Marie Brennan - In Ashes Lie

“I have no doubt of it.”

Then what was the point? To establish a procedure; to make the judgment of a traitor an orderly thing. And, Lune suspected, to give the people of her court some voice in punishing the author of their suffering.

Antony had absorbed more of the Commonwealth’s ideals than he realized.

“Very well,” Lune said through her teeth. “You shall have your trial.”

THE ONYX COURT, LONDON: July 28, 1665

She had cause to regret that concession as the next fortnight passed. Promising a trial was one matter; deciding how to conduct it was another. While Vidar languished in a cell, bricked up so thoroughly that only a tiny sprite no bigger than a dragonfly could get through to verify his presence, she tried to sort out a basis for the event.

The problem, which Antony no doubt had foreseen, was that trials were a thing of law, and the fae had none. They ran their world on common sense and royal prerogative: if the Queen deemed something a crime, it was, and she had the right to pass sentence. She suspected Antony’s true hope was that they would write themselves a proper code of law—but she was certainly not delaying Vidar’s execution for that.

We are not humans, she thought, but wondered how much strength lay in that defense. True, her realm was smaller, her subjects fewer, their society much simpler than the one above. Did they truly need laws and trials? But though she could reassure herself that she was a better Queen than old Charles had been King, she had enough perspective to understand how little that meant. Royal prerogative was royal prerogative, whether exercised with good judgment or bad. The rightness of the thing itself was separate from her person.

She damned Antony for putting such thoughts into her head, where they buzzed about like bees, and did not give her a moment’s peace.

In the end, she prepared for the trial by dividing her court into groups: the Onyx Guard, the Berkshire fae in residence, her privy council, and so on, allowing each one to select a single individual to serve on the jury. She ended up with nine, not the twelve the mortals liked, but no matter. Nine or twelve, she had no fear any of them would find Vidar innocent of his crimes.

The final problem came when she turned to the mortals, and discovered just how few of them remained. She knew the plague had thinned their ranks, either by killing them or sending them into flight, but she was disturbed to find only two left, not counting Antony.

While she was distracted, a vital part of her court had all but melted away.

I will fix it, Lune promised herself. But, as with so many things, it would have to wait. The mortals met to choose their juror, and by a vote of two to one chose Antony. “This is a faerie matter,” he said when she expressed her doubts. “You will be the judge of this case, not I. It would have been better for one of them to serve, but I will do it.”

He was playing a lawyer’s game, asserting his authority when it suited him, discarding it when it did not, but by then Lune’s patience had worn so thin she did not quibble. She just wanted the trial to be done.

They met beneath the mended ceiling of the great presence chamber. The jury sat in a line to either side of Lune’s throne, four to her left, five to her right; Antony’s own seat had been removed, and he sat at the far end of the line, so as to avoid the impression that he sat in judgment as the Prince. A chair faced them, awaiting the accused, and from behind it her subjects watched in silence.

“We hereby open the trial of Ifarren Vidar,” she said into the still air, “formerly a subject of this realm, having the title of Lord Keeper, which was stripped from him when he fled into foreign parts after our accession. His guilt will be judged by this assembly of nine, chosen out of the groups most affected by the late rebellions and invasions that have afflicted this realm. Let the—” Do not call him traitor; not yet. “Let the accused be brought in.”

A path had been left for him, down which a pair of goblins marched him under guard. The rowan-wood shackles once binding Prigurd were on his ankles and feet, though simple chains would have been enough to hold his bony limbs. Vidar wore them with disdain, and did not acknowledge the presence of any others in the chamber. His black eyes fixed unblinkingly upon Lune.

Now their positions were reversed; she sat upon the throne from which he had revealed his invasion of her realm. The throne that had been Invidiana’s.

She had not dared destroy it; the great silver arc of its back concealed the London Stone, and she could not risk that secret being revealed. But Vidar’s regard made her unpleasantly aware of the throne’s history, and of the crown upon her head. He gave her a brief nod, a faint smile—as if approving her achievements. As if to say, You have won the game I once played.

But it had never been a game to her. She was not like Vidar.

The contact between them broke when he sat, sprawling elegantly in the chair provided. Lune spoke again, words prepared with care. “Ifarren Vidar. You stand accused of conspiring with two foreign powers for the overthrow of our authority; of abetting the efforts of the late Kentigern Nellt to subvert our royal guard; of giving information to our enemies so that they might send murderers and other attackers against our safety; of attempting violence against the Prince of the Stone, and the final destruction of this palace that shelters us now. You also stand accused of fomenting riots and conflict among the mortals above, to disrupt our realm below. How do you answer these charges?”

Vidar’s bone-white skin was unmarked, and his black clothes were immaculate. Someone had given him water to wash in; perhaps Antony. It would be like the Prince, to insist on giving the accused his dignity, despite everything. If there was to be a trial, it must appear—must be —legitimate.

Yet trials were not a thing fae did. Lune expected the mocking smile that spread across Vidar’s face. He might sneer at mortals, calling them pawns, but he would have paid at least enough attention to know the farce Charles had made of his own trial, denying the authority of the court that faced him. But unlike the Lord President then, Lune was prepared for it. Her prerogative was to dispose of traitors as she pleased; if it pleased her to delegate that authority to others, she had the right.

“I am guilty,” Vidar said.

What?

He laughed outright at her dumbfounded expression. “What, should I dance for your pleasure? Plead my innocence, when not a faerie soul here would call me anything other than guilty?” His voice dripped venomous emphasis on faerie, dismissing the mortals as without consequence. “I could deride this trial of yours, but it hardly seems worth the effort. I am surprised you do not let the humans drip holy water on your head and wash your immortality from you, you love their world so much.”

Lune fought her breath back under control before she answered him. Murmurs ran through the hall, and the jurors were shifting in their seats. Antony was as startled as she—but she could not look to him for help. It would only lend credence to Vidar’s words.

“You are guilty, by your own admission,” Lune said, striving to sound neither surprised nor displeased. “Therefore there is no need for trial.”

Vidar bared his teeth at her in a terrible smile. “Indeed. This is my favor to you, Lune. After all, you have thirsted for my blood since before you stole the throne you sit upon now. I am your enemy, and I threaten the security of your power. Does this sound familiar? Speak the words! Order my death. It is what Invidiana would have done. ”