How much longer can I endure?
Neither he nor Lune had realized, when she and her courtiers fled London, what the consequence would be. Queen and Prince, they were bound to the Hall. For both of them to leave it...whether that would have given Vidar a chance to claim the realm for his own, they never learned.
Lune could survive outside her palace, though she might lose her sovereignty in time. Antony could not.
The trembling grew worse, not better, as he huddled against the stone, and he wept silently, waiting for it to pass. Time spent in other faerie realms helped; he forced that as far as he could, driving himself to the limits of his endurance. The Onyx Hall was not safe for him. But in the end, it was this place he had bound himself to, when he became Prince of the Stone; this place, and no other. And humans so touched by Faerie died when they left it behind.
If he died, Vidar might win.
Therefore, he could not let himself die.
But God help him—he wanted to, sometimes. When the yearning grew too bad, and he thought about the dangers that waited below. This entrance was one of three Vidar did not seem to know about, and the safest for Antony; lying as it did beneath the cathedral, the place was uncomfortable to fae. St. Paul’s was also more accessible than the fortified Tower of London, and as for the third...
Vidar knew the London Stone was integral to the Onyx Hall, but not why. Very few fae understood the fundamental structure of the palace, and therefore the locations of its original entrances. Equally few knew the location of the Stone, the linchpin of the Hall. Its mortal half sat in Cannon Street above, but the faerie reflection was hidden, behind the very throne Vidar claimed for his own. And Antony would not do anything that might betray its concealment to the usurper.
So he crouched here, like a rat in its hole, fighting to keep silent, and prayed that no passing fae would hear him.
He fell asleep at last, still on the lowest step, and woke painfully stiff. Touching the wall, he sensed that he had slept the day through, and night had come again. It was safe for him to move—as safe as it ever got.
Rising was the hardest thing he’d ever done, and it grew harder every time. But Antony forced himself to his feet, limped upward through the blackness, and left the Onyx Hall behind.
WAYLAND’S SMITHY, BERKSHIRE: August 6, 1658
Sunset stained the gray trunks of the beeches with ruddy warmth, and elder and sweet cicely honeyed the air. Lune stood before the long, low mound that sheltered within the ring of trees, and watched as Teyrngar, the faerie hound Leslic had given her, sniffed along the margin of the woods in idle search of something to chase. He had proved faithful, if his giver had not, and Lune had in time learned not to see that traitor’s face every time she looked upon him.
She appreciated how freely she could walk in the open, here in the Vale. She stood in front of the gray sentinel stones capping the mound’s south end without any glamour masking her, and never any fear of being seen. It was a freedom unknown to her since an age so distant she could not recall it, and unimaginable in the city she called home.
But the quiet grated on her. Farmers lived in the Vale of the White Horse, and there was a village within easy reach, but she felt terribly isolated out here, with only the Berkshire fae and the remnants of her own small court for company. She had few dealings with mortals. Even a glamour only helped so much, when the laws against vagrancy meant any traveler was looked upon with suspicion. And so along with her freedom, she had ignorance: she was utterly dependent on others to keep her informed, as the world passed her by.
The still air was broken by hooves, beating a dull rhythm on the chalk-and-flint lane that passed near the mound and its concealing trees. If it was not who Lune expected, he would ride on by—or if he did not, she scarcely cared. The humans knew the tales of this place. But the figure who rode under the arms of the beeches was familiar, for all it had changed.
The sight of Antony Ware brought unexpected pain. Where once his association with faerie kind had slowed his aging, now it seemed to speed it. All but exiled from the Onyx Hall, he’d lost at least two stone, and most of the color from his hair and beard. The shoulders under his buff coat were raw bone, and after two hard days of riding, his hands shook on the reins.
She would not insult him by pointing out the obvious, though. Lune took the reins and steadied his mare while he dismounted—a real mare, not a transformed faerie. “Leave a silver coin,” she said, attempting humor, “and you’ll find her shod ere we are done.”
“Even I cannot be at two tasks at once.” The voice came from behind her, a deep, friendly growl. For such an enormous man, Wayland moved far too silently.
The King of the Vale did not look obviously fae; at first glance, he seemed nothing more than a brawny blacksmith, with muscles cording his arms and straining his plain leather tunic across his chest. But Lune offered him a respectful greeting, never forgetting she owed this royal cousin her present sanctuary.
Wayland acknowledged her with a nod and gripped Antony’s arm familiarly, then bent to scratch between Teyrngar’s ears. “We have food for you within,” he said to the exiled Prince, “safe for you to eat.” Which meant some puck had stolen it from a nearby farm. But the fae here, never hardened by the old ways of the Onyx Court, were willing enough to do some good in return; Lune trusted the farmer had woken to find his house swept bare of dirt, his cows fed and milked.
It was the old way of things, simple and familiar, even though Lune herself had not dwelt in the countryside for an age. Wayland plied his hammer for any mortal brave enough to come and pay his fee, and though they were fewer with every passing century, his name was yet remembered. Who remembers me?
Fortunately, she had reason enough to put aside such self-pitying thoughts. “Your advisers have gathered,” Wayland told them, unperturbed by any consideration that a king should not play messenger. Social distinctions were another thing that was simpler out here. “They wait on you.”
“We will be there presently.” She had one thing to ask Antony, though, before they went in. When Wayland had left them, Teyrngar frisking at his heels, she said, “What change?”
In all matters but this, she would not hesitate to speak in front of their advisers. But they had uncovered one planted spy and one suborned puck in the past, and would not risk this detail reaching Vidar. “He is still blind,” Antony said, tethering his mare where she could graze, and pulling the saddle from her back with a grunt. “He tears the palace apart in search of the London Stone, but he has not found it, and he does not know what will make it answer to him if he does. He thinks this mortal partnership of yours nothing more than a foolish fancy.”
Tiny points of tension unknotted in Lune’s back. The Onyx Hall owed its existence to both mortal and faerie hands, and no one had ever claimed its sovereignty without mortal aid. She did not believe it could be done alone. And so long as Vidar remained ignorant of that, she would not have to worry he would overcome his arrogance and pride to take a human consort.
So long as she held that advantage and the London Sword, she held Vidar in check.
But she wanted more; she wanted her realm back. “Let another tend your horse,” she said. “We have word from both Ireland and Scotland, that may at last be of use.”
Four upright slabs guarded the front end of the barrow mound, like turrets flanking the narrow, stone-lined passage that cut back into the soil. The cruciform chamber at its end was small; Lune had to crouch to enter it. Inside, the wall slid away with a quiet grinding she should have heard when Wayland came out—and how he ever fit through here, she could not guess. She straightened with relief into the space beyond.
Wayland’s realm could not have contrasted more starkly with hers had he tried. Warm torchlight illuminated the high, round ceiling of the cavern they stood in, and dried leaves of scarlet and gold carpeted the dirt floor. Fae congregated here, but not in attendance on their King, who stood conversing with a tatterfoal off to one side. Hobs clustered around several po
ts that hung suspended over open fires, and a trio of pucks played an elaborate game that might have once been related to mumblety-peg, tossing a complex pattern of knives into the dirt.
The fae of the Onyx Hall stood out like London grandees tossed among farmers, even those who had given up the stiffness of court finery. Sir Peregrin Thorne, once lieutenant, now captain of the remaining Onyx Guard, demonstrated a complex sword pass to his companion Dame Segraine, who spun a dagger across her fingers as she watched. Tom Toggin, who commanded her household in exile, put the finishing touches on some elaborate marzipan subtlety, tongue protruding from between his buck teeth. Others were scattered elsewhere in the mound, no doubt pursuing their own accustomed habits as well as they could.
Lune knew all of them, far more intimately than she had when they were merely a few among many. Dame Segraine, for example: when in London, the lady knight had often disguised herself as a man to learn from the great fencing masters in their schools. Sir Peregrin, with enough wine in him, told harrowing tales of the hag Black Annis in Leicestershire, under whose rule he had formerly lived. Tom created enormous sweets for Lune’s table, knowing she would not eat more than a fragment, so he could consume the remainder without feeling guilty.
They made their bows as she and Antony passed, still obedient to the manners of courtly life, and Peregrin fell in behind them. The Berkshire fae merely nodded, if they bothered to look up at all. Together, the exiled Queen and her Prince crossed the Great Hall and went out through one of the root-arched tunnels.
Their advisers waited in a smaller chamber, in chairs carved from beechwood, around an oaken table that might have seen William the Conqueror’s day. The floor beneath them was carpeted with wild strawberries, blossoming out of season. The little group rose and knelt when Lune and Antony entered, removing their caps, and sat when she gestured. Peregrin took up a position behind them, standing guard as well as attending. “Thank you for coming,” she said. “The journey was a long one for some of you. I hope you bring me good news.”
Her council here was a motley thing, including in its number fae who weren’t subjects of hers—one who was not even English. Lady Feidelm’s clothing was more outlandish here than even Antony’s buff coat, but she seemed at home in these caverns. Though technically still an ambassadress, her outrage at Eochu Airt’s betrayal left her with no compunctions about giving her own aid to the court in exile.
The sidhe looked less than hopeful when Lune nodded to her, though. “I fear there’s been little change. Few of the other kingdoms approve of Conchobar’s alliance with Nicneven, but they do not disapprove so strongly as to take action against him.”
The indecision was maddening. Lune said, “Vidar gained Conchobar’s aid on the promise that he would control England to Ireland’s benefit. Instead, Lord Protector Cromwell ground your people under the heel of his boot. How can they stand by him, after such a failure?”
Feidelm spread her white hands in a helpless gesture. “He has failed, yes—but if Conchobar abandons him, what good will that do? Vidar’s success is his only hope, for certainly you will not view him favorably, should you regain your throne.” And Vidar has not your scruples against interference, she left unsaid.
“We might have been able to do something on Ireland’s behalf, had we not been driven out,” Antony said. “It is more than Vidar’s bungling; it is the loss of the good we might have done.”
He rather overstated the case, in Lune’s opinion; she was not at all certain they could have turned the tide of Cromwell’s invasion, or even softened it. But such honesty had no place in politics. “And the Ard-Rí?”
Feidelm sighed. “Our High Kings, you understand, do not rule as a king does; they do not give commands, and the Dagda cannot bring Conchobar to heel. But he promises that no others will support Ulster against you.”
In more peaceful times, Lune had viewed that High King with benign amusement. He was a crude fellow, extraordinarily powerful, but much concerned with earthy pleasures. His septennial ascendency at Temair, however, did not offer much hope for action; the Dagda was far more comfortable as he was. But the promise was not without value. Reinforcements from Ireland would turn this affair into a protracted war, and Lune had yet to figure out how to win even a single battle.
What if the fault of that lies not with me? The question haunted her, waking and sleeping. The monarchy of England had been abolished, by Parliamentary decree. Lune had not needed messengers to bring word of it to her; she knew the moment it happened. That sense of dislocation she felt when Charles was killed, the trembling in the foundations of the realm, was briefly an earthquake.
And then silence.
Wayland felt it, too, and every other monarch in faerie England. They did not lose their thrones as she had, but of course none of them were invaded, either. Or was it because none of their crowns were ever linked to the mortal one? Lune was not certain it was possible to regain her throne, with the King of England exiled from his, the crown jewels destroyed, and mortal sovereignty lying cold in its grave.
So she did what she could to aid Antony against the military rule of the Protectorate, and kept searching for hope in her own fight. And if she could not pry the Ulstermen away from Vidar, she would direct her blows at Scotland.
Amadea had spent a full year in embassy to the scattered Scottish courts, to little apparent result, but the true bounty of her efforts came in the form of fae willing to pass information south. Admittedly, the Lady Chamberlain made a poor spymaster, but Valentin Aspell had drifted away into careful neutrality, following neither Lune nor Vidar, and the Goodemeades had other concerns.
And she was not entirely ineffective. “The word from Fife,” Amadea said when Lune turned to her, “is that Nicneven is daily more disaffected with Vidar.”
That was enough to make even Antony sit up, despite his exhaustion. “How so?”
Amadea extended her hands, as if weighing the various sides. “He gained Ulster aid by promising he would control the mortal government and its Irish policy. But Nicneven—”
“—hates such interference,” Lune finished for her. The Gyre-Carling had embraced it briefly in revenge for Mary Stuart, but with Charles’s death, her purpose was done. “Why her people are still in London at all is something we do not know. Nor, for that matter, why she would work with Conchobar at all, when their aims are so far separated.”
Light danced from the gems in Amadea’s rings as she shrugged. “That, I’ve been unable to learn. I believe Vidar misled her as to the reason for Conchobar’s involvement; the hints I gather are that Ulster promised to assist Nicneven in exchange for something else entirely.”
Feidelm’s chair scraped across the soil, and all eyes went to her. “Claíomh Solais,” the poetess whispered.
From farther down the table came a wry voice. “And what is that, when it’s in English?” Irrith asked. She sat in for Wayland, who had little patience for these intrigues, though Lune doubted Irrith’s patience was any greater.
“The Sword of Light,” Feidelm said, her eyes shining with reverence. “The sword of Nuada, who was Ard-Rí before, and will be again. One of the Four Treasures of Ériu.”
Lune swallowed an unexpected desire to laugh as the English around the table all exchanged baffled glances. Anything that merited renown as a treasure of Ireland could be real trouble. “What makes you name it?”
The poetess’s eyes focused again, and she straightened, edging her chair back toward the table. “It has been lost for ages, but rumor has come of it again, and recently. This might be why. If it was in Nicneven’s clutches...”
“With all the raids between Ireland and Scotland,” Antony said, “mortal and fae alike, it’s possible. Suppose Conchobar has the sword. What danger means that for us?”
Feidelm hesitated, fingers brushing the torc about her throat. “I cannot be certain. I may even be wrong about the sword. Properly, it is Nuada’s, and Conchobar could curry great favor by returning it to the Ard-Rí. P
erhaps he may do so, when Nuada reigns again.”
“Nuada was on the throne two years ago,” Lune said. “Conchobar had his chance then—for we must assume that if the sword was his payment, he has received it by now.”
“Indeed.” The sidhe nodded thoughtfully, and a line of worry creased her fine brow. “Which makes me think he has some use for it, before he gives it over. But in my honest opinion, that use will not concern you; more likely he will turn it against his enemies in Connacht. With no insult intended, madam, Lord Antony—to Conchobar, you are not that important.”
If Ireland’s internal strife distracted him from England, so much the better. “You said Nicneven was disaffected,” Lune reminded Amadea. “Has she learned the truth of Vidar’s promise to Conchobar?”
“He has not been subtle about it,” Antony muttered blackly. Once they finished with the reports from abroad, he would tell her of Vidar’s latest attempts to manipulate the Puritans and Lord Protector Cromwell’s government. “I know Nicneven is in Fife, not London, but surely she has creatures who carry tales of his deeds.”
“She does,” Amadea confirmed. “But she had patience, because she believed Vidar when he told her he but delayed the Irish, while he worked to carry out her other purpose.”
Other purpose? There had to be one; it was the only explanation for the Scottish fae still in London, long after Charles’s death. But something in how Amadea said it made Lune’s heartbeat slow in dread. “Which is?”
Into the silence of the council chamber, Amadea said, “To destroy the Onyx Hall.”
The blood drained from Antony’s already pale face. Lune covered his hand with her own, and found his fingers cold as death. It would kill him. This long separation already came far too close. She feared what would happen if he died before they could retake the palace; he grew frailer with every passing month. And without him, Lune might find herself crippled.
“Why?” Peregrin whispered, horrified enough to speak out of turn. “That—but—it is as if we threatened to destroy Fife itself. She makes war, not just against her Majesty, but against—”