Marie Brennan - In Ashes Lie

Ellin let out a half-laugh. “Is that—”

“The London Stone. Or rather, a reflection of it. I would explain to you its presence here, but showing is easier. Come.” Lune mounted the steps. The platform put her high enough that the Stone hung just above her head, within easy reach.

Her companion was taller; he could knock his head against the Stone if he was not careful. “Please don’t tell me I have to kiss it. I fear too much that it might also carry a reflection of the filth above.”

She smiled again. A sharp tongue, but an amusing one. “Not at all. Simply give me your left hand, and place your right upon the Stone.”

He bent to give her a wary look. “That’s all?”

“That is all.”

After a moment’s consideration, Ellin shrugged. “I should hardly balk at a simple thing like that, given what else I’ve done this night.” Their left hands crossed beneath the Stone. His palm was dry and bore few calluses, as befit a gentleman, and he held hers with ginger care.

Lune mirrored him as he raised his right hand, and they laid their fingers on the Stone together.

CANNON STREET, LONDON: May 1, 1666

“What in the name of—”

The exclamation was enough to draw the disinterested attention of a constable, standing where Walbrook and Dowgate crossed Cannon Street, but after a moment the man continued on his way, swinging his lantern as he went. Other than that, the lane was deserted. And the London Stone, like all entrances to the Onyx Hall, concealed in some measure those who passed through it.

Lune stifled a laugh as Jack Ellin peeled his hand loose from the limestone, as if from a block of ice. “That—”

She let him absorb it for a moment. The London Stone was the linchpin of the Onyx Hall, and touching it communicated a great deal about the palace’s structure and nature. They could have stayed below, but she wanted him to see as well as feel that connection, the way the Stone anchored itself into the earth and then reflected below. Here, it did not seem like much—an unremarkable block along the south side of the street, half-buried in the dirt—but it was the key to everything. The Onyx Hall would not recognize him as its master until the Stone knew his touch.

Finally Jack said, breathlessly, “You could warn a man.”

“But words would cheapen it,” Lune said, letting go of his other hand. “I am sorry for the surprise.”

“No, you’re not. You enjoyed that.”

She could feel the ease between them now, the connection that bound them through their shared realm. It was unlike what she had shared with Antony, as it would be unlike her bond with his successor, whoever that might be. Each mortal felt slightly different, like the same note struck on a variety of instruments.

Jack shook his head as if to clear it, opened his mouth, and choked on a sound. Lune nodded. “It will fade; you have my word. In time you will be able to call on your divine Master again.”

He swallowed, like a man swallowing his own tongue. When he could speak, he said, “I suppose I’m grateful it’s Tuesday, then. That gives me time.”

The reminder of religion put Lune on edge. She was vulnerable, out here; she had not wanted to go through the coronation and this ritual while shielded against mortality. Soon, though, a bell might ring, and there was iron enough to make her shiver regardless. And they were expected in Moor Fields.

Holding out her hand again, she said, “Shall we go back down? Our escort awaits us there.”

THE ONYX HALL, LONDON: August 30, 1666

“Your Majesty,” Valentin Aspell said, “an ambassador has arrived, and begs a grant of safety while he delivers his message to you.”

Safety? Lune’s curiosity came alight. I can think of few who would need to remind me of the safe conduct owed an embassy. And Valentin looks like he’s swallowed a wasp. “An ambassador from where?”

The Lord Keeper bowed, as if afraid she would strike him for his answer. “From the Gyre-Carling in Fife.”

It startled her more than angered. Startled, and somewhat encouraged: since when did Nicneven send ambassadors? Unless this was some diversion, meant to distract from an attack elsewhere—but that was the sort of thing Vidar would have planned, and he was firmly out of the Unseely Queen’s reach. “Is the ambassador here? ”

Valentin shook his head. “He waits beyond the border of your realm, and sent a gruagach in his stead.”

Politeness, even—or perhaps just prudence. Either way, the surprises continued. “Grant him passage,” she said, “and have him meet me…” Where? The great presence chamber would be the best place to awe him, but that would also make it far more public than she wanted. “In the lesser presence chamber. Have it cleared; we shall speak in private. No sense giving rise to more rumors than we must.”

Bowing, Aspell began to retreat. “Also,” Lune said, before he could vanish out the door, “send word to Jack Ellin, requesting his attendance.” He needed more seasoning in politics, and she had every intention of forcing the Fife ambassador to acknowledge the Prince’s existence. Just because Nicneven had chosen civil conversation was no reason for Lune to back down from those things the Gyre-Carling most hated.

With the Lord Keeper gone, Lune flew to her preparations, summoning her ladies to help her change into a more formal gown and adorn her curls with a crown. Sun and Moon, I hope Aspell’s messenger tells Jack what is afoot, and the man has the sense to dress for it. Surely he had learned that much already.

She knew to a nicety the time it would take a traveler to reach the wall from any northern approach, and the distance to all the closest entrances. Lune might have insisted on meeting the ambassador above, but beginning with an insult would hardly be auspicious—and besides, there was little to gain in hiding the doors to her realm. Nicneven knew them all by now.

Examining her own thoughts, Lune found in them no small amount of fear. Attacks, she understood and anticipated; the Gyre-Carling was trying something new. She had no idea what to expect from this.

Jack was waiting for her in the chamber, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps someone had taken clothes to him, for he had changed with tremendous speed. “Do you recall what I told you of Nicneven?” she asked, settling into her chair of estate.

He recited the basic facts back to her in a crisp tone that concealed any nerves he might feel. The man’s memory was well trained; he missed nothing. “Do not hesitate to speak if this ambassador says anything touching on the people of London,” Lune said when he was done, “but beyond that, I expect to handle this myself. The ambassador will acknowledge your presence, even if I must force him, but I doubt he will deign to speak to you.”

A hint of relief was in his nod. And that was all they had time for; Aspell entered, received Lune’s nod, and threw the door open. “From the Gyre-Carling of Fife, her ambassador, Sir Cerenel.”

Only her preformed determination to keep a serene countenance, no matter what happened, kept Lune from staring. It was no trick: her own former knight entered, approached the dais, and made his formal bow. To them both, she saw; whether it was in his instructions or not, Cerenel included Jack in the reverence.

“Be welcome to the Onyx Hall, Sir Cerenel,” she managed, and he rose. “We hope you are well?”

“I am, your Majesty.” He, too, must have resolved before coming that he would keep the whole encounter polite. Did he feel hostility toward her? Bitterness? Fear? The violet eyes showed no hint.

He had bowed to Jack; Lune decided to press that. “You have not met John Ellin, who is now Prince of the Stone.”