Marie Brennan - In Ashes Lie

“I’ve lived through worse,” Rosamund told him stoutly. “Sing away, my lord.”

He would not sing; the brownie had offered herself up for enough without suffering his inability to carry a tune. Instead he spoke softly.

Once, right after he bound himself to the Onyx Court as Prince of the Stone, the words had fled his tongue, silenced by a faerie touch. Even now they did not come as naturally as they had in his boyhood. He had to exert his will to say, “Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost. As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.”

Rosamund was ready for it, and so she did not cry out. But she stiffened, and her entire body shook; and when it was done shaking, she was the size of a child again, and swaying on her feet. Antony caught her and lowered her gently to the cold dirt. His cloak, flung around her shoulders, made her look even tinier, but Rosamund gripped it gratefully.

“No,” she said in a valiant imitation of a light tone, “I don’t think it’s working.”

His prayer was a common one in the Church of England, nothing drawn from a more Puritan faith. But they did not have to look to such arcane causes for an explanation. “That bread,” he said grimly, “was passed on to Lewan Erle from one of Sir Leslic’s closest followers.”

The little hob’s normally pink cheeks were pale from more than moonlight. “She will never just throw him out. You’ve not been at court, my lord—too many people admire him, since he saved the Queen. Lune dares not be thought capricious, casting him down when he’s enjoyed so much favor. And she hesitates to scheme against him; it reminds her too much of Invidiana.”

The old Queen. Lune rarely spoke of her, but at times Antony felt as if her black shadow still darkened the court and all its doings. Even Lune herself—simply by her resolution not to be like her predecessor. “She will have to do something, ” Antony said. “Others have seen their protections fail; they fear to go into the streets at all. Nicneven may have at last found a way to destroy everything the Onyx Court stands for.”

“Not just Nicneven,” Rosamund corrected him. “Vidar.”

“Yes, this ‘Lord of Shadows.’ ” The name twisted in his mouth, warped by anger for the damage the creature had done. Not just to the Onyx Court, but to the world above it; Antony would never know if civil war might have been avoided, had Vidar not taken every opportunity to deepen the bitterness and rancor that divided England from itself. “Lune speaks but little of him. Why such hatred between them?”

“I will tell you,” Rosamund said, “but not here.”

Reflexively, Antony glanced about, searching the nighttime woods. “Is someone watching?”

The brownie grinned with more of her usual cheer. “No, but I’m freezing my rump off. Come inside.”

He helped her to her feet, glad to see that smile return, and they went back down into the sheltering warmth. Gertrude was attending Lune at court, and so they had the comfortable home to themselves. Rosamund returned Antony’s cloak with thanks and stood warming her hands at the fire. “Vidar,” she told him, “was a lord in the old court.”

“One faithful to Invidiana?”

“Not in the least! He was ever searching for ways to sell her out to her enemies, and claim the throne for himself.”

Antony pulled off his gloves and rubbed his hands over his shortened hair. “So he envies her for doing what he could not.”

Rosamund frowned. “That, but also other things. We, er— used him at the end, when the overthrow came. And it made him very unwelcome among the other faerie Kings of England. Last we heard, he’d gone across the Channel and found a place in the Cour du Lys, where they do not love Lune either.”

But now he was in Scotland, and helping to destroy what he could not have. Always Scotland: the clashes there had precipitated Charles’s crisis nearly a decade ago, and now the Army was rabid to prevent the Presbyterian terms the Scots wanted in the treaty with the King. Though Ireland, to be fair, was an equally fruitful source of trouble.

Sighing, Antony rose and said, “And this trick with the bread is his latest treachery, by way of Sir Leslic. Clever. I can only hope that when I confirm it to Lune, she will rid herself of that snake, before he can harm us further.”

“Oh, don’t you worry; I’ll send her a mouse.” Rosamund eyed him critically. “You look about done in, my lord. Sit down, and have a restorative draught before you go.”

The restorative draught would be mead—it was always mead, whatever ailed a man—but Antony did not object. “Thank you,” he said. He would take his rest where and when he could find it.

THE ONYX HALL, LONDON: October 31, 1648

The group that gathered in the antechamber was not a merry one. It rarely was, even in happier times; All Hallows’ Eve did not evoke laughter or the casual flirtation that occupied many fae. But this year of all years it was grim, for London was filled with godly zeal, and the traditional protections seemed to be failing.

Which made it all the more vital to go out. The old practices of the night had largely died at the Reformation, but faerie-kind kept their own ceremonies. Those souls who lingered after death, rather than fleeing to Heaven or Hell, occupied a realm not far removed from that of the fae, and on this night each year the two worlds touched. Forgoing the rituals of the night would only encourage fear.

Thirteen stood in the chamber, ranging in rank from Lune and her knight-protectors of the Onyx Guard down to a trio of tough-minded goblins—a mara, a hobyah, and a fetch. They showed no apprehension, and grinned at those who did. Goblins were far from the most elegant of fae, and so were often scorned at court, but at least Lune was sure of their loyalty.

As she was sure of the disloyalty of others.

She felt a shiver in her bones as the churches of the City above rang out the midnight hour, the peals of their bells washing harmlessly over the charms that kept the palace safe. At one end of the chamber loomed the dark archway that would take them to a courtyard off Fish Street. Some of her more timid courtiers cast frightened glances in its direction.

Serenely, as if she had no fears in all the world, Lune said, “Come, Sir Leslic. The bells have rung.”

The golden-haired knight bowed and took up a coffer of faceted amethyst. Kneeling, he presented it to Lune, lifting the lid to reveal the carefully portioned pieces of bread within.

The bells had faded; all was silent, inside and out. Lune reached forth and took a piece. But she did not lift it to her lips; instead she looked at it curiously, then transferred her attention to the still-kneeling knight. “Tell me, Sir Leslic,” she said. “Is the plan merely for us to suffer the consequences of walking unmasked in the mortal realm—or do you plot something more? Do Puritan preachers wait above, to strike our souls to dust?” Her voice hardened and rang out from the chamber’s barrel-vaulted ceiling. “For what purpose do you offer us untithed bread?”

He almost dropped the coffer. Leslic’s head came up with a jerk, and for the barest of instants she saw his eyes unguarded. There lived the truth she had guessed at all this time, and her stomach tightened with sudden terror. If he acted upon it—

But Leslic was nothing if not a practiced dissembler. “Untithed bread, your Majesty? What—” Now the coffer did go down, cracking hard against the stone as he surged to his feet. One hand gripped his sword, but he kept his head well enough not to draw in her presence—not without better cause than he had. “Guards! Someone has attempted to deceive the Queen’s Grace!”