In Ashes Lie

  She crumpled the letter in her hand—word from Antony, of the dissolution of Richard Cromwell’s disastrous Parliament—and flung it from her, pivoting with such violence that her heel sank into the soft dirt of the floor. She found Irrith standing a mere pace away and staggered, off balance with surprise and the uneven footing. These wild fae move too damned quietly.

  Irrith at least had the decency to ignore her clumsiness. Clad in leather, a short bow in her hand, the sprite said hesitantly, “I—the moon is full tonight, and partially in eclipse. I thought you might like to hunt, and breathe fresh air.”

  Hunting was not a pastime Lune often engaged in, but tonight of all nights she felt like killing something, if only for the brief illusion of victory. And if she could not be in London, at least she could walk free under the moon, and try to find some solace in its beauty.

  Though there would be pain in that, too. It was under an eclipse that the Onyx Hall was created, by a mortal and a faerie.

  “Lu—ah, your Majesty?”

  Irrith’s hesitant query made Lune realize she was staring unblinkingly at the sprite. Lune startled, and gave voice to the thought that had seized her. “I have been as blind as Vidar.”

  “What?”

  “Nicneven thinks me tainted by my bond to a mortal city,” Lune said. For the first time in more months than she cared to remember, laughter bubbled up inside her, carrying with it the bright spark of hope. “Well, if I am, let me embrace it. Since faerie strength will not regain my throne for me, I shall see what mortals can do. Where is your King?”

  Irrith’s face was a study in bafflement as she tried to keep up with Lune’s erratic speech. “In his forge—”

  Lune was on her way out of the chamber even before the sprite answered. She could no more muster an army from the mortals than she could from Wayland’s court, and however much she hated Vidar, she would not try to unleash Puritan faith against him. But there were other possibilities.

  No one guarded the smithy door. Lune swept through and found Wayland stripped to the waist, swinging his hammer in steady rhythm, hammering out a semicircular shape.

  He cannot be entirely fae. The piece in his tongs was an iron horseshoe, and even standing so near turned Lune’s stomach. The wound in her shoulder throbbed in sympathy. From a safe distance she raised her voice. “I beg a moment of your time.”

  The blacksmith King quenched the shoe in a wave of steam. “Yes?”

  “You have told me you cannot supply warriors sufficient to even the balance,” Lune said, drawing as close as she dared. “Will you supply us with weapons instead?”

  Wayland laid the iron aside and gave her a considering look. “I could.”

  Lune quelled her surge of triumph by force of will, letting only a fierce smile through. The battle is not won yet. But for the first time, I think it may happen. “Then here is what I would ask of you.”

  THE ANGEL INN, ISLINGTON: May 7, 1659

  “To the Rump!”

  Antony did not lift his jack of ale in response to Ellin’s pledge. The young man raised an eyebrow. “The Protectorate is staggering to a well-deserved death, the Commons kicked out six years ago is sitting again, and yet you do not drink. I know you think the quality of the ale here has declined, but you cannot even bring yourself to one sip?”

  “Not for the Rump.” One of Prynne’s friends had come up with the contemptuous name for the reduced Commons left behind after the Purge, and now half of London used it.

  Ellin sighed. “It’s better than the alternative. When the Army forced our not-so-beloved Lord Protector to dissolve Parliament, I thought it meant rule by the sword for sure.”

  The same Army that had, on Cromwell’s orders, illegally dissolved the Rump six years before, ending the Commonwealth and beginning the Protectorate. It was just one more upheaval perpetrated by the same fanatical men who had held England at the point of a sword since before the King’s execution.

  Antony thought he kept his face impassive, but Ellin suddenly paled and reached across the table. The common room of the Angel Inn was hot with candlelight, and busy with trade; sweat pricked Antony’s skin in the stifling air, but he felt cold. Ellin pushed back the cuff of his sleeve, feeling for his pulse. “Your heart is racing, and you’re feverish. Sir Antony—”

  Antony pulled his hand back. “I do not need your physicking.”

  “You need someone’s. I’m not fully trained; so be it. I can give you the best names in London.” Ellin’s mouth twisted. “I would send you to France, if I thought you would go. What ails you, I have no idea, but man—it is killing you.”

  The anger in his gut had turned to sick desire. Too long away. Antony shoved back from the table. “I know my medicine, and will go to it now.”

  The ironical face stared up at him, stripped of any humor. “Will you not let a friend help?”

  Was John Ellin a friend? Lady Dysart had brought him into their conspiratorial circle two years ago. Long enough for Antony to know him as more than just another hotheaded young man enchanted by Royalist ideas; Ellin had passion, but also common sense. Antony trusted him more than any man since Ben Hipley had died—but that was not the same thing as a friend.

  A wave of dizziness broke over him, and only experience kept him from staggering. “You do help. But this is something I must handle on my own.”

  “And you’ll not let me help you to your horse—I know better than to offer.” Ellin stood and gripped his arm. “But have a care for yourself. I don’t fancy having your wife on me for letting you fall in a ditch somewhere.”

  Antony managed a smile. “No ditches, I promise.”

  The cool, dark air outside cleared his head enough for him to walk more or less steadily behind the inn. No ditches—but a hole in the ground.

  Bare, skeletal stumps thrust up from the soil where once a thriving rosebush had stood, and the ground around them was torn. But the charms held, diverting attention from this spot, and so Antony knelt and laid his fingertips on one of the splintered branches. “The moon is in eclipse.”

  The phrase was not his idea. But with the gift some fae had for mimicry, it wasn’t enough to give his name, and so some wit in Lune’s following had come up with a series of coded signals instead.

  The mutilated remainder of the rosebush shivered and split, revealing cracked steps. Antony made his way down them carefully. The waning crescent of the moon had not yet risen, but enough light came from the coaching inn to guide him into the room below.

  He was just as glad not to see his surroundings. Leaves and dirt had drifted in, and cobwebs stretched between the broken fragments of tables and benches. Scorchmarks blackened the walls. We used him, Rosamund had said, and it seemed Vidar knew it. The brownies’ well-practiced innocence had not been enough to save them when a force of redcaps and Scottish goblins broke in.

  Kneeling again, he felt his fingers tremble. Soon he would have to risk the Onyx Hall again—but not yet. Not yet.

  “Soon its light will return.”

  The second half of the phrase, and the key to the second door. The scarred boards flexed aside, and light bloomed up from below.

  Antony shuddered in relief as he descended into the welcoming glow. It was not the Onyx Hall, but the Goodemeades’ hidden sanctuary helped him stave off the tearing need for his faerie home.

  Gertrude bustled up to take his cloak before he was even off the steps, and a chair waited for him near the fire. This heat warmed him, and took the tremors from his fingers. Nowhere else—not even in Berkshire—could he relax as he did here; everywhere else, he feared spies, be they mortal or fae. But though the branches of the rosebush had been shorn, its roots ran living and deep, arching over this concealed room. Tiny buds and blossoms gilded the ceiling. And under that ancient sign of secrecy, he knew himself to be safe. Even the redcaps had not found this chamber.

  Nor had they found the Goodemeades, hidden here since Antony freed them from imprisonment beneath the Tower. Rosamund pressed a
cup into his hand. Wine, not their mead; brewing was one thing they could not do down here. But Antony gulped it down thankfully.

  It is killing you.

  He put Ellin’s words from his mind.

  Hands twisting about each other, Gertrude said, “Antony—”

  “I know,” he snapped, forcing himself upright. “I push it too far, yes—but what else can I do? I cannot live my life in this hole, safe but useless; I cannot abandon my own world to live wholly in yours. What would you have me do?”

  He opened his eyes and found the sisters staring at him open-mouthed. Never had he snapped at them like that, and guilt warred with his annoyance. Then Rosamund recovered. “I—we’ve a message from Lune.”

  His temper died, leaving foolish shame in its wake. Antony grimaced an apology for his outburst and said, “What word?”

  Firelight danced in Gertrude’s eyes. “She has an idea, that she thinks may better our chances against Vidar. If she’s right—she hopes to retake the Onyx Hall soon.”

  “How soon?”

  “Well...” Rosamund picked up the thread from her sister. She, too, fairly danced with excitement. “You told us that Mordaunt is in Brussels with the King, planning some rising?”

  Antony grimaced. “A foolish plan. If the Royalists try to raise the country, they’ll fail. Bloodily.”

  “Lune hoped they might not.”

  Hope meant nothing; political reality dictated the outcome. Yet the way Rosamund said it implied something more. The brownie had brought up Mordaunt in the context of Lune’s own plans; why? “Did she think to time her effort with theirs?”

  Judging by their expressions, yes. “It used to be,” Gertrude said, perching on a stool at his side, “that what went on in the faerie court had a real effect on the mortal one, and likewise the other way. It isn’t true anymore—but we’ve wondered, at times, whether some little connection does not persist.”

  Lune had hinted at it before, but never explained herself. True, she had lost her throne on the day of the King’s execution, but ordinary causes sufficed to explain that, and the other points of similarity. Vidar had simply chosen to strike when he knew she would be distracted. Yet—

  Yet ordinary causes and mystical ones did not exclude one another. It was possible, he supposed, that the unease of Lune’s rule had affected Charles’s, or his had weakened hers. Certainly Vidar had used the one to trouble the other. Antony could not judge whether some arcane force still bound the two; it was impossible to disentangle such an effect from the practical events surrounding it. But if that were so, then carrying out their own assault while young Charles’s loyalists raised the country in his name might better the chances of both.

  The brownies left him in peace, letting him think it through. What could be lost by trying? A great deal, unfortunately. Failed violence strengthened the Army’s hand, and set back the Royalist cause. And whatever Lune had planned, it would involve risk to her own people; if fae died in the attempt, and bought nothing with their deaths, it would be all the harder for her to convince them to try again.

  He could not judge the chances of Lune’s plan, not without speaking to her about it. But he could judge the chances of Mordaunt’s all too well.

  Antony shook his head. “I understand what you hope for, but no. If there is a connection, it will only cripple the fae. The Council of State has too many ways to learn of Royalist plans; a rising will never catch them unprepared. Whatever plan Lune has, we must carry it out on our own.”

  The sisters looked disappointed. And they were very good at it; Antony felt immediate remorse for crushing their hopes. But he’d spoken only the pure truth. “Unless you believe your ‘some little connection’ can hamstring the Puritan whole of the New Model Army, it cannot be done. If Lune’s idea is some great enchantment to that effect, though—then by all means, tell me.”

  He knew the answer before Rosamund murmured a reluctant no. “We can tell you the details,” she said, “at least a few of them. But Lune’s asked for you in Berkshire. She needs your advice, and your aid in preparing her folk.”

  Antony tried to marshal his strength at the thought of the ride, and failed. He would have to visit the Onyx Hall before he went.

  Which meant he would have time for one other task. Antony had no direct way of stopping Mordaunt; Lady Dysart could write to the Sealed Knot, advising them against an armed revolt, but he had no illusions as to what that would accomplish. No, the only way to prevent a failed uprising would be to make certain Mordaunt knew it would fail.

  Which meant ensuring that it would.

  “Before I go,” Antony said to the Goodemeades, “there is one thing I must ask of you.”

  Heavenly Father, forgive me for what I am about to do.

  “There is a man named Sir Richard Willis,” he said slowly, “a member of the Sealed Knot—and a traitor. He is in communication with Thurloe on the Council of State. I will tell you what I know of Mordaunt’s plans; you, in turn, must make certain Willis knows it.”

  The little hobs paled.

  He clenched his jaw before going on, fighting down the sickness in his heart. “If the Council knows far enough in advance, they will prepare a response strong enough to forestall the rising. It is a lesser evil than letting it happen and fail.” Antony curled his fingers around the arms of the chair. Did he even believe his own next words? “We will restore the King to his throne. But not yet.”

  Rosamund swallowed, then nodded, not quite hiding her own hesitation. “That’s yours to say. We will give the help you need.”

  He was Prince of the Stone, even if the court of which he was Prince had lost its realm; it was his right to direct faerie involvement in mortal affairs. Lune trusted his judgment, and so the Goodemeades did, as well.

  Antony just prayed they were not wrong to do so.

  VALE OF THE WHITE HORSE, BERKSHIRE : July 31, 1659

  The grassy embankments of Uffington Castle sheltered the massed ranks of the invasion force with room to spare. They were not many, even now, with exiled courtiers, Berkshire volunteers, and what mortals Antony and others had persuaded to the cause. But Vidar did not have so many either; at their largest, faerie armies did not number a tenth the size of those mortals fielded.

  Lune hoped it would be enough. Raising her voice, so the wind would not carry it away before it reached Antony, she said, “You have trained them well.” The Prince was climbing the slope to her position on the embankment, with Wayland a step behind. “And you, cousin—you have worked day and night to equip our people. Name your boon, and it will be yours.”

  His shoulders blotted out stars when he stood next to her. “You have influence with mortals,” the King of the Vale said.

  Her stomach tightened in apprehension of what he might ask. “Yes.” “When you are in your realm again, use it on our behalf. Revive the duties the folk of this area once owed to us, before the Puritans grew in strength.”

  Her gaze flicked downslope, to the barely visible figure in the grass. “We will,” Lune said, with a glad heart. He asks no more than I would do, regardless.

  Antony did not comment. He was still trying to catch his breath after the steep climb. She swallowed the desire to dissuade him from coming; she would only fail, and anger him by trying. He had as much right to fight for their home as she did, and more need. Besides, he was their general.

  There was a distinct irony in that, given his hatred for the officers of the New Model Army. But he knew more of fighting than Lune did—which was to say, he knew anything at all—and while he lacked tactical experience, he was good at coordinating the advice from their two squad commanders. A barguest named Bonecruncher, one of the exiles, would lead one group with Antony, and Irrith would lead the other with Lune.

  Those two were down with their soldiers. I think of them as soldiers, now—not warriors. It was an odd thought for Lune, and a sign of the changes she and Antony had wrought. She only hoped they would be enough to surprise Vidar, and gain the
upper hand.

  Antony had his wind back now, and so she asked him, “What of the other uprisings?”

  His voice was pitched to carry no farther than the three of them. “Called off, for now. The Council of State has fortified the relevant areas; there are seven regiments around London alone, not counting the militia. Most loyalists—I hope all—have gotten word not to rise.” His jaw hardened, muscle ridging his skin. “The Council has put out warrants against a dozen Royalist leaders, though.”

  She would have put her hand on his arm, if he would not shrug it off. Antony had explained his reasoning, and it was sound. But the betrayal came no more easily to him for all that.

  Their army would stand alone—and hope they did not meet with those regiments.

  “The sun has set,” Wayland said in his quiet rumble.

  How he could tell its last sliver was gone, Lune had no idea; heavy clouds veiled the sky, and there were no bell towers out here to ring the hour. The gray light was a bit dimmer, perhaps, and the wind carried a cooler dampness. This foul weather masked their march, but it made for a grim setting.

  She nodded to Antony. “You should speak to them.”

  He shook his head, a faint smile lightening his countenance, though only briefly. “I am no great orator. What they need to hear from me, they have heard.”

  “Your modesty neatly shifts the task onto me,” she said wryly. “You, at least, once had schooling in rhetoric. But very well.”

  It was easy enough to charm her voice to carry; finding appropriate words was harder. “Good people,” she said, looking out over the motley assemblage of their army. “When first you came here, you were strangers to one another. Some have lived in this Vale since before the dawn of memory; others call London their home. Some are faerie, some mortal—and that is as it should be, for the Onyx Court embraces both in brotherhood.