Marie Brennan: In Ashes Lie

Lune’s chin came up, and he wondered if she saw where he aimed. Though her face showed no identifiable age, she had reigned longer than he had been alive, and had been at the game of politics longer than that.

“If he cannot get money from the City,” Antony said, “then he will be forced to convene Parliament.”

A nightingale sang in a nearby willow tree. The ladies were too well bred to whisper amongst themselves while their Queen sat in silent thought, but they exchanged glances. Lune kept no one about her who did not understand at least the basics of mortal politics.

At last she said, “Why bring this to me?”

“For aid,” Antony said. She had not rejected the notion out of hand; it encouraged him. “When I said my intent was not to pay it, I spoke of the outcome I hope to see. But I think it will be a close decision. The Common Council will vote against it, but I should like to ensure the aldermen likewise decide against the King. Penington and others have little love for this war.”

“Then arrange it yourself.” Lune rapped the words out like the crack of an unfolding fan. “Surely you have the means to convince your fellows.”

Her sharp rejoinder took him aback. Straightening from his ease against the fountain, Antony said in mild tones, “If I had sufficient time, perhaps. But I cannot be both quick and subtle, and the King is not above imprisoning those who defy him.”

Lune, too, rose from her seat on the bench. “You ask this of me-by influencing their dreams, I presume?” It was the most gentle method of persuasion, but Antony had no chance to say so before she went on. “For the sake of a refusal they might not otherwise give. But I am not convinced of your course.”

Why did she resist it so unthinking? Fear of the Covenanters and their religion could not explain it all. Lune was protective of her fae subjects, yes, but she was also protective of England—

Ah. Of England, and of the monarchy. Which she had once sworn to defend, many years ago, when an Englishwoman still sat upon the throne. Such rebellion to the will of the Crown would not sit well with her. But Lune was not fond of the man who wore that crown; she knew Charles’s flaws as well as Antony did. What she overlooked was how reluctance would serve England better than obedience would. “For ten years now, Charles has ruled without the advice of Parliament,” he reminded her.

A sniff came from the cluster of listeners. Boldly, Lady Nianna said, “Her Majesty rules without need of a Parliament.”

“Her Majesty rules a realm with fewer subjects than my ward,” Antony snapped back, angered at the interruption. Grimacing, he made a quick bow of apology to Lune. “England has many thousands of inhabitants—hundreds of thousands in the vicinity of London alone. One man, even advised by councillors, cannot fairly oversee so much. And Parliament, the House of Commons especially, has long been the means by which the people may speak, and make their needs known to their sovereign. But he discarded that tradition when it became inconvenient to him.”

The Queen had stiffened at his reply to Nianna; now she watched him impassively. Antony hesitated, then played a dangerous card. “He would rule as your predecessor did—his will absolute, with none to gainsay him.”

Anger flared in those silver eyes. “Do not make comparisons where you are ignorant,” Lune said, her voice cold. “You know nothing of this court in those times.”

“I know what you have told me,” Antony said, meeting her without flinching. “And I know why you asked me to rule at your side, bestowed upon me the title I bear. So that we could work together for the benefit of all, both mortal and fae. Very well: I come before you, as Prince of the Stone, and tell you that London needs this. England needs this.”

It was easy to be overawed in the presence of a faerie queen. The Prince was the Queen’s consort, though, and bore his own authority in this court. They had gone to loggerheads before, when Antony felt his duty demanded it; Lune had chosen him for that reason, because he would stubbornly defend the mortal concerns she might otherwise forget. Because she could trust him to do so only when necessary.

He met her gaze, and did not back down.

A faint shadow appeared along her jaw where a muscle tightened and then released. This confrontation might have been inevitable, but he could at least have arranged for privacy. It felt too much like coercion, asserting his rank before her ladies, forcing her to acknowledge his right to ask this favor. He would apologize for that later.

“Very well,” Lune said at last, through her teeth. “We will see to it that those who waver are swayed against the loan.”

The royal we, or the faerie one? Either way, he had what he wanted, though not gracefully. Antony offered her a sincere bow. “My thanks. In exchange, I will likewise do what I can to turn opinion against the Covenanters.”

There was a gleam in Lune’s eye he could not interpret—anger given way to something like amusement. “Indeed you will. If this goes as you hope, and Charles summons a new Parliament, then we expect you to be there.”

He blinked. “In Parliament?”

“You are not a peer, and you have few connections in the countryside; you will have to fight for one of London’s seats in the Commons. But that is fitting: you will sit for London’s faerie inhabitants, as the others sit for the mortals.”

Antony had not thought that far. There was, admittedly, no reason he could not do as she asked. Except that the long delay since the last Parliament left him with little sense of that world—how to get into it, and what to do once he was there.

It could not be so different from the Court of Aldermen. And although he was used to thinking of himself as the envoy of mortals to the fae, he could cross that boundary in the other direction as well. It was the sort of thing the Prince of the Stone should do.

He gave Lune a second bow. “As you command, madam.”

KETTON STREET, LONDON: April 2, 1640

The man forced to his knees on the cellar floor in front of Lune was securely gagged, and his hands bound behind him. Above the silencing rag, the mortal’s eyes burned with hatred that would sear her to ash if it could.

Had he his tongue to speak, he could not burn her, but he could cause great harm. She was protected, of course; Lune never came above without consuming milk or bread tithed to the fae, which shielded them against faith, iron, and other inimical charms. Strong enough faith, though, could overcome much, like an axe crashing through armor.

She did not want to test this man’s faith. He could glare at her all he wished, so long as he did not invoke divine names, and the gag was the gentlest means of silencing him.

“Where did you find him?” she asked Sir Prigurd Nellt.

The giant towered behind the kneeling man, even though the glamour concealing his nature reduced him to something like human size. The Captain of the Onyx Guard was uncomfortable with such disguises, and wore them badly. “Near Aldersgate,” he rumbled, his deep voice vibrating in her body. “Piling tinder at the base of the tree, with flint and steel in his hand.”

Lune concealed her shiver. Prigurd was steadfast in the execution of his duty to protect her; if she showed how much this man frightened her, the giant might just crack his head and be done with it.

What could his fire have done? She honestly did not know. The Onyx Hall was a familiar presence in her mind, like a second skin, laid over her flesh when she claimed sovereignty. But she had not uncovered all its secrets, and could only speculate what would happen if someone tried to destroy one of the hidden entrances that joined the faerie palace to the mortal fabric of London.