In Ashes Lie (25 page)

“Is that what you have promised Ireland?” Lune asked. “That you will pressure me into greater support?” Her lip curled. “Of course not. You want what you have always wanted: the throne upon which you now sit. But you are not Invidiana, Vidar. You will never have the control she did.”

He was unperturbed. “I will do better than you, who cannot even control your own court.”

The doors swung open again. Lune did not turn; she would not show that fear. But she felt the tremors as heavy boots thudded against the marble behind her, and then all her attention went to a shadowed corner to Vidar’s left, where an enormous figure straightened and came forward into the light.

Kentigern Nellt, his giant form only barely constrained enough to fit into the presence chamber, halted with a vicious smile spreading over his ugly face. “Well done, brother.”

A pause—and then Sir Prigurd continued on past Lune, to stand at his brother’s side.

Pain lanced through her heart. Fully a dozen of her knights stood alongside the Scots and Irish, turncoats showing their true colors at last, but none of those grieved her like this one, which explained them all. New recruits, gathered over the decades since she took the throne, and all of them brought in by their captain, Sir Prigurd Nellt.

I should never have trusted him.

The giant she had thought loyal would not meet her eye; he stared shamefacedly at the black and white patterns of the floor. But he stood alongside his brother, and Lune did not know whether she wanted to weep or tear his throat out in rage.

She would have no chance to do either. “Kentigern wants blood,” Vidar said casually, standing. He had discarded the human fashions that curried favor in the Onyx Court, but not the black and silver he aped during Invidiana’s reign. One glittering, long-fingered hand smoothed the velvet of his tunic. “And he shall have it—starting with that mortal pet at your side. We have not yet decided what to do with you. It may be that her most gracious Majesty, the Gyre-Carling of Fife, will claim the right of your disposal. One English sovereign has died today; she may develop a taste for it. But all that shall wait until we have fully secured this palace. For now . . .” Vidar paused, ostentatiously savoring the words. “Take them both to the Tower.”

 

While Prigurd tied Lune’s hands behind her outside the presence chamber, Kentigern studied Antony with a cold, calculating eye. “He’s injured.”

“They escaped us at Whitehall,” Prigurd said, his voice a softer, higher bass than his brother’s. “Jumped off the roof.”

Antony stared fixedly past Kentigern, eyes hard over the gag muffling his mouth. If he felt fear, he did not show it. “Maybe we’ll wait,” Kentigern said. “Until he heals. No sport, otherwise.”

The amphitheater. It had seen bloody entertainments in Roman times, and would again. Antony would not last one pass against the giant—but Lune had no intention of letting that battle occur.
They’re taking us to the Tower. How well do they know it?
If their captors took them the right way—if she could buy even a moment’s freedom for herself and Antony—

She caught the bleak look in his eye, and shook her head minutely. A year ago, she never would have feared rash action on his part; Antony was not a rash man. Something had changed in him, though. Parts of him had broken, and more than just his old dreams.
I cannot predict what he’ll do.

Whether he recognized her warning, let alone accepted it, she could not tell.

Vidar called from inside the presence chamber, and Kentigern grunted. Clapping his brother on the shoulder, he went back inside, leaving Prigurd, Essain, and Mellehan to escort the prisoners to the cells underneath the Tower of London. Bound and outnumbered, with Antony wounded and Lune no warrior, they were little enough threat—but still, the meager escort told her something. Vidar might have Scots from Nicneven’s court and Red Branch knights from Conchobar’s, but he did not have enough to spare Prigurd a larger guard.

The giant knew it, and wasted no time. Lune’s skirts tangled her legs as she hurried to keep up, since she could not lift them out of her way. Essain’s rapier pricked the small of her back every time she stumbled. Antony, favoring his hurt knee, fared worse. Even if she
could
break free of this guard—

The gallery they were traversing fronted onto one of the lesser gardens, where some courtier was fostering a splendid array of tulips. From the brilliant, many-colored froth of their petals came a voice, singing tunelessly but with strength, in a voice that made the walls tremble and the tulips wither in their urns. “Plead my cause, O Lord, with them that strive with me: fight against them that fight against me. Take hold of shield and buckler, and stand up for mine help.”

The psalm broke harmlessly over Lune, deflected by the tithe, but the other fae cried out. Whirling, she saw Mellehan drop his rapier, and Essain staggered. Lune thrust her hip beneath his, and sent him stumbling into his companion. Benjamin Hipley, still singing, appeared from behind a dying bush. “Draw out also the spear, and stop the way against them that persecute me...” He had no patience for the tactics of gentlemen; his hilt-weighted fist cracked Mellehan’s head, and then he disarmed Essain and clubbed him in the neck with the pommel of his own blade.

A basso growl brought Lune desperately around. Prigurd had collapsed to his knees, one broad hand planted on a pillar, but before he could struggle up again, Antony was there. Supporting his weight somehow on his bad leg, he kicked out, with enough force to knock the giant sideways, then staggered forward and slammed the same boot down.

His knee gave out from under him, but the work was done; Prigurd lay senseless on the floor. Hipley cut short his psalm. “Your Majesty—Lord Antony—”

“Help him,” Lune said, jerking her chin at the fallen man, and Hipley rushed to unbind his hands and mouth. Only now did her heartbeat catch up to the sudden excitement, pounding hard enough to make her shake.
I should kill these knights.

It was a thought worthy of Invidiana. Vidar forced her back into those dark habits, the days when bloody ruthlessness was the only way to survive at court. Lune flung the notion from herself in revulsion. But half the Onyx Hall would have felt the force of Ben’s holy song; they had to move quickly.

Hipley came to untie her hands. Antony, supporting himself against the pillar, met Lune’s eyes again. More then twenty years they had reigned together; there were many things they need not say. “Go,” Lune told him. “Before they think to.”

“What of you?” Antony asked.

Her hands came free, and she chafed life back into her fingers. “Will you stay with me?” she asked their mortal spymaster, and Hipley nodded. “Vidar intends to take the Onyx Hall for himself. We must make certain he cannot.”

Antony’s sweat-soaked clothing froze against his skin the moment he levered himself up out of the flagstone-capped pit. He thanked God—or rather, the power of Faerie—for the charms that concealed anyone entering or exiting one of the passages from the Onyx Hall, replaced the flagstone, and staggered grimly away from the Billingsgate house, toward Lombard Street.

With the Queen and the Prince captured, would Vidar still spare a force to patrol the streets in disguise? Perhaps, depending on how many more he needed to subdue. And if he guessed their escape, then definitely.

He limped faster.

O Lord, Almighty Father—I beg of You, protect those I love. If that usurper struck at more than the Onyx Hall—if they harmed her while I was gone—

The house was quiet, with candles burning against the early winter night. Antony heaved himself through the clerks’ office on the ground floor and up the stairs, gasping. “Kate? Kate!”

No answer. His breath coming faster, Antony made for the next floor.
She could be out—

“Antony?”

Her clear, bright voice came from the top of the stairs. Then a sudden clatter as she rushed down them, slipping under his arm and supporting his weight. “What happened? I’ve been waiting—”

“Kate,” he said, pulling free of her so he could take her face in his numb hands. “We must leave.
Now.
”

She went perfectly silent and still. A hundred questions shouted in her eyes—what was wrong? Who was coming for them? What had he done? But her mind worked fast enough to recognize that if they were in danger, staying to ask why would only increase it. He loved his wife intensely for the good sense that made her say only, “Do I have time to prepare?”

I do not know.
But a modicum of practicality won through; if they fled without any preparation, the bitter January night would kill them as surely as the fae. “Essentials only. Warm clothing, and coin. We’ll return for the rest later.”

I only pray we can.

Shouts and the occasional feminine scream echoed through the stone reaches of the Onyx Hall. Perversely, they gave Lune hope. How many of her court remained loyal, she did not know, but it sounded as if Vidar was having to subdue more than a few.

Which meant he did not yet have the leisure to enjoy the spoils of his conquest.

She knew the faerie palace like she knew her own body, every passage and hidden door as familiar as her hands. Hipley, judging by the small noises that escaped him, never suspected the existence of half the paths they took. But otherwise he followed in silence, until Lune paused at what seemed to be a dead end.

She listened intently, but heard nothing from the other side.
Empty? Or a trap?

Waiting would not improve her chances. Holding her breath, Lune pressed against the wall, and it slid aside, silent as only charmed stone could be.

The chamber beyond already glowed with faerie lights, illuminating the gathered treasures of the Onyx Court. Jewels and boxes and stranger things, most of them gifted during Invidiana’s reign, half of them unknown to Lune. Reluctant to touch them, she had never taken the time to discover their various purposes. But she had no eyes for them now; all she saw was the figure in the center of the room, clasping something to her body.

Amadea Shirrell gaped at the sight of her Queen, standing in the opening of the secret door. She had time for only one undignified squawk before Hipley was there, one hand clamped over her mouth; the other controlled the hilt of the sword she cradled in her arms.

The main door to this, the innermost treasury chamber, was already shut. Lune, coming forward, kept her voice low. “Lady Amadea. Do tell us—what did you intend with the London Sword?”

Warily, Hipley unclamped his hand. The Lady Chamberlain gulped and whispered, “Your Grace—they are saying the Scots have overrun the Onyx Hall. If it be so—I could not let this fall into their hands!”

She slipped free of Hipley’s grasp and knelt, offering the blade to Lune, gripping it by the sheath. Amadea offered no resistance when Lune took it from her. Hipley’s eyes were full of doubt, but Lune knew Vidar as he did not. Amadea was not his chosen kind of pawn.

“Get yourself to safety,” she told her Lady Chamberlain. “The Onyx Hall is not safe at present—but we will rectify that, never fear.”

Amadea rose, curtsied, and fled through the opening by which they had come, closing it behind her.

“Was that wise?” Hipley asked, then added as an afterthought, “Madam.”

“Guard the door,” was all Lune said, and turned to the case from which Amadea had taken the sword.

The weapon rested ordinarily in a glass-fronted box on the wall, nestled in blue velvet. Showing none of the care she had before, Lune dropped the blade she held, and ran her fingers along the oaken sides of the case, whispering under her breath the key.

The whole structure swung outward, glass, velvet, and all, revealing a niche carved into the stone behind. In that recess hung another sword: the exact duplicate, in every respect, of the one Amadea had come to rescue.

Lune breathed in relief, and lifted the true London Sword from its concealment.

The Onyx Court had other crown jewels, but none of equal significance. This was the blade that, drawn from the London Stone, had made her Queen; with it in her hands, some of the terrible uncertainty she had felt ever since Charles’s death receded.
The Onyx Hall is still mine.
Whether simple possession of the Sword would grant Vidar sovereignty, Lune didn’t know, but she did not intend to find out. Let him take the decoy, and think himself the victor.

I will take that from him soon enough.

Belted over her dress, the Sword looked less than dignified, but it would be too easy to snatch from her hands. With it secured, she swung the case back into position, then replaced the false blade in its velvet nest.

Behind her, she heard a faint, choking gurgle.

Nothing more. No sound of the door, no cry from Hipley. But when Lune turned, she found Sir Leslic standing over the threshold, pinning the intelligencer to the wall by a knife through his throat.

“My hat is off to you, madam,” the golden-haired elf-knight said ironically, not so much as touching his velvet cap. “I move quickly, but it seems you have me bested.” He pulled the dagger free, and Hipley crumpled to the floor. “Two swords? Very clever. Perhaps I shall let Vidar have the one on the wall, and keep the one you hold for myself.”

He would be on her before she could reach the secret door, let alone close it behind her. Hipley twitched, choking on his own blood; she would find no second salvation there.

Drawing the London Sword, Lune said, “You know what that requires.”

“Oh yes.” Leslic unsheathed his own rapier, and smiled murder at her. Pain flared from the iron wound. “Believe me, madam—it will be my pleasure.”

Then a foot of bloody silver punched through the front of his doublet. “No,” Cerenel said from behind him, “It will not. This,
cur,
is for the humiliation you forced upon me.”