He said only, “You have my oath to God that those I am about to lead you among intend you no harm, and that furthermore, should they offer any, I will hazard my own life to protect yours. In exchange, I would ask—but ask only—that you offer no violence in return. We do not go against your brother’s murderer, for we do not yet know who he is; those you will see are allies, who may be able to aid us in our search.”
Ware’s lip curled in disgust. “What value lies in the sworn word of one such as you?”
Henry had said once that his brother was not a passionately religious man. Deven still believed it; the question did not sound like the doubt of a godly Puritan, but rather the distrust of a grieving soul. Nor was it surprising: given the antipathy Christian things held for the fae, Ware might well doubt Deven’s oath.
As security, all he could offer was his own grief. “I have already lost Henry. If only for his sake, I would not endanger you.”
The young man gritted his teeth, but nodded at last.
Deven took him to the St. Nicholas Shambles by Newgate, for it was among the least alarming choices; he did not want to see Ware’s reaction to being swallowed by the alder tree entrance. It was the same route by which Henry had come, two years before, and if any sympathy could attach to Antony by following in his brother’s footsteps, Deven welcomed it.
Lune would not approve. Not in the slightest. But for thirty-five years, authority over the mortal affairs of the Onyx Court had been Deven’s to wield. He rarely acted on his own, any more than Lune determined faerie matters without consulting him…but this once, he had to gamble.
They crossed the dirt floor of the cellar. Between one step and the next it shifted from dirt to marble, and the black walls of the Onyx Hall.
“What the devil?” Ware exclaimed, and steel rasped across leather as he pulled his sword free.
Deven turned to face him—slowly, with his hands relaxed at his sides. He knew better than to startle an armed man. Any more than he had already. “There is no threat to you here, Master Ware. Eat and drink nothing, of course; faerie food does have its effect, just as the stories say. But Henry was not the only mortal to come among them, nor am I. You are a stranger here, and for that they may stare and whisper—but they respect my title, and will not trouble anyone I bring with me.”
Antony stood wide-eyed through this entire speech, and Deven was not certain the boy had absorbed more than one word in three. Had Henry said anything of Deven’s title? Likely not, but now was not the time to explain. Gently, Deven said, “Will you sheathe your sword?”
For a moment he thought Ware would refuse. Then Antony blinked, like a man coming out of a waking dream, and put the blade away. His face had the obvious rigidity of a mask, as if he refused to let anyone see further astonishment from him. It was one thing to know of the fae, but another entirely to step into their world.
Their world alone was strange enough. Neither weight nor a shortage of funds bound the ceilings to the earth; they curved upward in pointed arches, sometimes ornamented, sometimes austere stone. Deven, seeing the palace through Ware’s eyes, cringed at the ever-present black, which gave their surroundings an ominous cast. But his true apprehension was reserved for the court’s faerie subjects: with Deven leading Ware by public ways and no goblin to clear their path, they could not go far without encountering someone.
He exhaled in relief when it came. A lubberkin. Could be worse. The creature was dwarfish, and his joints might have been assembled by an apprentice who had not heeded his model, but his wide face was more comical than intimidating. “My lord,” the lubberkin said, and bowed to let Deven pass.
He saw the puck note Ware with a narrowing of the eyes. ’Twill be all over the Hall before the hour is up. The fae were terrible gossips.
It would not slow the rumours any, but Deven said, “Bear word to the Queen that I crave her company in my study.” Better that than dragging young Ware into the presence chamber, or the night garden, or wherever else Lune might be at this hour.
The lubberkin bowed again and ran. “’Tis not much farther,” Deven said to his guest, embroidering the truth only a little, for reassurance.
For the first time since his exclamation, Ware spoke. “Anne of Denmark has lain dead these six years. And Henrietta Maria, though wed, is not yet crowned.” His throat shifted, and then he said, “You meant some other Queen.”
“I did,” Deven agreed. “A gracious and gentle lady, who holds as her foremost concern the well-being of the mortals of England. If she be not in conference with some adviser or ambassador, you will see her soon.”
Yes, he thought, watching Ware take in those words, they have their advisers and ambassadors. They are not so different after all.
Which was a lie. There were differences, and they could be profound indeed. But better for young Ware that he should see kinship, not foreignness.
They reached the relative security of Deven’s study. The only faerie there was his servant Podder, a hob scarce as tall as Ware’s hip and ugly as old leather; he had prepared the room, setting out chairs by the fire, and pouring two cups of wine. Deven’s own stock, taken from the world above, and safe for any mortal to drink. But he hardly expected Ware to believe that, and so he waved the hob away, wine and all.
Fast as Podder must have run to reach the chamber before them, he scarcely outpaced Lune. She entered before Deven could even begin considering how to fill the silence, and she came in alone. Of course: the lubberkin could not have failed to recognise the family resemblance, and Lune knew enough of Henry to guess what that meant.
She was not in formal apparel, but she still made an impressive enough sight, with opals and sea’s tears in her slender coronet, and the smooth gait that made her seem an airy being, hardly physical at all. Ware stared at her. After ten heartbeats he was still on his feet. The silence stretched out for another ten, Deven reluctant to break it with the customary words of courtesy, until Ware at last said, “I will not bow to you.”
Human royalty, raised in the assurance of privilege, might have been offended; Lune’s pride was not so fragile. “You are welcome among us, Master Ware, whether you bend knee or not. I am sorry for the loss of your brother.”
“What was he to you?”
Honest sorrow tinged Lune’s voice as she said, “Our hope of the future. Henry was two years among us: more than enough time to call him friend.”
The sorrow was calculated, but not contrived; Lune could lower the mask of her composure when it served her purpose. And the gentle note of her grief might temper Ware’s defensive hostility. But not immediately, for the young man said, “And what price that friendship? What did he surrender to you?”
“Nothing,” Lune said, spreading her gloved hands. “We laid no snare for him, Master Ware. He came and went freely. We only gave him what he desired: a source of wonder in his life.”
The young man glared at her. “So too would the Devil speak.”
Deven winced. “We took nothing from Henry. If you like, I will swear that, too, with a holy book beneath my hand. But not here, where it would cause her Grace much pain.” Lune had undoubtedly swallowed a bite of mortal bread before entering the room, in case she needed its protection, but Ware need not know that.
“Swear rather to give me his murderer,” Ware said violently. “Or was that merely the bait to lure me, as your promises of wonder lured him?”
“No bait.” It was like speaking to a growling dog: a level voice, no sudden movement, and always watching to see if the dog would bite. Deven wondered if Lune had guards outside the chamber, in case Ware’s hostility turned to action. “’Tis a player’s trick I have in mind…but it may work, with your aid. Tell me: do you think you could counterfeit Henry’s manner? His carriage, his habits of speech?”
He expected Lune to see where he struck; what surprised him was the speed with which Ware arrived at the same conclusion. “You think to deceive the guilty party, by the imposture of his ghost. But I am not so l
ike him as to be mistaken for such.”
“And so we have come here,” Deven said. “Faerie arts can give you the appearance of your brother, and you have the familiarity necessary to carry it off. There are two most likely of guilt—not themselves murderers, but who would have given the order. With her Majesty’s aid, we can contrive instances for them to encounter you here, and thereby provoke from them some sign.”
It worked in plays. Deven had some hope it would work here. The dead were a familiar thing to the fae, who discoursed with them on All Hallow’s Eve; the guilty courtier would be unlikely to blurt out a confession at the sight of a ghost. But they needed no confession. Only a hint to guide them in the right direction.
Young Ware was still struggling with the notion of letting a faerie lay any charms upon him. Lune said, “The Prince and I will spare no effort in this endeavour, nor flinch to punish the guilty, once found. Murder of any kind is abhorrent to me, and the murder of a mortal ally, doubly so; but Henry’s death goes far beyond that. We must ensure this does not happen again.”
The boy’s attention returned to her, and for the first time Deven noticed what he should have seen from the start: that Antony Ware met Lune’s gaze without flinching. Her eyes might have been two new-minted shillings, a pure silver never seen among humans, and most mortals found their shine disconcerting. If Ware shared that apprehension, he showed no sign of it.
Instead he asked, “And the price for this?”
“None,” Deven said, knowing no sensible human would believe it from a faerie. “Nor any consequence to you afterward. Think of it as paint, such as an actor wears upon the stage. Once washed off, it is gone forevermore.”
Ware’s body had tensed again, as when first he confronted Deven, with his hands curled tight into fists. But this time, the cause was not anger: he stood as a man at a precipice, nerving himself for the leap.
“Do it, then,” Antony Ware said. “For my brother.”
Arr. A riotous youth,
There’s little hope of him.
Sab. That fault his age
Will, as it growes, correct.
—I.i.106-8
The Onyx Hall, London: 29 July, 1623
Henry’s laughter bubbled out of him, his cards momentarily forgotten. “You cannot be serious. Immortal creatures, the very air they breathe the stuff of enchantment—and they care what drunkard James and his ministers do?”
“Not all,” Deven said, gesturing for his friend to continue the game. “But her Majesty, yes, and many of those she keeps about her. Less for the King and his ministers in their own persons; I think what personal loyalty Lune felt died with Elizabeth.” For a myriad of reasons, he suspected, ranging from the kinship of one Queen for another, to the simple fact that Elizabeth had been English. “They shape the fate of England, though, and for that she cares a great deal.”
“But she does not live in England,” Henry pointed out. He made a careless discard, then sank back into his chair. “She has her own realm. And you yourself speak of worlds, this one separate from ours.”
He was not entirely wrong. They sat in one of the Onyx Hall’s smaller gardens, surrounded by a careful pattern of tulips, ordinary flowers alternating with stranger breeds from other faerie realms. The mortal flowers, lovely as they were, sat motionless; the faerie blooms gently flexed their petals in the still air. They did not hail from the same soil, and it showed.
Deven said, “Not separate. The fae have more distant realms, to which that word might be applied; when a story or song tells of a man riding to Elfland or a mariner coming upon a strange island in the sea, that is Faerie itself. But the hollow hills, and the hidden glens, and this palace here—those stand adjacent to our own land. The Onyx Hall is part of England; ’tis London’s shadow. And that has a certain consequence. The roots of Lune’s sovereignty lie in this place, but I have often suspected that even her ordinary subjects feel a similar bond. They rarely travel, you know.”
“But they have ambassadors, you tell me.”
Deven smiled. “I said rarely, not never. It may well be that those fae who crave a change of place volunteer themselves for such tasks; I have never asked. And, of course, those who dwell in this court once came here from somewhere else.”
Henry grinned as he pondered Deven’s most recent move. “Like rural knights, coming to London for Parliament, but always pining for their country homes.”
“Worse,” Deven said, feelingly. “We humans are nothing on the fae for such attachment.” Strangers had arrived in the years following Lune’s accession, curious about her new ways; thirty years on, many of them still spoke as if they were only visiting. Once converted, though, they were steadfast.
“So they care what happens to England because they’re connected to it?”
Also because it gives them a game to play—one that endlessly changes. “They helped thwart the Armada, back in Elizabeth’s day,” Deven said, studying his cards. “And the Duke of Buckingham is not the only one providing James and his ministers with reports on the situation in Spain, these endless negotiations over Prince Charles’ wife.”
Henry made a sound of disgust. “Buckingham. He will sink those negotiations, right when they should have been concluded.”
It was the popular opinion, but also uninformed. “Spain has no intention of concluding anything—not until the Second Coming or Charles’ conversion to papistry, and I know which one they hope to see first. Buckingham is the Prince’s steadfast shield against the seductive arguments of the priests. And Spain, in the meantime, is doing its best to ignore the question of the war in the Palatinate, and James’ pleas for aid to help the Elector regain his throne there.”
Henry’s eyes widened, and for a second time the cards were entirely forgotten. “But without Spain’s aid, what do we gain from taking a Catholic viper to our bosom?”
“Very little,” Deven admitted. He laid down his cards and reached for the wine. “If this marriage collapses, we may be the better for it—save that Charles is twenty-two and yet unmarried, with his father ailing, and the succession not secured beyond that single heir.” Dangerous words; in the world above, to speak of the King’s death—even as a possibility—could be accounted treason. But Deven had not steered the conversation in this direction out of mere idleness.
Valentin Aspell had a mortal client in the Onyx Hall, the bastard son of a baron. Lady Carline had her own candidate. And they were not the only ones putting men in Lune’s path. But in two and a half years of searching, Deven had not found anyone he favoured more to succeed him than Henry Ware.
The young man wasn’t perfect. Henry was politically naïve; he took most of his opinions from the likes of Robert Penshaw, who was more than happy to influence an impressionable mind. Lune depended upon Deven—upon the Prince of the Stone—to keep her informed of the mortal court and its doings, and that required a mind that would not be swayed by every eloquent gentleman who opened his mouth.
But Henry had his own merits. He had a good place at court, and—thanks to his father’s wealth and connections—every chance to rise higher. He also made friends easily, both here and in Westminster, which laid solid foundations for alliance.
And Lune enjoyed his company.
That last consideration, perhaps more than any other, persuaded Deven. If I must contemplate surrendering my place to another, I would rather it not be the cut-throat protégés the others put forward. He could trust Henry to have a care, not just for England, but for Lune’s happiness.
The politics could be learned. That could not.
Now Deven was the one neglecting his cards and the ongoing game. “If her Grace would help England,” Henry said, apparently oblivious to his distraction, “then she should contrive Buckingham’s downfall. He is corrupt beyond the telling of it. And who can say what he has been whispering in Charles’ ear while they gambol about Europe?”
“Lune can,” Deven answered him, grinning. “Her knight Sir Adenant is among their train.” r />
Henry’s eyes widened. “A faerie knight—riding with the heir to England’s crown?”
“Not that any among them know. ’Tis a risk,” Deven acknowledged. “Lune sent him with a goodly supply of bread, but Charles and Buckingham have been in Spain long months now—far more than anticipated. Adenant has been forced to negotiate with the Spanish fae for protection, at no little cost to this court. But Charles is, as you say, the heir. If he insists on being mad enough to put himself into Spain’s hands, she must do what she can to protect him.”
Fingers playing across the petals of a faerie tulip, Henry mused this over. “They say he is mad, for love of the Infanta.”
As mad as any twenty-two-year-old man might be, unwed and constrained by both position and personal inclination from the kind of dalliances that might blunt the edge of his desire. “Mad enough to leap a garden wall, at least, for a glimpse of his promised wife. But the journey itself? ’Twas a matter of diplomacy, more than passion. Charles went—and James allowed him to go—because they hoped it might tip the balance, pushing Spain into agreement.”
Henry snorted, and that was comment enough.
“And now Spain keeps him,” Deven said. “The latest word is that he will depart at the end of August. Lune hears a great many disturbing things about the promises the Spanish offer, to keep Charles there without Buckingham at his side, but neither man has much trust for such promises any longer. As for your original point…” He had to smile, ruefully. “I have no great love for Buckingham, but his corruption is of the same sort found in every great lord and minister; his venality differs only in degree, not kind. And, no doubt, ’tis hated in greater proportion because he began so low. But he is beloved of both James and Charles, which promises a modicum of stability that will serve England well, when that day of transition must come.”