“The name is meaningless to me,” said Arawn. “Is he a mortal?”
“Decidedly mortal. Downright mort,” said Jackaby. “Shuffled off the old coil on our doorstep just this morning, as a matter of fact. He mentioned a crown right before he died. A spear and a shield, as well. He called them the harfau o Hafgan. Is that meaningless to you as well?”
Arawn’s measured calm fell away, a look of genuine surprise taking its place. “The instruments of Hafgan,” he said quietly. “I had almost forgotten that there was a time when he was called Hafgan at all. That name was once like thunder in these halls. Hafgan is the Dire King. Or he was. Those days are long past.”
“And you’re absolutely certain he’s dead?” Jackaby asked.
“His followers and mine both watched me kill him. Yes, I’m sure—as are a lot of other fair folk and oddlings from across the realm. The duel was a public spectacle, if you could call it a duel at all. It only took a single stroke to shatter his shield and pierce his heart. Ballads were written and paintings done. Most of them were awful, to be honest, but there isn’t a fairy in my kingdom who does not know the tale.”
Arawn gestured above our heads and I glanced behind me to see a tapestry hanging over the wide hearth. In it, a fair-haired figure with a bronze circlet and a purple cape stood gallantly in the foreground, his sword raised to strike. His opponent was wielding a spear of midnight black. Hafgan wore dark armor, and on his head was an obsidian crown, its edges tall and sharp and jagged.
“That crown,” said Jackaby. “Did it have any special power?”
“Only the same as any. A crown is a symbol. It stands for authority, for the right to rule. There is great power in a symbol like that, as there is power in taking it.” Something approaching a smile danced at the edge of Arawn’s lips. “Would you like to see it?”
Arawn’s pale hounds trotted at his heels like royal escorts as he led us through cool corridors and down drafty staircases.
“The crown, the spear, the shield,” Jackaby mumbled as we followed. “If you have his crown, what became of Hafgan’s spear and shield?” he called forward to our escort.
“Splinters in the mud when I saw them last,” Arawn replied. “I have no interest in a dead man’s detritus. Ah. Here we are.”
We had come to a heavy door set into an inner wall of the castle. It had no visible handle or keyhole, but as Arawn approached, it responded to his presence, swinging open noiselessly. The room beyond was less of a chamber and more of a long, wide hallway. Brilliant lanterns sparkled across the ceiling, and on every wall hung remarkable artifacts. My eyes slid from a silver arrow as long as a javelin, to a sword made of bright green jade, to a helmet made of beaten gold in the shape of a boar. Finally I looked to my employer.
Jackaby’s eyes had lit up like a toddler’s in a toy shop.
“Oh, Miss Rook—look at these! I do believe this is the actual club of the Dagda. Good heavens, the Dullahan’s whip! Is that the eye of Balor over there?”
“That is the eye of Hagen,” corrected Arawn languidly. “The eye of Balor remains in Balor’s head, which can be found farther back in my collection. You will find relics here of dynasties stretching back to before the age of Llyr, before the age of D?n, long before the age of man.”
The lanterns flickered as we passed and I caught a flutter of movement. I stopped, squinting up at the bright lights.
“Coming, Miss Rook?”
I almost missed it, but just as I looked away again, a flurry of delicate wing-beats swept the glass inside the lantern. “What are those?” I asked, catching up.
Arawn glanced where I was pointing. “You might call them prisoners of war,” he replied. “Sprites and oddlings. They are the spoils of a conquest before my time.”
“What? But they’re alive! How long are you going to keep them locked up like that?”
Arawn looked nonplussed. “As long as I have need of light in my trophy room, I suppose. They serve a purpose here, which is more than I could say about their lives as free fae. Now, then. The Dire Crown is just past . . .” Arawn’s voice petered off. He had come to a stop before a marble plinth. The podium stood empty.
“He has already taken the crown,” said Jackaby, drawing up beside him. “That’s what the old man said.”
The Fair King’s jaw set, and his practiced ennui fell away.
“You were saying something about there being great power in a symbol like that,” said Jackaby, “as there is power in taking it.”
Arawn’s eyes were glued to the empty plinth. “It is time for you to go,” he said darkly.
“You helped me once,” Jackaby said, “a long time ago. Let me help you now. Let us help each other.”
“I do not need your help,” Arawn answered through gritted teeth. He took a deep breath. “I have not forgotten your debt, Seer. I have not fallen so low, however, that I cannot manage my own affairs without calling on the help of mortal men.”
“Your majesty, please,” I implored. “The return of the Dire King affects us all. This affair is more than—”
“The Dire King is dead!” Arawn shouted. He composed himself, and when he spoke again it was in measured breaths. “Hafgan is dead. Stolen crowns cannot make kings of commoners.”
“Someone is collecting the instruments of Hafgan,” said Jackaby.
“Someone is trying, and someone will be found,” snapped the king. “If someone is fool enough to brazenly trespass into my castle, then their capture will be all the more swift and their punishment all the more merciless.”
The Fair King led us back up the drafty staircase and through the dim corridors.
“Don’t underestimate them,” Jackaby said.
“Don’t underestimate me,” Arawn replied.
He pushed open the door to his council room and we stepped back into the heat of the roaring fire. His hounds trotted to take their place on either side of the throne.
Serif had been waiting within. She hurried to her master’s side and dropped to one knee. “My liege, we have just received news of the Valinguard.”
“Excellent.” Arawn continued forward into the chamber, and Serif rose to follow behind him. “Tell me. I could do with some good tidings.”
Serif glanced at us, as though nervous to speak freely in our presence. “The Valinguard”—she swallowed—“have ridden together to the Mag Mell, my liege.”
Arawn froze. He turned slowly to face Serif. “All of them?”
She nodded, almost imperceptibly. Her mouth twitched, pulling nervously where the alabaster scar met her lips.
“I see. Thank you, General.” The king’s face had become ashen. “I shall expect your full report after I have seen our guests out.” With a distracted wave of his hand, Arawn reopened the shimmering portal back to New Fiddleham. A gentle breeze and the sweet smell of the grove in Seeley’s Square wafted over us. Arawn turned to face Jackaby. “I . . . I have reconsidered. I think perhaps we might help each other after all, Seer.”