The Iron Crown (The Darkest Court)
“No. Tell Roark we’ll be ready. Gods willing, you won’t need us.”
“Gods willing,” Smith echoes, looking far, far older than he should. “But I don’t know if they’re listening today.”
He starts to walk away, only to pause when I call out, “Tell Roark I’ll see him after.”
His gaze is warm when he looks back at me and nods. “I will. Good luck.”
There’s no time to watch him disappear beyond the edge of our camp. The five remaining huscarls move closer to Keiran, who hands off different papers for them to peruse. He keeps the largest and crooks a finger toward me. “Lugh, I need you.”
The next hour is a blur. Roark’s revised plans are as detailed and exacting as I remember from our meeting when he first sent me to gather the Sluagh. There are a few changes. Mother has finally added the few Seelie soldiers Sláine brought with him into the battle plans. Sláine’s troops are a pittance against the might of the Mainland armies, a testament to how utterly Goodfellow destroyed the Summer Court. Even with combined forces, the Courts are badly outnumbered by the number of Mainland Sluagh. The addition of Keiran’s remaining army—the few hundreds of warriors brought from Jensson, Voll, Jokinen, Resnik, and Olofsdotter’s territories—doesn’t bring us much closer to an easy victory. Still, some aren’t put off by the obvious risks.
“Good odds for any warrior,” Voll says as she traces her finger down the neat column of figures Roark marked on one of the pages. “We should tell our fighters.”
Jensson nods and hands his page back to Keiran. “It’ll give them a goal for the day. Three kills each, or no glory. Maybe no dinner?” He grins when Keiran gives a curt shake of his head. “Fine. No mention of dinner. We’ll go spread the word.”
Keiran doesn’t bother looking up from the rendered battlefield. Instead, he waves a hand in the Hunt’s general direction. “They’ll come with you. We need to move to our position. I don’t want to risk Goodfellow spotting movement in the trees and turning his full attention to us first.”
“I had an idea about that,” I offer. “There’s one sure way to keep him from thinking you’re here.”
They all look at me. All except Keiran. He keeps his eyes firmly on the map. Goddess, don’t let him think this is a betrayal.
“I’ll stand beside my family during the initial charge,” I say. “If Goodfellow sees me with them, without Keiran beside me and with his belt hung under the Winter Court’s standard, he’ll assume Keiran died from his wounds.”
“Why would he do that?” Jokinen asks, confused.
“Because Keiran’s human,” I tell her. “And Goodfellow has modeled himself after my mother. She’s always underestimated Keiran. Goodfellow will too. I know it.”
“What about us?” Drest asks.
“You ride with me. If the sealing is broken, we make it look as though we’re fleeing.”
“And meet up with our thegn instead,” Armel says slowly.
“Yes.” I take a breath and focus my attention on Keiran. He hasn’t moved. Hasn’t raised his eyes. He sits like a carved figure beside the fire. “It’s the only way I’ll be able to see the whole battlefield. The only way I can look for shades that might be able to help us, since those in the sídhe have been lost for too long.”
The huscarls look from me to Keiran, waiting for his command. The moment he issues it, the battalions will have the freedom to march and take up the best positions possible for the battle. But they can’t leave until their thegn gives permission.
He knows it. He takes one final look at the plans, then tosses them into the fire and watches the pages curl and drift away as dark flecks of embers over the snow. Finally, he locks eyes with me.
“No point in waiting,” he murmurs.
“No,” I agree. “I have your blessing then?”
“When have you led me astray, seidhr?” he asks, rising from his seat. “Of course you do.” He glances to his counselors. “Prepare the troops.”
Everyone scatters, leaving Keiran and me alone.
“I’ll be back before you know it,” I promise him, stepping forward until we’re only inches apart. His chest rises and falls under my palm when I press it over his heart, and I smile despite the terror whispering at my back. “Don’t go rushing in without me.”
He gives a dark chuckle and takes my face in his hands. “No heroics. No trying to save me or protect me,” he rasps. “We are not the prince or the berserkir, the seidhr or the thegn out there. We are who the gods meant us to be. Lugh and Keiran. And we face this together.”
Warriors rush about us. The Hunt waits on me. Death stalks toward us from the beach. And I kiss him, timing be damned, because this is who we are. Standing in the snow, or drinking together in golden halls with fallen warriors, this is who we will always be.
* * *
Sitting astride Liath with the Hunt at my back, but without Keiran beside me, leaves the world disjointed. The fear of dying left me as I rode away from the Sluagh camp and returned to the sídhe to join my family. Mother was so surprised by my reappearance, so busy with the final preparations, she never questioned why I wanted Keiran’s belt back. One of Mother’s soldiers holds the standard of the Winter Court. Keiran’s belt hangs beside her crest, reminding me that the only way to celebrate his new freedom is through victory. I look away from it and back to the battlefield ahead of me. This moment starts and stops, burning unexpected images into my memory.
Snow hangs in the air. The particles are so fine and light, they gl