In Ashes Lie Page 3

  Neither of them had taken a sip of the wine. So much for lubrication. Setting hers down, Lune suppressed a sigh, and folded her hands across the front of her skirt. “What you desire is more direct manipulation, and that is not the policy of this court.”

  “Once it was.”

  She went very still. Here it came at last: the overt reminder. She had been wondering how long it would take, ever since his arrival after All Hallows’ Eve. This ambassador was willing to use more weapons than his predecessor had been. “Never under our rule. We will thank you to remember that.”

  The formal shift to the plural pronoun hit him like a slap. Eochu Airt smoothed the hair out of his face, then set down his own wine and crossed back to the chairs, where he retrieved his golden branch of office. “As you wish, madam. But I fear the Ard-Rí will not be glad to hear it.”

  “Tell our cousin Fiacha,” Lune said, “that we are not averse to cooperation. But I will not wrap strings around the mortal court and dance it like my puppet. I work for the harmony of humans and fae by more subtle means.”

  “Your Highness.” Eochu Airt answered her with a stiff bow and exited, leaving her alone in the privy chamber.

  Lune placed one hand against the silver-gilt leather covering the wall and gritted her teeth. Not well handled. Not well at all. But what could she do? The Irish were probably the only fae in Europe who missed the days when her predecessor ruled, when the Queen of the Onyx Court did not balk at manipulating anyone, mortal or otherwise.

  No, not the only ones. But the most vexatious.

  She had some sympathy for their desires. If her own land were overrun by foreigners, ousting those with ancestral claim, she, too, would fight tooth and claw to defend it. But this was not her fight, and she would not compromise her principles to win it for the Irish. Mortals were not pawns, to be shuffled about the board at will.

  Lune composed her expression and went back out into the presence chamber. Her courtiers murmured amongst themselves; no one would have overlooked the departure of Eochu Airt and his warriors. Some of them had even accepted gifts to solicit her on behalf of the Irish. Nianna, the silly fool, was flirting with a ganconer the ambassador had the audacity to bring, trading on her position as Mistress of the Robes. If Lune gave them half a chance, they would all be seeking her ear.

  She had no patience for it, not now. There were bathing chambers in the Onyx Hall, their waters heated by salamanders; perhaps she would go rest in one of those, and try to think of a way to mollify the High Court at Temair.

  But she did not move quickly enough. While she hesitated next to her chair, the door opened again, revealing a man more out of place than even the Irish. Sandy-haired, solid of build, ordinary as brown bread—and wearing a determined expression entirely at odds with the blithe amusements of the chamber. The usher raised his voice again. “The Prince of the Stone!”

  LONDON ABOVE AND BELOW: June 3, 1639

  Threadneedle Street was an unmoving snarl of carts, coaches, horses, and men afoot, so Antony turned south, seeking a path through the lesser crowds of Walbrook Street, and then the much smaller Cloak Lane, where the jettied upper stories of houses overhung the mud of the roadway. In the shadow of the Cutlers’ Hall, he placed one hand on the thick, pitch-coated beam that separated two houses, and splayed his fingers wide.

  Behind him, the people of London continued on their way, taking no notice of him—nor of the shadowed gap that appeared where none had been before, squeezing itself into the nonexistent space between the houses. Into this narrow aperture Antony stepped, turning sideways so his shoulders would not scrape the walls.

  When it closed behind him, he stood at the head of an equally narrow staircase spiraling downward, with only faint illumination to guide him. Antony descended, careful of his footing on the steps—not slate, nor limestone, nor Kentish ragstone, but a slick blackness found nowhere in the ordinary structures of London.

  For the realm he entered was no ordinary structure. It felt like another world, and so, in a sense, it was: London’s shadow, taken shape within the earth, and sheltering in its myriad of chambers and passages an entire faerie court, unseen and unsuspected.

  Except by a few.

  A vaulted gallery led out from the bottom of the staircase. Cool lights shone down from among the ribs that supported the ceiling, some wandering gently of their own will, so that the shadows shifted and danced. This place reflected the world above, but not directly; the Threadneedle entrance lay not far from him, though a goodly distance away as he had walked it. If Antony’s guess was right, he was near the place—and the person—he sought.

  A liveried sprite stood at a nearby door, confirming his guess. The creature bowed deeply, threw the door open, and announced in a voice far larger than his body, “The Prince of the Stone!”

  The sight that greeted him inside the chamber was a blinding one, an array of jewel-bright silks and fantastical bodies, sitting or standing at carefully-posed leisure. Long use had accustomed him to the splendor—but not to its centerpiece, the axis around which it all revolved.

  Lune stood by her chair of estate, with the alert, arrested posture of a deer. The elaborate curls of her silver hair still trembled against her cheek, for she had turned her head sharply just before the usher’s cry. They outshone the cloth-of-silver of her petticoat, and made the lutestring silk of her bodice and looped-up overskirt a richer midnight by comparison. Sapphires winked in her circlet, each one worth a lord’s ransom.

  Their eyes met; then he blinked, breaking the spell. A faerie queen was a powerful sight, however often one saw it. And he had been some time away.

  Lune came forward to greet him. A small furrow marred the line of her brow; she must be concealing a much larger frustration. “Antony,” the Queen said. Her voice rang purely, after the harsh clamor of the streets above, and she smiled to see him, but it did not reach her unsettled eyes. “I am glad for your return. Will you walk with me in the garden?”

  It suited his purpose well. Antony made his bow, then offered her his arm. Together they left the chamber, a small flock of her closest ladies trailing behind.

  The fae they passed along the way bowed out of their paths, deference offered to both the Queen and her mortal Prince. Antony had never grown entirely accustomed to it. His wealthy father had purchased a baronetcy when old King James created the rank and sold titles to prop up the Crown’s sagging finances, but a hereditary knighthood did not merit the kinds of courtesies offered to a prince. He had long practice at shifting between the two, but never quite ceased to find the honors strange.

  They came through a delicate arch into the night garden. Here, against all nature, greenery thrived; the efforts of dedicated faerie gardeners produced fantastical sprays of blossoms, and fruit out of season. Its proximity was one reason Lune preferred the lesser presence chamber to its more imposing counterpart, where her throne stood. She walked often along the winding paths, in company or alone, listening to musicians or the liquid melodies of the Walbrook. Antony himself found regrettably little time to enjoy it.

  A current eddied the stars above them as they stepped out into the cool, fragrant air; the constellation of faerie lights regrouped themselves into a tight mass, a counterfeit moon. “I take it something troubles you,” Antony said, and felt Lune’s fingers tighten on his arm.

  “Not something—someone. Would you care to guess?”

  He smiled wryly. “There are but two likely suspects. I shall guess Nicneven.”

  “I almost wish it were.”

  The sour response surprised him. Faerie Scotland was not a single kingdom, no more than faerie England was, and Lune had occasional trouble with the monarchs up north. The Gyre-Carling of Fife, however, was a constant thorn in her side. Nicneven made no secret of her hatred for this court and everything it stood for, the close harmony of mortals and fae. She had on more than one occasion threatened to kill Antony, or curse his family for nine generations.

  On the whole, his pref
erence was for Irish trouble. “I can guess the substance of it, then,” he said.

  Lune released his arm, going to the side of the path, where a lily bloomed in an urn. Its pristine white petals darkened into a bloody throat, and she stroked them with a fingertip. “One day some clever lad over there will get it into his head to murder Wentworth.”

  “They know better than that,” Antony said, alarmed. “If the King’s deputy in Ireland dies, it will go much harder for them.”

  “Oh, indeed—some of them know it. But all it needs is one hotheaded warrior, one goblin out to make mischief ...” Behind them, the flock of ladies hovered, like birds in jeweled feathers and elegant little masks. Lune sighed and continued down the path to a fountain, where she arranged herself on a bench, and her ladies perched themselves near enough to listen discreetly. “Eochu Airt said his masters at Temair had information I would desire. I shall have to find something else he wants in exchange.”

  Antony leaned against the lip of the fountain, palms flat to the cool marble. The water flecked his back, but his rose-colored doublet was of plain serge; it could survive a wetting. He had not dressed for elegance. “Wentworth isn’t popular at court. His relationship with the King is uneven; Charles does not entirely trust him, but still supports him, for he is one of the few effective men serving the Crown. There has even been talk of his making Wentworth a peer. But the Lord Deputy has enemies in plenty, not just in Ireland but in England, who do not like his influence over the King. His downfall might not be far away.”

  “Will that change anything for Ireland?” Lune’s question was clearly rhetorical. She scowled at the embroidered toe of her slipper for a moment, then fixed her attention back on Antony. “So what has brought you below? When last you were here, you said you wished to spend more time with Lady Ware and your new son. How fares he? Is he growing quickly?”

  Her distraction was charming. Children came so rarely to fae; they found the young of mortals fascinating. “Robin grows healthy and strong—no doubt thanks to your blessing.” Three children, and none of them lost to childhood illness. Antony knew more godly sorts would say he had sold his soul for those blessings, consorting with fae as he did. Seeing his family thrive, he thought it a worthy price.

  Lune’s eyes narrowed. “But you, it seems, did not come to talk about your son. What, then? You walked into the presence chamber with a purpose.”

  “An opportunity,” Antony admitted. “One that may sweeten your mood.”

  The ladies leaned closer to hear as he went on. “The war with Scotland does not go well. Charles has marched an army up there to suppress the Covenanters, but that army is falling apart at the seams, for want of money to hold it together. And so he has asked the City for a loan.”

  “Again?” Lune said, echoing his own response to Soame. “This begging has become habit, and unfitting to a king.” He couldn’t argue the truth of that. “But why bring you this to me? It won’t help matters to pay the loan in faerie gold.”

  “Of course not. My intent is not to pay it at all.”

  The Queen stared at him, silver eyes unblinking. Her entire image might have been cast from silver, and draped in darkest lapis. He waited while she weighed the repercussions. “I am sure you have your reasons,” she said at last, the statue coming to life once more. “You know the finances of the City better than I. But see the larger picture: failure to crush the Covenanters now will mean their stronger presence in the future. Too much of London is sympathetic to them already, and they are hostile to us.”

  Us had many possible meanings, depending on the occasion. Sometimes it was the royal pronoun. Sometimes it meant Londoners, above and below. This time, it was unmistakably the meaning in between: the fae of the Onyx Court. Nowhere in the world, that Antony knew of, was there a faerie city alongside a mortal one; the other kingdoms of the fae held their seats in places remote from human habitation.

  The Onyx Hall made it possible. That great structure, encompassing within itself chambers and passages as London did buildings and streets, sheltered them from the church bells and iron of the world above. But its inhabitants ventured above, too, and preferred to find the world they visited, if not friendly, then at least neutral.

  The hotter Protestants—Presbyterians and the independent-minded “godly,” whose enemies called them Puritan—were far from neutral. To such people, all fae were devils, and Scotland under their rule was a harsh and austere place. If their influence in England were to grow, the fae would suffer for it.

  Antony said, “I am aware. There is, however, another consideration.

  “The King is desperate of money. Already his judges and his lawyers have found every loophole, every obscure and unenforced statute that might afford him some revenue—ship money, distraint of knighthood; he even continues to collect tonnage and poundage, without the legal right. And still it is not enough.”

  Lune’s chin came up, and he wondered if she saw where he aimed. Though her face showed no identifiable age, she had reigned longer than he had been alive, and had been at the game of politics longer than that.

  “If he cannot get money from the City,” Antony said, “then he will be forced to convene Parliament.”

  A nightingale sang in a nearby willow tree. The ladies were too well bred to whisper amongst themselves while their Queen sat in silent thought, but they exchanged glances. Lune kept no one about her who did not understand at least the basics of mortal politics.

  At last she said, “Why bring this to me?”

  “For aid,” Antony said. She had not rejected the notion out of hand; it encouraged him. “When I said my intent was not to pay it, I spoke of the outcome I hope to see. But I think it will be a close decision. The Common Council will vote against it, but I should like to ensure the aldermen likewise decide against the King. Penington and others have little love for this war.”

  “Then arrange it yourself.” Lune rapped the words out like the crack of an unfolding fan. “Surely you have the means to convince your fellows.”

  Her sharp rejoinder took him aback. Straightening from his ease against the fountain, Antony said in mild tones, “If I had sufficient time, perhaps. But I cannot be both quick and subtle, and the King is not above imprisoning those who defy him.”

  Lune, too, rose from her seat on the bench. “You ask this of me-by influencing their dreams, I presume?” It was the most gentle method of persuasion, but Antony had no chance to say so before she went on. “For the sake of a refusal they might not otherwise give. But I am not convinced of your course.”

  Why did she resist it so unthinking? Fear of the Covenanters and their religion could not explain it all. Lune was protective of her fae subjects, yes, but she was also protective of England—

  Ah. Of England, and of the monarchy. Which she had once sworn to defend, many years ago, when an Englishwoman still sat upon the throne. Such rebellion to the will of the Crown would not sit well with her. But Lune was not fond of the man who wore that crown; she knew Charles’s flaws as well as Antony did. What she overlooked was how reluctance would serve England better than obedience would. “For ten years now, Charles has ruled without the advice of Parliament,” he reminded her.

  A sniff came from the cluster of listeners. Boldly, Lady Nianna said, “Her Majesty rules without need of a Parliament.”

  “Her Majesty rules a realm with fewer subjects than my ward,” Antony snapped back, angered at the interruption. Grimacing, he made a quick bow of apology to Lune. “England has many thousands of inhabitants—hundreds of thousands in the vicinity of London alone. One man, even advised by councillors, cannot fairly oversee so much. And Parliament, the House of Commons especially, has long been the means by which the people may speak, and make their needs known to their sovereign. But he discarded that tradition when it became inconvenient to him.”

  The Queen had stiffened at his reply to Nianna; now she watched him impassively. Antony hesitated, then played a dangerous card. “He would rule as you
r predecessor did—his will absolute, with none to gainsay him.”

  Anger flared in those silver eyes. “Do not make comparisons where you are ignorant,” Lune said, her voice cold. “You know nothing of this court in those times.”

  “I know what you have told me,” Antony said, meeting her without flinching. “And I know why you asked me to rule at your side, bestowed upon me the title I bear. So that we could work together for the benefit of all, both mortal and fae. Very well: I come before you, as Prince of the Stone, and tell you that London needs this. England needs this.”

  It was easy to be overawed in the presence of a faerie queen. The Prince was the Queen’s consort, though, and bore his own authority in this court. They had gone to loggerheads before, when Antony felt his duty demanded it; Lune had chosen him for that reason, because he would stubbornly defend the mortal concerns she might otherwise forget. Because she could trust him to do so only when necessary.

  He met her gaze, and did not back down.

  A faint shadow appeared along her jaw where a muscle tightened and then released. This confrontation might have been inevitable, but he could at least have arranged for privacy. It felt too much like coercion, asserting his rank before her ladies, forcing her to acknowledge his right to ask this favor. He would apologize for that later.

  “Very well,” Lune said at last, through her teeth. “We will see to it that those who waver are swayed against the loan.”

  The royal we, or the faerie one? Either way, he had what he wanted, though not gracefully. Antony offered her a sincere bow. “My thanks. In exchange, I will likewise do what I can to turn opinion against the Covenanters.”

  There was a gleam in Lune’s eye he could not interpret—anger given way to something like amusement. “Indeed you will. If this goes as you hope, and Charles summons a new Parliament, then we expect you to be there.”