Marie Brennan - In Ashes Lie

Feeling like an explorer greeting some foreign potentate, Jack ascended the dais to a spot one step below the Queen, where he knelt. Her voice rang clear in the silence of the hall. “John Ellin. Do you give your sworn word that you are a mortal man born of London, within hearing of the Bow Bells?”

“I do so swear, by Oak and Ash and Thorn.” No invoking God, here; they would not thank him for that. And the “ancient Mab” the fae swore by was apparently not for him.

“John Ellin, do you give your sworn word that you intend no harm to the faerie folk of this court?”

“I do so swear, by Oak and Ash and Thorn.”

“John Ellin, do you give your sworn word that you will serve faithfully the interests of the Onyx Court, seeking harmony between the races of London, mortal and immortal alike, speaking on behalf of the humans of this City, and ruling at my side?”

There came a time in every man’s life when he had to wonder what he was doing, kneeling in a faerie court, swearing to carry out a strange double existence on behalf of creatures for whom the entirety of his lifespan would be no more than an eyeblink.

Satisfying my curiosity, Jack thought wryly. And serving, not them, but the ordinary souls who have no idea they’re here.

“I do so swear, by Oak and Ash and Thorn.”

Did he imagine the tiny sigh of relief from above? “Then be welcome in our halls, John Ellin, as a knight of our court,” Lune said, and a heavy weight struck each of his shoulders, stinging him even through the layers of fabric. He’d seen the sword, waiting in the hands of the captain of her guard, but he hadn’t expected Lune to wield it quite so firmly. It seemed she wanted those oaths to leave a mark.

So now he was a faerie knight. Jack felt no different as he rose to his feet. But they were not done; Lune’s Lord Keeper, a snakelike fellow, brought forward his burden without Lune having to gesture. The cup he held must have some significance, or someone, Jack imagined, would have repaired its dented rim—or chosen a richer piece to begin with.

Lune took the cup from the Lord Keeper, so smoothly that the wine inside barely trembled. “No man can serve Faerie without knowing its nature,” she said. “If you would stand at my side, then drink of this, and bind yourself to us of your own free will.”

Until this point, all their ceremony had vaguely amused Jack, unaccustomed as he was to such ritual. Now, looking into the dark wine, he shivered. The months spent wrangling over his elevation had given him time to read, and all the stories told him what an appallingly bad idea this was. Men who tasted of this other world could never leave it again. Lune swore to him he could still go above, that he would not crumble into dust—but the binding was real. It had almost killed Antony during the Protectorate, and the exile of this court.

He could walk away from those oaths just sworn, if he had to. But once he drank, he was trapped forever.

The many eyes on him exerted palpable pressure, weighing every instant of his hesitation. Jack forced himself to reach out and accept the cup, rippling the dark surface.

What price knowledge?

Ah, Hell. Here’s to my health…

Jack set the dented rim to his lips and drank.

It tasted of shadows and secrets, hidden knowledge to tantalize the mind. He shivered and sweated at once, feeling the wine as if it went, not into his stomach, but the marrow of his bones. Beautiful, and terrible; somehow both bitter and sweet at once. Too much for a mortal palate, but from the first drop he craved it, tilting the cup back, gulping greedily, like a drowning man gulping for air, filling his mouth until he almost choked.

And then the cup was empty, and he gasped, his heart pounding in his ears.

I would sell my soul for another taste of that wine.

Perhaps I just did.

Lune reclaimed the cup, handing it back to the Lord Keeper, who bowed and retreated. She’d warned him of this, when she admitted he must bind himself to them to become Prince of the Stone. One cup only; henceforth, all his food and drink would be gathered from above, or made in a fashion that rendered it safe. Too much destroyed a man, she said. Jack could believe it.

“You carry now a touch of Faerie,” Lune said. He became aware again of the watching eyes, the audience that had vanished when the wine reached his lips. They smiled now, in a way he did not entirely like. “We create you Prince of the Stone, and co-ruler of our realm. Hail, Lord John Ellin.”

As a body, the watching fae knelt, repeating her final words. Lune stepped close and kissed him once, chastely, her lips cool against his. She tasted of Faerie, too, and Jack restrained himself from opening his mouth hungrily to hers. This would take more strength of will than he had realized.

Then she took his hand and turned him so they faced the chamber together. “Our realm is whole once more,” Lune said, and the fae dutifully cheered.

The Prince is dead, Jack realized, grieving for his fallen friend. Long live the Prince.

THE ONYX HALL, LONDON: May 1, 1666

The dazed look in Ellin’s eyes, the hectic flush of his cheeks…oh yes, he was bound to them now. It called forth a sharp pang in Lune’s heart, of mixed fondness and grief, remembering the men who came before him. Michael Deven stumbled into this life through love, but Antony Ware had chosen it knowingly—or at least as knowingly as any man could. And John Ellin had done the same. It gave reality to her own choices, the presence of a mortal at her side: one could be accident, or even two, but tonight a third Prince walked the realm, and what might seem a whim had become tradition.

Not all of her subjects were pleased, of course, but they swallowed their objections for now. The celebration was in raucous progress, both here and in the Moor Fields north of London’s wall, where the fae had taken over the grassy meadows and sheltering trees for their May Day festivities. Dawn was yet some hours away, Ellin’s coronation having been carried out just after midnight. Soon enough, they would go above together, and join the courtiers who pretended to like her choice.

First, however, there was one more task to carry out.

They stood alone in the great presence chamber, the bronze doors closed and barred. Around them, the stone reflected back every minute noise, ghostly and faint. “Now,” Lune said, “we shall make you Prince of the Stone in truth.”

Ellin’s eyebrows rose. “How foolish of me—I assumed all that ritual had meaning.”

“It did,” she agreed. His sharp-edged tongue would make their years together interesting, however many those turned out to be. “All of it was necessary, I assure you. But we are not yet done. What I held back, I did for good reason—for this is the most closely kept secret of our realm.” And therefore not something to share with him until she was sure he would not flee.

She beckoned him to follow her down the echoing expanse of marble. Once on the dais, Lune gestured for Ellin to position himself to one side of her throne, while she took the other. He gave the massive silver an extremely dubious glance, and she smiled. “It is not as heavy as it looks.”

Which was not to say it was light; he grunted as they slid it forward. But the grunt turned into a speculative breath, as he saw the opening behind the throne’s back. “I wondered why it stood against the wall.”

“Come and see,” Lune said, and went through.

The alcove behind was scarcely large enough for the two of them, and the wooden platform that occupied most of the floor. Above it, from the unadorned ceiling, hung a scarred and pitted block of limestone, with grooves incised deeply into its surface.