shadow moving outside the firelight in the night. My vocal chords flex, but the arrow to my throat turns my call into a gurgle as blood drowns me.
The young man who darts into the fire’s light seems too young to be a murderer. He keeps looking up to check for witnesses, but none come. I was the last to go to bed in this area, too excited and nervous about the crossing to fall asleep. My killer strips me and changes into my clothes. He doesn’t bother to dress my corpse, simply throws my body over his shoulder, and carries me away from the camp. He drops me in the ruin of a fisherman’s shack to finish bleeding out. The last sounds I hear are his retreating footsteps...
Fuck.
I wrench myself from the memories and step back. The shade moves closer, as if he wants to steady me. He was murdered last night and the man who did it is wearing his clothes and is posing as one of our troops. Rocks scatter underfoot from how quickly I spin, searching for Keiran, but he’s vanished over the breakwall with the others. Out of sight. Out of reach. Out of distance for me to warn him.
I hate how long it takes to cross the icy beach. I hate even more how Keiran’s doing exactly what he should—standing tall on the back of a loaded wagon to give a rousing speech to the troops before we depart. I hate how it’s only now that I notice the flickering presence of shades throughout the crowd. Five shades at least, counting the one following in my wake. That means there are at least five of Goodfellow’s murdering soldiers making a last-ditch effort to stop us.
Drest notices me first. He reaches to his belt to draw his short sword. His movement catches the attention of Armel and Cybel. And there, behind Cybel’s shoulder, a blessing from the Goddess herself—the face of the shade’s murderer as he moves in closer to Keiran. Cybel’s eyes widen when he sees me draw my seax and flip it, preparing to hurl it at a target, but he freezes as we’ve practiced so I can take the shot. The seax whips through the open space in front of Keiran and buries itself in the man’s eye. Chaos erupts. Dark shapes push through the crowd toward us. Toward Keiran, who still stands in the center of it all, only now realizing the danger.
Protect him! I command the shades, throwing all my will behind the order.
I’ve never asked such a thing from them. I’ve never needed their help so desperately. I don’t expect it to work. But they obey.
They’re too incorporeal, too new to do much. They try to block Goodfellow’s men from reaching Keiran, but only slow them for a moment. But it’s enough. The Hunt take on the three closest attackers, which leaves the last to me. He’s at Keiran’s back, in the perfect position to stab him from behind. His sword comes up. A shade reaches out and grabs the blade. The man yelps, shaking his hands against whatever terrible sensation he felt through the metal, and his weapon lands on the ground.
Finally, an opening. I hurtle toward the wagon, new seax drawn and in hand. Keiran watches my approach, guesses my path, and drops to his knees. He folds forward, offering me the strong, steady plane of his back as a step to vault from. It gives me the extra height I need to clear the far wagon side. I leap with all my strength and keep my knife raised. I land on top of the would-be killer, crushing his ribs as we crash back to the ground, and use his breathlessness to stab the blade into his throat.
The moment I rip the seax free, the shades vanish. There’s no sign of them in the dazed and angry crowd. Keiran abandons the wagon to come toward me, but I ignore him in favor of the Hunt. “Are they all dead?” I shout.
“Of course,” Drest replies. He wipes his sword on his cloak, grimacing at the wet stripe of blood it leaves behind, and kicks the nearest corpse. “Care to tell us who they are?”
I would, but Keiran requires my immediate attention. He reaches a trembling hand toward my face, rubbing his thumb along my cheekbone and inspecting me for injury. I reach up to clasp his wrist. “I’m fine,” I promise. “I was afraid I wouldn’t get to you in time.”
Jokinen and Jensson step forward
in front of the other soldiers. They kneel by the bodies and inspect them, frowning at whatever they see. Jensson asks, “How did you know?”
I lock eyes with Keiran. I can’t make him lie to his people, not when it could risk their loyalty. Though this admission may frighten them even more than the sight of his transformation. But I will not make him keep my secrets, not when it could kill him as it did Aage.
“They’re going to find out sooner or later,” I murmur.
“Only if you’re sure,” he replies. “This is your story to tell, Lugh. Not mine.” He waits for me to decide. There’s no time left for fear. I have to face this. Once I nod, he turns away from me and raises his hands to quiet the crowd. “The seidhr will explain all.”
Hundreds of faces turn to me and this time, Keiran won’t save me from their curiosity. The only person who can save me now, who can secure a place among the Sluagh and at Keiran’s side, is me.
“When I rode as the Horned King,” I begin, wishing my voice would stop trembling, “the poet told you stories of my visions. The Goddess speaks to me, but not directly.” I give a pained smile. “I’m not that deserving.”
The nearest warriors chuckle, though they still look uneasy.
“The Goddess sends shades, spirits of the dead, to me. They need help to find their rest and I offer that.” Despite the murmurs of doubt in the crowd, I press on. “What you just witnessed—your thegn’s survival—is because one of your fallen brothers found me and warned me of Goodfellow’s troops in our midst. Goodfellow’s men murdered him and others last night and thought they could sneak past us. They thought they could kill your thegn and secure the place of their imposter, their false prophet—” I don’t hide my bitter joy at using Goodfellow’s moniker for me against him now. “—over you. They underestimated the honor of the warriors in the North. Even in death, your brother’s duty to his thegn prevailed. His actions were their undoing.
“I know my magick is frightening.” I clench my hands to fists and deny myself the safety of glamour. If I want to stay at Keiran’s side, if I want his people’s acceptance, they deserve my honesty. “And I know being Queen Mab’s youngest son is a mark against me, and rightly so, considering her history with the people of the Wylds. But I swear to you, if you let me, I will serve your thegn as my sole liege.”
The Sluagh are silent. I remember Keiran’s suggestion and keep my mouth shut. This choice is theirs and, for Keiran’s sake, I will honor whatever their decision may be. But with every second stretching out longer, I fear what they’ll demand of me.
From somewhere in the crowd, a voice shouts out, “Pledge!” Another joins the call, then another, a chorus rising in fervor until their chant drowns out the sound of the ocean. I turn to Keiran, who watches his people with an expression of awed surprise.
“May as well give them what they want,” I say, smile growing until I can’t contain it. I’ve never been happier to obey a missive.
Keiran looks back at me, lips parting on a command I refuse to hear, and I kneel before him. His stunned reflection in my drawn and offered blade makes the moment sweeter. At my back, the crowd stops their chant and waits to hear my words.
“Thegn of the Iron Crown,” I say, “I offer you my blade, my magick, and my heart. Let me serve at your side until the end.”
His breath hitches when he hears his own promise repeated here before all these witnesses. And when I dare to look up at him, his answering smile is fierce with pride. He reaches to pull me to my feet and the Sluagh roar their approval.