The Iron Crown (The Darkest Court)

“The rest of the Mainland clans must have caught up,” I say.

Prince Lyne frowns. “Goodfellow will march on the sídhe tomorrow. There’s no hope of winning without your force.” If he weren’t Mab’s heir, I might like him. I understand him better now, knowing what it’s like to take on such a daunting burden. The fact that he’s willing to sit across from me in this moment of need, unashamed to ask for help, is laudable. Laudable, but pointless.

“My army has no intention of dying for you,” I tell him. “Your mother’s methods don’t work well with us.”

Prince Sláine huffs. “You aren’t Sluagh.”

“No. But I’m more Sluagh than I am Unseelie,” I point out. “Lugh, as well. They gave him a place and a purpose, which none of you did. Well, except you, Prince Lyne,” I amend, thinking about it a little more and remembering Lugh’s joy at being able to ride with the Hunt.

“Roark.” His smile glitters in the firelight. “We are speaking as equals after all, Thegn.”

I chuckle and throw another log in the fire. “Flattery will get you nothing. The Sluagh judge men by their actions. And the only men I see before me are a murderer and a traitor.”

They stiffen. Sláine sucks in a low, pained breath and glares at his younger brother. Roark’s far more composed, though his smile’s lost some of its sheen. “Could we coax you to fight beside us?”

Some bitter part of me wants to string them along, only to refuse and watch them reap what they’ve sown tomorrow. But the memory of Lugh mumbling his confusion as he fell asleep is too fresh and kills that unkindness.

“Can you promise me the Sluagh’s recognition as a third Court?”

Roark glances at Sláine. “Well?”

“Aislinn may take some convincing, since Sluagh razed her lands.”

“Mainland Sluagh,” I correct. “Under traitorous huscarls who obey Goodfellow and who will face the consequences for their treason if we survive this.”

“Seb has more sway than I do,” Sláine admits.

Roark frowns. “With time, could she be convinced?”

“Well, Seb doesn’t want to die and Aislinn trusts us. She stayed to secure the sídhe and protect our people, and sent us here with the few Seelie soldiers left. The real question is what to do about Mother.”

“I’ll handle her.” Roark waves a hand dismissively. “Or Smith will. She won’t want to lose his favor, not when we need access to the ley line more than ever.” Roark nods to himself and looks back to me. “So be it. The Sluagh’s recognition as a third Court, with all the trim and trappings afforded under the Accords. Anything else?”

It’s a provocation I never would have dared ask, dared imagine, before. But now, at the end of Faerie itself, I can let myself dream. “Your mother’s abdication.”

“Impossible,” Sláine whispers.

I shrug. “Is it? King Oberon is dead. Your mother believes in balance.”

Roark hasn’t moved. I don’t know if he’s even breathing. Sláine glances at him with horror. “She’d never agree.”

Roark doesn’t speak and a dangerous hope springs to life in me. The fire crackles, loud in this pregnant silence, and Sláine looks between me and his brother with rising alarm. “Roark, you cannot consider this.”

“Why not? If she wants to win, she won’t have a choice. If she refuses, her Triumvirate is lost, and with it, our Court.” Roark tilts his head and smiles, a tiny, twisted thing. “Well played, Thegn. We’ll try.”

It’s more than I hoped for. “Good.”

Roark rises, which makes Sláine stand as well. I don’t bother. The fire’s warm and this is my camp, not theirs. “What proof do I have you’ll keep these terms?”

Roark rests a hand over his heart. “If you want proof, here. I, Prince Roark Tahm Lyne, do solemnly promise that the Sluagh and their Thegn of the Iron Crown shall be officially and legally recognized as the third Faerie Court, in the event we survive tomorrow’s fucking battle against Robin Goodfellow and his massive army of traitors. I further swear I will do all in my ill-gotten power to remove Queen Mab from her position in the Winter Court, though I will likely die in the attempt.”

He winces as soon as he finishes the promise and Sláine makes a sound of commiseration. The magickal bond must have taken.

“There,” Roark pronounces, rubbing absently at his chest. “Do you deem that satisfactory?”

I may not feel the magick of his promi

se, but I recognize the set of his jaw. I shrug. “I suppose it has to be.”