In Ashes Lie (17 page)

Oat bread. Poor stuff, but not surprising; the wealthy of London were much more strongly Puritan than their lessers, and spared little thought for the fae, except to term them devils in disguise. If the pattern continued, she would have to find other solutions to this chronic shortage.

From behind her, Carline whispered, “Your Grace—what if it no longer works?”

Lune turned back to see the lady on her feet, dark hair tumbled around her face in a cloud, framing her dead white skin. “What—what if their faith has grown so strong—”

“I doubt it,” Lune said coolly, cutting her off before she could go further. Before she could give strength to the fears already spreading outside the chamber door. “More likely an error on the part of whatever goodwife placed it out. Perhaps the local minister came by and blessed the house. Lady Amadea—” Her chamberlain curtsied. “Ask among the court; find who else has that bread, and confiscate it.”

“They will complain, madam.”

And if she did
not
confiscate it, they would complain she failed to protect them. “Replace it from my own stores. And bring me what you find.”

Leslic stood attentive at the foot of Carline’s bed. Not putting himself forward, not offering his aid; he had learned that pushing gained him little. But always ready to help, yes.

That was why Lune had given the task to Amadea.

I have nothing but instinct—yet it has served me well enough in the past. And instinct tells me this trouble is his doing.

Certainly other troubles were. Lune resisted the urge to press one hand over her shoulder, where the iron wound ached. Still not fully healed, and it never would be. The pain was a useful reminder.

Unfortunately, she could not ignore Leslic entirely; the slight would be all over court before the next meal. Drawing him aside, she murmured, “Stay with Carline, and give her comfort. Else she will dwell on this incident, and worry herself sick.”

The knight bowed his shining head.
Comfort
would probably involve the bed Carline once more swooned upon, but so much the better. It might blunt his advances toward Lune herself, at least for a while.

She could not put any warmth into her countenance as Leslic went gallantly to Carline’s side. His Ascendants had disrupted Puritan conventicles, in such a manner as to direct the blame toward Royalist sympathizers; they found it great sport, to watch the mortals fight amongst themselves. Lune kept watch on all the entrances to the Onyx Hall, forestalling any repeats of Taylor’s attempted destruction, and had Antony more closely guarded than the Prince knew, but some of Leslic’s schemes she allowed to play out, cringing at the need, because they revealed the threads of the web in which he sat.

But perhaps it was time to end it. She knew his allies, his resources, his methods of communicating with Nicneven and Vidar. They were preparing for some final move, she had no doubt, to hamstring the treaty with Charles; civil war was not enough, when they could depose the King entirely. Leslic’s troublemakers would be crucial to their plans. What profit remained in keeping him at her side?

Very little. Perhaps none. And that meant that, at long last, the time had come to dispose of the golden Sir Leslic.

Antony’s shoulders ached with tension as he rode north out of the City. Peace stood so close he could taste it; all they needed was this treaty with the King, restoring him to his proper place. But if the Army and its Leveller supporters staged some rebellion, it might all yet fall apart again.

To forestall that, he worked with one hand in each world. During the day, he ate, breathed, and slept Parliamentary affairs, struggling alongside others to maintain a strong enough alliance to oppose the Army’s officers in the Commons: Henry Ireton, Oliver Cromwell, and all the rest.

At night, he turned to the faerie folk for help. And tonight, that meant riding to Islington.

On horseback, it took mere minutes to reach the Angel Inn. He had to bribe a guard to let him through Cripplegate; the curfew on the City was much more stringent than usual. Come daylight, though, he would need to be back in Westminster. He was missing a debate regardless, as once again the Commons ran late into the night.

His destination was not the Angel, but an enormous, tangled rosebush that stood behind it, resisting even the thought of being trimmed back. Antony concealed his horse in a stand of trees and crossed to the bush, which offered up one stubborn blossom, despite the dreary autumn chill. “Antony Ware,” he murmured into it, and reached into the leather purse he wore over his shoulder.

While he pulled a cloth bundle out, the branches shifted and wove themself into a thorn-studded archway over a set of battered steps leading downward. Treading carefully in the hollows worn by untold feet before his, Antony descended into the Goodemeades’ home.

Rosamund was waiting for him in the comfortable chamber below. “We heard your pigeon, my lord,” she said, offering him a curtsy. “I’d be happy to look at what you have.”

Fae had several advantages over mortals when it came to secret communication, among them the usefulness of pigeons. Antony had no need to tie a message to its leg; the sisters conversed with birds as easily as with him.

He unwrapped his bundle and held a small hunk of rye bread out to Rosamund. She had put on a glamour, making herself the height of a short woman, instead of a child. The brownie pinched off a bite and chewed it thoughtfully. “Hard to say,” she told him once she had swallowed, “but I fear you may be right. Shall we test it?”

Not in the house, certainly. They went back to the open air, and for safety’s sake into the trees, where his horse dozed—a more sensible creature than him. Rosamund folded her hands expectantly. Antony hesitated. “If our suspicions are correct—”

“I’ve lived through worse,” Rosamund told him stoutly. “Sing away, my lord.”

He would not sing; the brownie had offered herself up for enough without suffering his inability to carry a tune. Instead he spoke softly.

Once, right after he bound himself to the Onyx Court as Prince of the Stone, the words had fled his tongue, silenced by a faerie touch. Even now they did not come as naturally as they had in his boyhood. He had to exert his will to say, “Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost. As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.”

Rosamund was ready for it, and so she did not cry out. But she stiffened, and her entire body shook; and when it was done shaking, she was the size of a child again, and swaying on her feet. Antony caught her and lowered her gently to the cold dirt. His cloak, flung around her shoulders, made her look even tinier, but Rosamund gripped it gratefully.

“No,” she said in a valiant imitation of a light tone, “I don’t think it’s working.”

His prayer was a common one in the Church of England, nothing drawn from a more Puritan faith. But they did not have to look to such arcane causes for an explanation. “That bread,” he said grimly, “was passed on to Lewan Erle from one of Sir Leslic’s closest followers.”

The little hob’s normally pink cheeks were pale from more than moonlight. “She will never just throw him out. You’ve not been at court, my lord—too many people admire him, since he saved the Queen. Lune dares not be thought capricious, casting him down when he’s enjoyed so much favor. And she hesitates to scheme against him; it reminds her too much of Invidiana.”

The old Queen. Lune rarely spoke of her, but at times Antony felt as if her black shadow still darkened the court and all its doings. Even Lune herself—simply by her resolution not to be like her predecessor. “She will have to do
something,
” Antony said. “Others have seen their protections fail; they fear to go into the streets at all. Nicneven may have at last found a way to destroy everything the Onyx Court stands for.”

“Not just Nicneven,” Rosamund corrected him. “Vidar.”

“Yes, this ‘Lord of Shadows.’ ” The name twisted in his mouth, warped by anger for the damage the creature had done. Not just to the Onyx Court, but to the world above it; Antony would never know if civil war might have been avoided, had Vidar not taken every opportunity to deepen the bitterness and rancor that divided England from itself. “Lune speaks but little of him. Why such hatred between them?”

“I will tell you,” Rosamund said, “but not here.”

Reflexively, Antony glanced about, searching the nighttime woods. “Is someone watching?”

The brownie grinned with more of her usual cheer. “No, but I’m freezing my rump off. Come inside.”

He helped her to her feet, glad to see that smile return, and they went back down into the sheltering warmth. Gertrude was attending Lune at court, and so they had the comfortable home to themselves. Rosamund returned Antony’s cloak with thanks and stood warming her hands at the fire. “Vidar,” she told him, “was a lord in the old court.”

“One faithful to Invidiana?”

“Not in the least! He was ever searching for ways to sell her out to her enemies, and claim the throne for himself.”

Antony pulled off his gloves and rubbed his hands over his shortened hair. “So he envies her for doing what he could not.”

Rosamund frowned. “That, but also other things. We, er—
used
him at the end, when the overthrow came. And it made him very unwelcome among the other faerie Kings of England. Last we heard, he’d gone across the Channel and found a place in the Cour du Lys, where they do not love Lune either.”

But now he was in Scotland, and helping to destroy what he could not have. Always Scotland: the clashes there had precipitated Charles’s crisis nearly a decade ago, and now the Army was rabid to prevent the Presbyterian terms the Scots wanted in the treaty with the King. Though Ireland, to be fair, was an equally fruitful source of trouble.

Sighing, Antony rose and said, “And this trick with the bread is his latest treachery, by way of Sir Leslic. Clever. I can only hope that when I confirm it to Lune, she will rid herself of that snake, before he can harm us further.”

“Oh, don’t you worry; I’ll send her a mouse.” Rosamund eyed him critically. “You look about done in, my lord. Sit down, and have a restorative draught before you go.”

The
restorative draught
would be mead—it was always mead, whatever ailed a man—but Antony did not object. “Thank you,” he said. He would take his rest where and when he could find it.

The group that gathered in the antechamber was not a merry one. It rarely was, even in happier times; All Hallows’ Eve did not evoke laughter or the casual flirtation that occupied many fae. But this year of all years it was grim, for London was filled with godly zeal, and the traditional protections seemed to be failing.

Which made it all the more vital to go out. The old practices of the night had largely died at the Reformation, but faerie-kind kept their own ceremonies. Those souls who lingered after death, rather than fleeing to Heaven or Hell, occupied a realm not far removed from that of the fae, and on this night each year the two worlds touched. Forgoing the rituals of the night would only encourage fear.

Thirteen stood in the chamber, ranging in rank from Lune and her knight-protectors of the Onyx Guard down to a trio of tough-minded goblins—a mara, a hobyah, and a fetch.
They
showed no apprehension, and grinned at those who did. Goblins were far from the most elegant of fae, and so were often scorned at court, but at least Lune was sure of their loyalty.

As she was sure of the disloyalty of others.

She felt a shiver in her bones as the churches of the City above rang out the midnight hour, the peals of their bells washing harmlessly over the charms that kept the palace safe. At one end of the chamber loomed the dark archway that would take them to a courtyard off Fish Street. Some of her more timid courtiers cast frightened glances in its direction.

Serenely, as if she had no fears in all the world, Lune said, “Come, Sir Leslic. The bells have rung.”

The golden-haired knight bowed and took up a coffer of faceted amethyst. Kneeling, he presented it to Lune, lifting the lid to reveal the carefully portioned pieces of bread within.

The bells had faded; all was silent, inside and out. Lune reached forth and took a piece. But she did not lift it to her lips; instead she looked at it curiously, then transferred her attention to the still-kneeling knight. “Tell me, Sir Leslic,” she said. “Is the plan merely for us to suffer the consequences of walking unmasked in the mortal realm—or do you plot something more? Do Puritan preachers wait above, to strike our souls to dust?” Her voice hardened and rang out from the chamber’s barrel-vaulted ceiling. “For what purpose do you offer us untithed bread?”

He almost dropped the coffer. Leslic’s head came up with a jerk, and for the barest of instants she saw his eyes unguarded. There lived the truth she had guessed at all this time, and her stomach tightened with sudden terror. If he acted upon it—

But Leslic was nothing if not a practiced dissembler. “Untithed bread, your Majesty? What—” Now the coffer did go down, cracking hard against the stone as he surged to his feet. One hand gripped his sword, but he kept his head well enough not to draw in her presence—not without better cause than he had. “Guards! Someone has attempted to deceive the Queen’s Grace!”

Lune stopped the knights with a sharp flick of her hand. “You speak it well,” she said, “and we might even believe you—had we not proof.
You
are the author of this deceit, Leslic. We have evidence in abundance. And, not content with the fears you have spread among our subjects, now you strike at our very heart.”

A snap of her fingers, and the goblins were there. The mara had the belt from around Leslic’s waist before he even knew it, his still-sheathed sword clutched in her bony fingers, and the fetch grinned maliciously into his eyes. It was only a death omen for mortals, but even a fae might shudder to see such a smile.