Marie Brennan - In Ashes Lie

But Lune had other plans for him.

“To shed the blood of a fae is an abominable thing,” she said. “Such a fate, we must reserve for true traitors to our realm. The negligence of Cerenel has been proved. Let his punishment be thus: that for a year and a day, he be exiled from the Onyx Court and all its dominions, and his place in our guard revoked. But when that time ends, he will be welcomed back in our halls, and may in time regain the honors he formerly held.”

Did she imagine the brief flash of anger in Leslic’s eyes? It was quickly hidden, regardless; he sheathed his rapier and dagger and said, “Your Majesty’s wisdom and mercy is a great gift to this realm.”

Looking across the sand, Lune caught the gazes of the Goodemeades, who nodded minutely.

“Go,” she said to Cerenel, where he still knelt in the sand. “Your exile begins at once.”

THE ANGEL INN, ISLINGTON: May 11, 1640

“Would you like more privacy, madam?”

“No,” Lune said. “That will not be necessary.”

She hoped it would not. If matters had come to such a pass that she needed to take elaborate measures to protect her secrets, she was in a worse state than she believed. But Lune doubted anyone would be following her movements closely enough to eavesdrop on the comfortable chamber in which she now sat.

Not yet, at least.

Cerenel stood rigid by the hearth, hands locked behind his back. He had accepted the Goodemeades’ offer of shelter; their home lay within the bounds of Lune’s realm, but Rosamund had assured him the Queen would not take it amiss if he tarried there a single night. Lune had watched his face settle into hard, understanding lines when she came down the staircase and threw back the hood of her concealing cloak.

She came out in secret, not even informing Sir Prigurd of her departure. It was easy enough to ensure she would not be disturbed in her chamber—all it took was a protest of exhaustion, after the excitement of the duel—and wearing a crown had not made her forget how to sneak about.

Lune arrayed herself in the chair Gertrude provided, and judged whether or not to offer Cerenel a seat. No; he was too stiff with anger, and might refuse.

“I will be brief,” she said. “For I suspect you wish not to see me just now.”

A shift in the tendons of his neck was her only reply, as he clenched his jaw.

“You were negligent,” she went on, and saw him flinch. “It was obvious before the duel, and proven with it. But I tell you now what is not obvious: that the mortal you brought below was bait, for a trap you unwittingly sprung.”

Cerenel was far from the stupidest of her knights. He paled in anger and spoke for the first time since he knelt at her arrival. “Leslic.” His hands came free from behind his back and flexed, wishing for the hilt of the sword he had laid aside. “Madam, let me but stay a moment to challenge him—”

Lune cut him off. “You may not. Did I wish Leslic exposed, I had done it myself. There is no proof, nothing direct. And though you could fight him again, this time with right on your side, that would simply remove him from play, with nothing gained. I am not concerned with Leslic. I am concerned with those who gave him his orders.

“This murderer was part of a pattern. There have been attacks on the Onyx Hall—subtle ones, not those of armies. Subtle enough that I have, until now, kept them secret. I must know more of their source.” She held his gaze. “The Unseely Court of Fife.”

The knight’s body stilled. Lune watched his face, trying to read his expression through the shadows that flickered over it, cast by the fire’s wavering light. He licked his lips before speaking. “You suspect my brother?”

A wry smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, born of bitter amusement. “No more than others in the Gyre-Carling’s court. Cunobel holds no love for me, I know. But he left here in peace—which I cannot say of another who once called this court home. Presumably he has told you that Kentigern Nellt is there as well.”

He said, with a touch of bitterness, “Another exile. Like me.”

“Not like you.” Rosamund’s voice came from the corner; by the twitch of Cerenel’s shoulders, he had forgotten the Goodemeades were listening, quiet as mice. “Her Grace exiled him permanently.”

“And for better cause,” Lune added. “You made a mistake, Cerenel—a foolish one, for which you are duly shamed. But I do not consider you my enemy.”

His relief spoke plainly. “Then you suspect Kentigern.”

Lune laughed. “Of subtlety and intrigue? He is no more capable of it than a thunderstorm. No. Someone else is the architect of these new troubles.

“Ever since the coalition in the North dissolved, Nicneven has lacked the military might to strike directly at us, and she has never had the subtlety for more insidious attacks. The worst she could do was to encourage the baser elements of my court—fae such as Leslic. I believe someone else must have come to her, someone with both the mind and the will to craft this new malignance. I wish to know who.”

Only a blind man would not see where she aimed. “You wish me to spy.”

“You have the justification you need. Exiled from London, disaffected with our court—who is to say you would not journey north to Fife, and throw your lot in with Nicneven and your brother?”

Cerenel’s eyes glittered in the firelight. He said quietly, “How do you know I would not?”

Because you ask that question. Lune stood from her chair and took one of his hands in her own. His fingers were very cold. “I know you nearly followed your brother,” she said. “You stayed because you wished to see what manner of Queen I would be, and in time you came to believe in my ideals. I do not doubt your honor, and when the year and a day has passed, we shall welcome you back with open arms. If you can bring us the information we need… you will be richly rewarded.”

He knelt and pressed his lips to her hand. “I shall do as you bid, your Majesty.”

Excellent. Cerenel was not the tool Lune would have chosen for the task, but he had the pretext she needed, to get someone close to the Gyre-Carling. Still, she must be cautious.

Laying her free hand on his head, she said, “Then swear it.”

His fingers tightened involuntarily on hers. The dim light darkened his eyes to deepest amethyst; in that instant, they were guileless, speaking eloquently of his surprise.

“If you swear it,” Lune said, “then I need not fear a misstep on your part. You will let slip no accidental word that might endanger you, or us here in London. Give me your vow, and I will know for certain we are safe.”

Surprise gave way to anger, mounting with her every word. Lune had known it would offend him, but she could not afford to do otherwise. Cerenel was no practiced spy, and though she was confident he would not turn traitor now, she could not trust what would happen after a year and a day spent among those with cause to hate her.

For him to refuse would cast his loyalty into doubt. He could imagine for himself the consequences of that. She watched him struggle with it, swallowing his fury down, and did not move.

At last the knight bowed his head, and repeated in a dead voice the words she proposed. “I swear to you, in ancient Mab’s name, that I will seek out the malignance in Fife that sets itself against the Onyx Court, and neither by speech nor by action betray to another my purpose in being there.” His fingers never once relaxed their stone-hard grip on her hand.

“Learn what you can,” Lune said when he was done, her tone as gentle as she could make it. “Then return to us for your reward.”