In Ashes Lie (53 page)

Jack set the dented rim to his lips and drank.

It tasted of shadows and secrets, hidden knowledge to tantalize the mind. He shivered and sweated at once, feeling the wine as if it went, not into his stomach, but the marrow of his bones. Beautiful, and terrible; somehow both bitter and sweet at once. Too much for a mortal palate, but from the first drop he craved it, tilting the cup back, gulping greedily, like a drowning man gulping for air, filling his mouth until he almost choked.

And then the cup was empty, and he gasped, his heart pounding in his ears.

I would sell my soul for another taste of that wine.

Perhaps I just did.

Lune reclaimed the cup, handing it back to the Lord Keeper, who bowed and retreated. She’d warned him of this, when she admitted he must bind himself to them to become Prince of the Stone. One cup only; henceforth, all his food and drink would be gathered from above, or made in a fashion that rendered it safe. Too much destroyed a man, she said. Jack could believe it.

“You carry now a touch of Faerie,” Lune said. He became aware again of the watching eyes, the audience that had vanished when the wine reached his lips. They smiled now, in a way he did not entirely like. “We create you Prince of the Stone, and co-ruler of our realm. Hail, Lord John Ellin.”

As a body, the watching fae knelt, repeating her final words. Lune stepped close and kissed him once, chastely, her lips cool against his. She tasted of Faerie, too, and Jack restrained himself from opening his mouth hungrily to hers. This would take more strength of will than he had realized.

Then she took his hand and turned him so they faced the chamber together. “Our realm is whole once more,” Lune said, and the fae dutifully cheered.

The Prince is dead,
Jack realized, grieving for his fallen friend.
Long live the Prince.

The dazed look in Ellin’s eyes, the hectic flush of his cheeks...oh yes, he was bound to them now. It called forth a sharp pang in Lune’s heart, of mixed fondness and grief, remembering the men who came before him. Michael Deven stumbled into this life through love, but Antony Ware had chosen it knowingly—or at least as knowingly as any man could. And John Ellin had done the same. It gave reality to her own choices, the presence of a mortal at her side: one could be accident, or even two, but tonight a third Prince walked the realm, and what might seem a whim had become tradition.

Not all of her subjects were pleased, of course, but they swallowed their objections for now. The celebration was in raucous progress, both here and in the Moor Fields north of London’s wall, where the fae had taken over the grassy meadows and sheltering trees for their May Day festivities. Dawn was yet some hours away, Ellin’s coronation having been carried out just after midnight. Soon enough, they would go above together, and join the courtiers who pretended to like her choice.

First, however, there was one more task to carry out.

They stood alone in the great presence chamber, the bronze doors closed and barred. Around them, the stone reflected back every minute noise, ghostly and faint. “Now,” Lune said, “we shall make you Prince of the Stone in truth.”

Ellin’s eyebrows rose. “How foolish of me—I assumed all that ritual had meaning.”

“It did,” she agreed. His sharp-edged tongue would make their years together interesting, however many those turned out to be. “All of it was necessary, I assure you. But we are not yet done. What I held back, I did for good reason—for this is the most closely kept secret of our realm.” And therefore not something to share with him until she was sure he would not flee.

She beckoned him to follow her down the echoing expanse of marble. Once on the dais, Lune gestured for Ellin to position himself to one side of her throne, while she took the other. He gave the massive silver an extremely dubious glance, and she smiled. “It is not as heavy as it looks.”

Which was not to say it was light; he grunted as they slid it forward. But the grunt turned into a speculative breath, as he saw the opening behind the throne’s back. “I wondered why it stood against the wall.”

“Come and see,” Lune said, and went through.

The alcove behind was scarcely large enough for the two of them, and the wooden platform that occupied most of the floor. Above it, from the unadorned ceiling, hung a scarred and pitted block of limestone, with grooves incised deeply into its surface.

Ellin let out a half-laugh. “Is that—”

“The London Stone. Or rather, a reflection of it. I would explain to you its presence here, but showing is easier. Come.” Lune mounted the steps. The platform put her high enough that the Stone hung just above her head, within easy reach.

Her companion was taller; he could knock his head against the Stone if he was not careful. “Please don’t tell me I have to kiss it. I fear too much that it might also carry a reflection of the filth above.”

She smiled again. A sharp tongue, but an amusing one. “Not at all. Simply give me your left hand, and place your right upon the Stone.”

He bent to give her a wary look. “That’s all?”

“That is all.”

After a moment’s consideration, Ellin shrugged. “I should hardly balk at a simple thing like that, given what else I’ve done this night.” Their left hands crossed beneath the Stone. His palm was dry and bore few calluses, as befit a gentleman, and he held hers with ginger care.

Lune mirrored him as he raised his right hand, and they laid their fingers on the Stone together.

“What in the name of—”

The exclamation was enough to draw the disinterested attention of a constable, standing where Walbrook and Dowgate crossed Cannon Street, but after a moment the man continued on his way, swinging his lantern as he went. Other than that, the lane was deserted. And the London Stone, like all entrances to the Onyx Hall, concealed in some measure those who passed through it.

Lune stifled a laugh as Jack Ellin peeled his hand loose from the limestone, as if from a block of ice. “That—”

She let him absorb it for a moment. The London Stone was the linchpin of the Onyx Hall, and touching it communicated a great deal about the palace’s structure and nature. They could have stayed below, but she wanted him to see as well as feel that connection, the way the Stone anchored itself into the earth and then reflected below. Here, it did not seem like much—an unremarkable block along the south side of the street, half-buried in the dirt—but it was the key to everything. The Onyx Hall would not recognize him as its master until the Stone knew his touch.

Finally Jack said, breathlessly, “You could warn a man.”

“But words would cheapen it,” Lune said, letting go of his other hand. “I am sorry for the surprise.”

“No, you’re not. You enjoyed that.”

She could feel the ease between them now, the connection that bound them through their shared realm. It was unlike what she had shared with Antony, as it would be unlike her bond with his successor, whoever that might be. Each mortal felt slightly different, like the same note struck on a variety of instruments.

Jack shook his head as if to clear it, opened his mouth, and choked on a sound. Lune nodded. “It will fade; you have my word. In time you will be able to call on your divine Master again.”

He swallowed, like a man swallowing his own tongue. When he could speak, he said, “I suppose I’m grateful it’s Tuesday, then. That gives me time.”

The reminder of religion put Lune on edge. She was vulnerable, out here; she had not wanted to go through the coronation and this ritual while shielded against mortality. Soon, though, a bell might ring, and there was iron enough to make her shiver regardless. And they were expected in Moor Fields.

Holding out her hand again, she said, “Shall we go back down? Our escort awaits us there.”

“Your Majesty,” Valentin Aspell said, “an ambassador has arrived, and begs a grant of safety while he delivers his message to you.”

Safety? Lune’s curiosity came alight.
I can think of few who would need to
remind
me of the safe conduct owed an embassy. And Valentin looks like he’s swallowed a wasp.
“An ambassador from where?”

The Lord Keeper bowed, as if afraid she would strike him for his answer. “From the Gyre-Carling in Fife.”

It startled her more than angered. Startled, and somewhat encouraged: since when did Nicneven send ambassadors? Unless this was some diversion, meant to distract from an attack elsewhere—but that was the sort of thing Vidar would have planned, and he was firmly out of the Unseely Queen’s reach. “Is the ambassador
here?
”

Valentin shook his head. “He waits beyond the border of your realm, and sent a gruagach in his stead.”

Politeness, even—or perhaps just prudence. Either way, the surprises continued. “Grant him passage,” she said, “and have him meet me...” Where? The great presence chamber would be the best place to awe him, but that would also make it far more public than she wanted. “In the lesser presence chamber. Have it cleared; we shall speak in private. No sense giving rise to more rumors than we must.”

Bowing, Aspell began to retreat. “Also,” Lune said, before he could vanish out the door, “send word to Jack Ellin, requesting his attendance.” He needed more seasoning in politics, and she had every intention of forcing the Fife ambassador to acknowledge the Prince’s existence. Just because Nicneven had chosen civil conversation was no reason for Lune to back down from those things the Gyre-Carling most hated.

With the Lord Keeper gone, Lune flew to her preparations, summoning her ladies to help her change into a more formal gown and adorn her curls with a crown.
Sun and Moon, I hope Aspell’s messenger tells Jack what is afoot, and the man has the sense to dress for it.
Surely he had learned that much already.

She knew to a nicety the time it would take a traveler to reach the wall from any northern approach, and the distance to all the closest entrances. Lune might have insisted on meeting the ambassador above, but beginning with an insult would hardly be auspicious—and besides, there was little to gain in hiding the doors to her realm. Nicneven knew them all by now.

Examining her own thoughts, Lune found in them no small amount of fear. Attacks, she understood and anticipated; the Gyre-Carling was trying something new. She had no idea what to expect from this.

Jack was waiting for her in the chamber, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps someone had taken clothes to him, for he had changed with tremendous speed. “Do you recall what I told you of Nicneven?” she asked, settling into her chair of estate.

He recited the basic facts back to her in a crisp tone that concealed any nerves he might feel. The man’s memory was well trained; he missed nothing. “Do not hesitate to speak if this ambassador says anything touching on the people of London,” Lune said when he was done, “but beyond that, I expect to handle this myself. The ambassador
will
acknowledge your presence, even if I must force him, but I doubt he will deign to speak to you.”

A hint of relief was in his nod. And that was all they had time for; Aspell entered, received Lune’s nod, and threw the door open. “From the Gyre-Carling of Fife, her ambassador, Sir Cerenel.”

Only her preformed determination to keep a serene countenance, no matter what happened, kept Lune from staring. It was no trick: her own former knight entered, approached the dais, and made his formal bow. To them both, she saw; whether it was in his instructions or not, Cerenel included Jack in the reverence.

“Be welcome to the Onyx Hall, Sir Cerenel,” she managed, and he rose. “We hope you are well?”

“I am, your Majesty.” He, too, must have resolved before coming that he would keep the whole encounter polite. Did he feel hostility toward her? Bitterness? Fear? The violet eyes showed no hint.

He had bowed to Jack; Lune decided to press that. “You have not met John Ellin, who is now Prince of the Stone.”

A slight tightening of Cerenel’s lips, maddeningly unreadable. “I had heard that Lord Antony died. Please allow me to offer the compliments of my condolence for your loss.”

His
condolence; not
theirs.
So Nicneven had not been replaced by some soft-hearted human changeling. Oddly, Lune found it reassuring. She made the expected reply to his words, and indicated subtly to Jack that he should do the same; the physician exchanged empty courtesies with the knight, while Lune tried to glean any further clues from Cerenel’s manner. He dressed as a Scot again, but that might not mean much.

Or it might mean a great deal. Why was
he,
of all fae, Nicneven’s ambassador?

Cerenel at least did not keep her wondering long. “Madam,” he said, “my lord—I have been sent hither to bear you a message from my Queen.”

The phrase stung, even though she expected it.
Nicneven is his Queen now.
“We are pleased to receive it,” Lune said, and waited.

“She bid me say this: that although there has been much strife between your two realms, she will lay that aside and offer you peace, in simple exchange for the person of Ifarren Vidar.”

Not a demand. An offer. Trade. Jack was alive with curiosity; he knew Vidar’s name, but not all the tortuous details of that war. The man’s thirst for knowledge never ended, but now was not the time to sate it. Lune said to Cerenel, “You understand the cynical response this occasions, I trust. Nicneven’s hatred preceded Vidar’s arrival at her court. Why should she relinquish it now?”

A faint smile ghosted across Cerenel’s lips. “If I may speak plainly, madam—this very matter is why I begged her Majesty to send me as her emissary. I understand your suspicion. But the Gyre-Carling is a creature of passions, not politics. Her hatred was born the day the mortal Queen of Scots died, manipulated onto the scaffold in part by the machinations of this court. But Charles Stuart is dead as well, and her revenge complete; what cares she any longer for such matters? Her hatred now is reserved for another.”