In Ashes Lie (33 page)

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.

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.

“Ifarren Vidar would see mortals dance to a faerie tune. Failing that, he would destroy one of the greatest works of both our kinds: the Onyx Hall, shadow of England’s mightiest jewel. He would prostitute himself to foreign powers, solely for his own gain.”

She walked a dangerous line there; many of the Berkshire folk were so provincial as to barely recognize themselves as English, and to such minds, the London fae were nearly as foreign as the Irish. Lune swept on, before they could consider it too closely. “But more than that, we tell you this:
in nine years of trying, Vidar has not made himself King.
He may claim the title all he likes, but the Onyx Hall does not recognize him as its master. We name him now for what he is: a pretender, a usurper to a throne that is not and never will be his. I once struck to remove a Queen who claimed power that was not hers; now I go again, to right a second wrong. I am the rightful Queen of the Onyx Court, and Lord Antony is its Prince. All who fight at our side shall find a welcome reward, when the realm is ours again.”

It was not a speech deserving of epic memory, but it did its job well enough. The gathered soldiers cheered, from the elf-knights in their gem-bright armor down to the twisted goblins and capricious pucks, and the sky answered with a rumble of thunder.

Turning to face Wayland, she found herself looking past him, and an idea sparked in her mind. Grand gestures had their place, on a night such as this. “One more favor, cousin, if I might beg it of you.”

He nodded.

“I should like to borrow your Horse.”

The faerie steeds carried them faster than any mortal could go, the ground whipping below at a pace that threatened to leave Antony’s stomach behind. Fortunately, he saw little of it; the thick clouds served as cover, hiding the faerie host that shot through the sky like a flight of arrows.

He rode pillion, his arms wrapped around Lune’s waist, for the White Horse would not answer to any mortal’s hand. Their mount unnerved him more than their speed, or their height in the sky. He had never been in Berkshire when the Horse left its hillside to feed, and while he knew the story, he had imagined—foolishly—that it would be an ordinary white horse.