Marie Brennan - In Ashes Lie

Lune replied with nothing more than politely raised eyebrows, waiting to see how he would continue.

“You may recall, madam,” he said, fingering a bone on his plate, “that nearly a year ago, I offered you information. I assure you, its value has not fallen with time.”

“But has its price? What you offer, my lord ollamh, may not be so valuable as you think. No doubt you offer me some intelligence concerning the Gyre-Carling of Fife. Oh, yes,” Lune said, “I am not ignorant of the pattern here. This is the only attempt so direct against my person, but there have been other attacks, and I know their source. True, I do not yet know their cause—what has changed in Fife, thus changing Nicneven’s tactics. But you are hardly my only means of learning that, my lord.”

“Aye, you have other ways—but how long will they take you? And how many more threats will there be in the meantime?” The sidhe had abandoned the last pretense of casual conversation; now he studied her with a frankness that stopped just shy of insult. “You know our price. It has not changed. Bring down Wentworth, and you shall have the name, and more besides.”

Behind him, the door opened to admit Sir Peregrin, who bowed and waited. “We shall bear that in mind, my lord,” Lune said, rising and extending her hand. “In the meantime, I am afraid obligations call me away. You are welcome to attend, if you so desire.”

“Thank you, madam. I may at that.” Eochu Airt kissed her hand and departed.

Left with the lieutenant of her guard, Lune said, “I will come presently.”

“If it please your Majesty,” he replied, “the Goodemeade sisters beg a moment of your time.”

“Show them in.” The brownies dropped into respectful curtsies, straightening as soon as Peregrin was gone. “I am due in the amphitheater,” Lune said. “Please say you have something for me.”

Rosamund answered briskly, incongruous in someone who still, despite years of association with the court, appeared so very country. The Goodemeades almost never changed into fine clothes for their visits to the Onyx Hall. “Sir Leslic hasn’t gone above since March, and as near as we can tell, he had no plans to do so.”

Confirming her suspicions. What to do about it depended on what happened tonight. “Thank you,” Lune said, checking the pins that held up her elaborate curls. “I may have need of you soon. Will you stay for the duel?”

Gertrude wrinkled her round face in distaste, but nodded. Lune touched her shoulder briefly in thanks, then went forth from the chamber.

The amphitheater lay in one of the more distant corners of the Onyx Hall. Its ancient, crumbling stones dated back to the Romans; long since buried beneath the changing face of the city, it thus found itself incorporated into the faerie palace below. When the space was quiet, one could still hear the faint shouts and screams of the men and beasts who had died within its ring.

But it was far from quiet now. Lune strode out onto the white sand to find what looked like every member of her court settled onto the risers, with cushions and cups of wine, ready for entertainment. A canopy of estate covered the box where she took her seat, just behind the low wall ringing the sand. When she nodded, two trumpeters blew fanfares from the entrances, and Sir Cerenel and Sir Leslic entered, followed by their seconds.

The black-haired knight and the gold. If she weighed their hearts aright, they stood opposite one another, when it came to mortal kind. This duel would be seen as a fight between those two perspectives, and unfortunately, she could do nothing to prevent that.

They made their bows before her, and Lune pitched her voice to carry. “Sir Leslic. Upon what grounds do you come here today, in defense of your honor?”

Challenging Cerenel had been his right, even though the offense was his to begin with, because Cerenel’s defense called into question the truth of Leslic’s words, and therefore his honesty. According to the forms of such things, this had nothing to do with the attempt on Lune’s life; it was entirely a question of whether Leslic had spoken rightly in calling Cerenel negligent. The golden-haired knight recounted the tale with simple but effective phrasing, as if there might be a mouse in the corner that had not already heard the gossip.

“Sir Cerenel,” Lune said when he was done. “As the challenged, what weapons do you choose for this duel?”

He bowed again. “If it please your Majesty, rapier and dagger.”

“We approve this choice.” A formality; the entire question had been settled by their seconds the day before.

As accuser, Leslic took the oath first, then Cerenel, both of them upon their knees in the sand. “In the name of most ancient Mab, and before your Grace’s sovereign throne, I hereby swear that I have this day neither eat nor drank, nor have upon me, neither bone, stone, nor grass, nor any enchantment, sorcery, or witchcraft, whereby the honor of Faerie may be abased, nor dishonor exalted.”

But when Cerenel was done, Leslic remained kneeling. “Madam,” he said, “though I fight to defend my honor, I do so for your own glory, and never my own. May I beg you to grant me your favor?”

Lune bit back a curse. Of course he asked; she should have expected it. He was, after all, her savior, the knight most of her court had come to cheer on. For her to refuse him would betray her suspicions. Yet it galled her to show affection to such a viper.

It was the only way to find out what he sought to gain, and who was pulling his strings. For now, she must play his game. Lune pulled off her glove of black lace, and bent to hand it down. Leslic pinned it to his snow-white sleeve, and the crowd applauded him.

Then, at last, they took their places on the hard-packed sand, silver rapiers and daggers glinting in their hands. The amphitheater fell silent.

“Begin,” Lune said.

Cerenel barely waited for the word to leave her mouth. Quick as a snake, he leapt forward, and Leslic recoiled. With a rapid flurry of blows, they crossed the sand, Leslic dodging aside from a thrust to keep from being trapped against the low wall. No question of it: Cerenel was a fine swordsman.

But Leslic had for the last year been tutored by Il Veloce, an Italian faun resident in the Onyx Hall. He had a clever dagger hand, and was quick to use Cerenel’s momentum against him. First once, then again, the dark knight found his accuser unexpectedly within his guard, and saved himself only with a desperate twist away.

The silence that had marked their beginning was long since broken, fae shouting out encouragement to the one they favored. Cerenel’s name sounded but rarely. Leslic was the hero of the moment, but that was not all; listening, Lune identified more of his allies, more fae who shared his views on mortals. Their approval did not stop at one dead murderer.

Below, the blades continued their glittering dance. Whether above or below, the point of a duel was to show oneself willing to defend one’s honor; the outcome was almost immaterial. Almost, but not quite: in the final accounting, Cerenel had been negligent. Leslic’s words were true. And so while the audience came hoping for a good show, everyone knew how it would end.

Leslic beat his opponent back to the wall and trapped his sword against it; the swift thrust of his dagger would have maimed Cerenel’s hand, had the other knight not abandoned his sword and pulled away. But however desperately he retreated, twisting and leaping, he could not defend himself long with only a knife, and Leslic closed in for the kill.

“Hold!” Lune called out, just before the blade would have slid home.

Cerenel had fallen to his knees; the tip of Leslic’s rapier stopped a mere finger’s-breadth from his throat. Duels rarely went to the death, but in a matter touching so closely on the Queen’s honor, no one would have faulted Leslic. To proud to cry craven and thus save his life, Cerenel would have died.