Marie Brennan - In Ashes Lie

The Gyre-Carling’s smile deepened, as if anticipating blood. “So again you face your choice, as I gave it to you before. Give me Ifarren Vidar—or your realm shall be destroyed.”

Not just the Onyx Hall, but the City. The Cailleach alone was no threat to the mortals above, but with the Dragon still alive…Lune had escaped the trap of her oath thus far by seeking parley, by battling it at the Stone, by making plans to slay the beast. Any means of saving London that did not mean giving in to Nicneven. If she had failed, at least she had fought, had done everything she could.

Now only this remained: to surrender her realm and her throne. To sacrifice the Onyx Court for the mortals above.

The oath tightened its grip, forcing the words toward her lips. Lune clenched her teeth until her jaw ached, knuckles rigid and white. Jack Ellin’s gaze bored into her, but he could not save her from this; she was caught. It was too late for any more evasions.

She might as well have surrendered days before, when that first street began to burn. Lune wished she had. But she had not foreseen the terrible price of resistance—and now she must give her realm into the hands of Nicneven, who was glad to see London burn.

And upon that thought, the pressure vanished.

Breath rushed back into her lungs. Lune released her grip on the arms of her throne, steadied herself, then said, “And when we have given you the traitor—why, then, we still have a Dragon on our doorstep, and the Cailleach under your command. You, madam, have sought the destruction of our realm since first you sent a man to the Aldersgate tree, flint and tinder in hand. What reason have we, in this world or any other, to believe that you will simply take your prize and go home?”

Those who lived in the Onyx Court soon learned to lie very well. Nicneven, Queen of a simpler and more honest land, had no such skill. Anger flared across her wild features, obvious even to the most naïve of hobs.

Lune lifted her chin and turned her attention to those hobs, and the goblins and pucks, the sprites and elves, and those few fae of the natural world who brought themselves within her stone halls. “You see the truth upon her,” she said, pitching her voice more loudly. “She would burn us out, with Ifarren Vidar or without him. London lies in ashes because she, seeing the Fire driven on by the wind, refused to spare the City you love. We are twisted, she thinks, every one of us corrupted by the mortal shadow in which we dwell. Nothing less will suffice for her but the utter destruction of our home—below and above.”

She returned her gaze to Nicneven then, and took strength from the throne on which she sat, the London Stone lying concealed at her back. Lune had traveled the breadth of England as a beggar Queen, a supplicant to the courts in which she dwelt; now, for the first time, she faced a fellow sovereign as an equal, from the seat of her own power.

This is my throne. Not Invidiana’s, nor any other.

Her throne, her realm—and her people. Lune let a fierce smile curve her lips, and addressed a question to her subjects, even as she stared unblinking into the Gyre-Carling’s wild eyes. “My lord Prince—my lords and ladies of my council and court, my faithful knights, my devoted servants, you who are the humblest of my subjects—I ask you then, what answer shall I make to this threat from the North?”

She meant it to be rhetorical, a mere flourish before she threw her defiance in Nicneven’s teeth. But a hoarse voice answered her, from among the battered remains of the Onyx Guard: Segraine, standing proud on the last ragged edge of her will. “Tell her to go home; she’ll find no victory here. We’ll kill this Dragon for you, madam, and anything else she sends at us.”

“Me and my pretty mortal guns will help you,” Bonecruncher growled. “They’re a corruption I like well.”

Nicneven had not expected the responses, either. Until now, she’d spoken only to Lune, not acknowledging with so much as a glance that anyone else stood in the hall; now her hair flew like snakes as she whirled to face the goblin and the knight. “You are mad,” the Gyre-Carling said flatly. “Why dwell here, locked in stone, with a hundred churches above your head? This lunatic Queen of yours has robbed you of your common sense.”

Angry murmurs greeted her words. Not threats, but arguments: fae speaking in defense of their home, and then a lighter voice rising above them all. “Why?” Irrith asked. “ Because of the mortals. No one robbed me of anything; I came here by choice, because I was curious.” The sprite managed one of her impudent smiles, as if aware of how much it would infuriate Nicneven. “I’m afraid London’s not at its best right now—taverns burnt, people camping in fields outside the walls—but if you come back next year, I could guide you around. You might find you like it here.”

A handful of pucks took that jibe and embroidered upon it, turning the anger to mocking laughter. Like barbed darts, the laughs pierced the Unseely Queen’s skin and lodged there, maddening her like a boar brought to bay. Her attendants drew closer, fearful again of violence—all except Cerenel, who stood apart, unreadable, watching as Nicneven’s rage crested and finally broke.

“This City of yours,” she shouted above the laughs, spitting the word as if it were an obscenity, “is gone! And soon your palace shall be, too.”

The laughter stopped. And in that silence, Jack Ellin stepped forward.

For one blind instant, Lune feared he would throw the courtesies of safe passage into the midden, and incite her subjects into attacking the Scottish party. They would do it, too; Lune had not meant for this to happen, for the confrontation between her and the other Queen to spring so suddenly from her control.

But it was Jack. Not a soldier, but he wielded words like a weapon.

“The houses are burnt,” he said, as if it were no great matter. “Some churches are gone, taverns, shops—but not the City. London, madam, is more than its walls and its roofs. So long as there are Londoners, there will be a London.”

Then he turned to Lune and made her a courteous bow. “I dare-say our subjects are of equally hardy stuff. Perhaps you would care to instruct me in the building of a faerie palace?”

She stared at him, trying not to release the disbelieving laugh that trembled in her throat. He is mad. But he was not the only one; from down on the floor, she heard Rosamund Goodemeade say, “We can help you with that, my lord.”

“I don’t know if we can fit everyone into Rose House,” Gertrude said, with artful doubt, “but I’m sure we’ll find homes for the rest, while we rebuild.”

“Might redesign a few entrances while we’re at it,” her sister mused.

“And try for something more cheerful than all this black stone.”

“Make my bedchamber larger!” one of the pucks called out, and another jested in response, “What for? You’re the only one who uses it.” As if the floodgates had opened, a hundred other suggestions filled the air, for the improved design of a new Onyx Hall.

They were mad, every last one of them. Lune did not know if it was the strain of living under the Cailleach’s assault, or the transmuted fire she and Jack had poured into them, the radiant heart of London. But their madness gave her heart, because it meant they stood behind her, even in the face of a Dragon.

Without them, she was Queen of nothing. With them, there was no distance she could fall that she could not climb back up again.

Fierce pride swelled in her heart. Lune waited, letting her subjects have their say, and then when the shouts subsided she spoke once more to the dumbfounded and furious Nicneven.