Marie Brennan: Deeds of Men

Lune’s heir was not in question; immortal creatures need not concern themselves with such things. Deven, however, was another matter.

“You made a promise,” he reminded her.

“Always to rule with a mortal at my side. I have not forgotten.”

Mortal and fae, hand in hand, had created this enchanted palace, hidden beneath the streets of London. That was the whole purpose of its presence here: to bring together two worlds which otherwise stood aloof. “When I am gone,” Deven said, “and you are in your grief…what will become of your promise then?”

She answered him fiercely. “I will keep it. Do you think I would not?”

“I have every belief you will. But for you to search for a successor, in such a moment…”

He left the sentence unfinished. Lune sighed, the fire going out of her body. “I know,” she said, and shifted closer, so she could lay her head upon his shoulder, and he could curl his arm about her waist. “If I cannot face the thought now, how can I face the deed then?”

Deven slid his cheek along the cool silver of her hair. “I have a thought for that. Not a full remedy, I fear, but—”

A tremor in her body; it turned out to be amusement. “What, no miracle? My faith in your omnipotence is shattered.”

Deven smiled. If she could find the heart to jest, then he did not fear to go on. “I am two things to you: your lover, and the man who rules at your side. One of these will be replaced. Might it not therefore profit us to separate the two? Create a title, some office I may occupy in my capacity as your consort. Such a thing may be passed on— before I am gone.”

She had not expected it. And it drove back the fear, at least a little; Lune sat up and tilted her head to a familiar angle, considering the prospect. After a moment, a smile curved her sculpted lips, and she gave him a merry look. “You mortal courtiers—always seeking advancement, honours, titles…”

“Your gold turns to leaves in the world above,” he said with a mock-apologetic bow. “I must have something to show for all my flattery and service.”

Lune’s merriment faded too quickly, but not to anger or melancholy. “’Tis a thought,” she admitted, “and a useful one, too. To make of this a political thing… wouldst be a faerie king, then?”

He hadn’t aimed that high, and she laughed to see the startlement on his face. “Prince, perhaps,” she suggested. “Enough to make you royal.”

And not enough to imply he stood above her. It was one of the reasons Elizabeth had never wed: few husbands would agree to the lesser position of consort, leaving their Queen-wives to rule the realm. But Deven had been a consort for decades, and did not mind. He said, “Prince of something? Not Wales, obviously; the Tylwyth Teg would not thank us for that. But it needs more than the bare word.” He pondered for a moment, then suggested, “Prince of the London Stone?”

Lune frowned. “I’d liefer keep that secret; ’tis too vital to the security of our realm.”

Vital was perhaps too mild a word for it; that unimpressive block was the heart of the Onyx Hall. She was right to keep it concealed. The sound of the phrase appealed to him, though. “Prince of the Stone, then,” Deven amended. “Where the stone in question might be the onyx of the Hall.”

She repeated his words, as if tasting them. “It might do,” she said at last. “And some ceremony to bestow it upon you. Then you may bear it until another is found.”

Found, not prepared. No doubt Lune had already surveyed the prospects, even as he had, and deemed them lacking. Few mortals had any dealings with the Onyx Court, despite his and Lune’s efforts; even fewer of them knew it. The fae were slow to entrust their secrets, when iron and Christian faith could hurt them so badly. Of those who walked these halls freely, none, in Deven’s opinion, was fit to be his successor.

You are hardly an impartial judge, he reminded himself wryly. No more than Lune. Both their hearts were bound up in this matter, and to contemplate a change was painful.

But that was, after all, the point of doing it.

He made himself think. A gentleman, at the least—someone with political connections and influence, who could be of use to Lune. Politically aware, or capable of learning. Trustworthy enough to keep their secrets. And agreeable to Lune; she was no mortal Queen, forced to wed for the sake of alliance, with no regard for her inclination.

“I will look,” he promised her, lifting the slender hand once more to his lips. “In all of England, there must be one man I would trust to stand at your side.”

The Onyx Hall, London: 2 June, 1625

“You suspect someone at court,” Lune said.

“ This court.” They stood alone in the bedchamber they shared, without even a sprite to attend them. Word would spread soon enough of Henry Ware’s death—Deven knew better than to assume Mungle would stay silent—but he would keep his suspicions hidden as long as he could. “’Twas no secret we groomed him to become Prince after me. And I can think of half a dozen ambitious to put their own favourites in his place—Aspell, Carline…”

She stilled in her pacing. Her composure rarely showed a flaw, even in private, even with him; whether it was the product of decades in this court or simply her nature, Lune gave little outward sign of grief or guilt. But Deven knew it lay beneath the surface. Henry’s easy gift for friendship had worked as well among fae as mortals, and Lune felt the loss.

“A dangerous gamble,” she said at last. Her voice had gone distant, as it often did when she turned to politics—when she thought as a queen, instead of an elfin woman. “No certainty of success, even with Henry removed; I might choose a rival’s favourite. And if the murderer were discovered…”

But dangerous gambles were a beloved pastime in the Onyx Court. After all, the fae needed something to fill the endless ages of their lives. Under Invidiana’s rule, such treachery had been meat and drink to them. The habit of scheming had not yet died out, and now they lived under the gentler hand of Lune, who was less likely to execute them for it. A deadly pairing. And Deven had brought Henry within its reach.

“We shall have to see who puts their favourite forward now,” Lune said.

He pitied the faerie who did. Lune was not half so cruel as Invidiana, but neither was she gentle with those who treated mortals as disposable pawns. But her courtiers knew that. “If he’s clever,” Deven said, “he will wait, and let someone else invite your wrath.”

Lune said nothing in reply, but the twist of her mouth told him he was right.

Warming his hands at the fire against the constant chill of the shadowed air, Deven wished for some more active way to uncover the author of this crime. As if hearing his thoughts, Lune said, “I doubt we will find any proof upon them—even if I wished to invite trouble by searching their chambers.”

Faerie notions of private property were not so sacrosanct as among the mortal English, but they came close enough. “No,” Deven said, hands hovering in mid-air, halted by inspiration. “We cannot track it that way. But we can begin with Henry—and follow his trail. Why was he in Coldharbour?”

Lune frowned in thought. She sank onto a low stool, skirts billowing and then subsiding around her. “It holds no entrance to the Onyx Hall,” she said. “Nor would he pass through it on his way to one. Was he coming from the river?”