In Ashes Lie

by Marie Brennan

  Bonecruncher stared.

  “Send it! ” Antony growled, and grabbed Dandelion. The sprite squeaked again, then fished in one of the cages at his belt. The moth he extracted fluttered on his fingertip as he whispered to it, then flew off with remarkable speed and purpose, to warn Pollikin of the ambush.

  Irrith had assigned Sir Peregrin Thorne to be Lune’s guide. Lost in her awareness of the Onyx Hall, Lune could barely see where she was going. But it didn’t matter; she had found an unexpected weapon, and was using it to the fullest.

  She could feel the fear from Vidar’s people, especially the Irish and Scots, to whom this place had never been home. Now it rose up to fight them. Working in concert, she and Antony blocked the paths of the defending knights while opening the way for their own, and a veritable storm of moths snowed through the passages, carrying commands to the different groups. Someone on Vidar’s side had set a salamander to hunt the moths, and half their messages were being crisped, but Lune and Antony both were almost to the great presence chamber, and they were winning.

  Not without cost. The Red Branch knights were unsurpassed as warriors, and some of the invading force lay dead. The elfshot of the muskets and pistols had claimed few lives outright, but it tore flesh and cracked bone where it struck, and that was not always in the enemy. We should have trained them longer.

  Her own group had grown to half a score, collecting other pairs that had split off and rejoined them. Now they were hurrying through the night garden, an incongruously bloody assembly among the quiet of the trees.

  Up ahead, a narrow bridge arched gracefully over the dancing Walbrook—until a roar and a surging form shattered it into pieces.

  Lune’s heart sank at the sight of the creature waiting for them. I hoped they would not have one... The fuath were water spirits, and not fond of leaving their homes. But Vidar or Nicneven had compelled this one south, and now it blocked their path, tainting the brook with its foulness.

  Irrith stared at the twisted alloy of goat and human shape. “What is that?”

  Lune could not answer her. All her attention was lashed to the presence chamber, the heart of the Onyx Hall. Antony was almost at its doors, and if he got there without her...

  “I must go,” she murmured, barely hearing her own voice. “I cannot afford to delay—”

  There were other paths across the Walbrook, but the fuath could move faster through the water than she could run. Irrith gripped the hilt of her sword more firmly and nodded to Angrisla. “We’ll cut a path through, as quickly as we can.”

  Desperation clawed in Lune’s gut. That will take too long—

  She felt more than heard the approaching hoofbeats. Tearing herself free of Sir Peregrin’s supporting arm, Lune threw her hand out and caught an insubstantial mane. With a wild twist of her body, she swung herself upward and over, and settled onto the back of the White Horse just as it gathered its hooves beneath and leaped.

  The fuath roared and clawed upward, but the sudden rush of the Horse took it by surprise, and its claws caught nothing of the half-material body. Lune’s teeth jarred together hard enough to break when they landed; then they were out of reach, past the Walbrook and running for the far entrance with terrifying speed.

  Fortunately, the passage on the far side was a lofty one, suitable for the giants of the Onyx Court, and the White Horse crossed from soil to marble without missing a stride. With a wrench almost as physical as the one that put her on the Horse’s back, Lune dragged her concentration inward, clearing her mind of all the rest of the palace. The presence chamber was just around the corner.

  As was Antony. Lune slipped from the Horse’s back at the corner, and the beast charged on without her. Whether it had any sense of what was going on, she couldn’t say, but it took the doors of the presence chamber at a dead run and slammed them open with all the weight of a charging stallion backed by the hillside that was his bed. The panels came half off their hinges, leaving Lune and Antony a clear view into the chamber—and robbing them of any chance to prepare.

  The invasion had taken Vidar by surprise. They knew that by how scattered his forces had been, dispersed around the Onyx Hall, and relatively easy targets for the fast-moving scouts of their two companies. But he was not stupid; he guessed who had come, and knew they would seek him out.

  Fully half a dozen Red Branch knights waited in gleaming array across the presence chamber floor. That much Lune saw, before they scattered like leaves in the face of the White Horse’s charge. They were great charioteers, the stories said, but the Onyx Hall was no place for chariots, and they were not expecting cavalry.

  Behind the knights, though, another figure stood his ground.

  A fist like granite slammed into the side of the Horse’s head, and this attack struck home. The Horse’s scream sounded almost human. All its speed went abruptly sideways, the white lines of its body flying into one of the fluted black pillars that arcaded the chamber’s sides.

  Kentigern Nellt’s answering growl shook the ceiling.

  Lune had arrived at the doors with no allies save the White Horse. Antony had a bloodstained Bonecruncher and a Berkshire goblin. She bore the London Sword at her side, and had learned something of its use during her exile, but the four of them did not stand much chance against the giant.

  She drew the blade anyway—and Antony stepped in front of her.

  Antony moved to protect Lune without thinking, drawing his last remaining pistol and firing. The giant was coming for them, advancing like an earthquake across the floor; he thought his shot struck home, but Kentigern did not so much as stumble. The Red Branch knights were recovering. Four against seven, and those four outmatched; their allies would not reach them in time. They had overreached themselves, and now would pay the price. Even if they retreated, the battered doors would not hold Kentigern for more than a heartbeat.

  The Onyx Hall had moved in their defense when they bade it.

  How far does that go?

  Antony spun, reaching for the hilt of the London Sword. He got Lune’s hand and the pommel, and forced the tip down. Throwing the full weight of his body behind the strike, he stabbed the blade downward, into the floor.

  Whether it was intuition or the rapport they shared through the Onyx Hall did not matter. Lune joined his motion as smoothly as water, and when the Sword pierced the marble, they gave the command together.

  With no more warning than that, the ceiling of the presence chamber gave way.

  The collapse felt like it snapped Lune’s own spine. Her scream and Antony’s were lost in the deafening thunder, until the dust cut them off. Choking and blind with agony, she fought to control what they had unleashed. The rain of stone stopped just short of where the two of them knelt, still gripping the Sword, but it was long moments before she felt safe to pry her hand loose from the hilt and ease the shoulder wrenched by that downward strike.

  The Sword stayed upright, wedged between cracked blocks of marble. Antony had released it, too, but he remained on his knees, gasping for breath.

  In front of Lune, the dust was slowly settling. The main weight of rock had fallen, as they intended, on Kentigern Nellt; of the giant she could see nothing, just an unmoving mass of stone. But some of the fragments had caught the Red Branch knights, who lay broken and stunned along the edges of what had been the presence chamber.

  Beyond them, she could just make out, through the dust, the silver shape of her throne.

  It was empty.

  She flung her senses outward, through the reaches of the Onyx Hall. Irrith and the others had defeated the fuath; Amadea’s group had secured the royal apartments; one by one, she identified the pieces of her army and her enemy’s, but nowhere in all those chambers and halls did she find the presence she sought.

  The invasion had taken Vidar by surprise. Knowing they would seek him out, he had gathered what forces he could to this chamber...

  ...and then fled.

  Bonecruncher was making sure the downed knights wo
uld stay down. Irrith entered just in time to catch Lune as she sagged. “Your Majesty!”

  Extricating herself from the Onyx Hall hurt, and left in its wake a roaring abyss of exhaustion. Speaking took all Lune had. “Vidar—fled. Chase him. Secure others. Take c—” Her knees gave out completely, and Irrith shouted for help. “Take care of Antony.”

  For while she had searched in vain for Vidar, the Prince of the Stone had slumped to the floor, where he lay as pale and drained as a corpse.

  THE ONYX HALL, LONDON: August 1, 1659

  “Her Majesty is not to be disturbed.”

  Amadea’s calm declaration angered Irrith far more than the lady deserved. “What happened to her?”

  The chamberlain adopted the discreet, infuriatingly polite expression that so many of the London court hid behind, instead of wearing their feelings plainly. “She is tired, nothing more.”

  “I’ve seen tired. That? Was something more.” The Queen was pale by nature, but she had been white as snow when she collapsed. And that mortal of hers...Irrith was surprised he wasn’t dead already.

  She clearly wasn’t getting past Amadea, who had placed herself at the door to the royal bedchamber like a silk-clad guard dog. Irrith took careful hold of her temper and said, “When she wakes, please let me know. Bonecruncher and I have things we must ask her about.”

  All she got was a nod—not even a promise. These damned London fae, Irrith thought. Now that they’re home again, they would be glad for Wayland’s people to vanish.

  Scowling, she went out into the corridor—and promptly got lost. The moment the battles were over, her mind had discarded its map of the Onyx Hall, as if it wouldn’t be needed anymore. The place was stifling to Irrith, capped with stone everywhere she turned, and she kept thinking about the mortals who walked not far above her head. She wanted to go up and see the City, but she had nothing to protect herself, and Lune had made it abundantly clear how dangerous it was to go around showing her true face.

  Besides, she wasn’t sure how to get out.

  Her wanderings took her at last into an area she recognized. Irrith had been here twice, first when they launched the invasion, then again when she and others helped Bonecruncher herd their prisoners into the cells beneath the Tower of London. A black-haired elf-knight glared wordlessly at her through the grate in his cell door, and she shivered. What Lune was going to do with these captives, she had no idea. Murdering them all seemed a bit excessive—but then, so was keeping them locked away for eternity.

  That one giant might just grieve himself to death, in the cell he practically filled on his own. Which would save the Queen some trouble.

  The dungeon was too gloomy. Irrith wandered with determination, forging on despite her complete loss of direction, passing goblins and pucks and courtiers, none of them her own people, none of them with particularly friendly faces. When Lune awoke, Irrith decided, she would hand over what she knew about the prisoners, then ask for a bite of bread to get her home. Once clear of the City, she wouldn’t need to worry about mortal charms against fae—and she belonged back in the Vale.

  She turned a corner and found herself confronted with a pair of nearly identical brownies hauling a basket almost as big as they were. “Good day,” one of them gasped out, smiling through her breathlessness. “Would you be a dear and help us carry this? To the garden, I should think—”

  “To start with,” the other one agreed. “We can unpack it there and have people take things where they’re needed. Come along; it isn’t that heavy, just too large for us—there’s a darling. You’re stronger than you look! Oh, you have it all, how wonderful. Follow us now; you look a bit lost. From Berkshire, are you?”

  Bemused, and not entirely sure how she ended up bent beneath their basket like a snail, Irrith followed the two curly heads toward the garden, wondering who they were.

  THE ONYX HALL, LONDON: August 3, 1659

  Bolsters and pillows propped Lune up like an oversized doll, allowing her what semblance of dignity was possible when Gertrude was spoon-feeding her beef broth. She tried to ignore the childlike helplessness of her condition while she listened to Irrith’s report.

  The Berkshire sprite had trailed in behind the Goodemeades like a duckling picked up by two mother hens, scant minutes after Lune awoke. Some intuition of the brownies’ must have sent them her way at the right moment, for she was ravenous, despite crippling weakness that made eating a herculean task.

  Amadea wanted her duties to wait, and the sisters agreed with her. But Lune could not delay; already she had lain unconscious for two days, and only thanked fate that her enemies had not staged some counterattack while she was incapacitated.

  She owed thanks to Irrith and Bonecruncher, who had brought things admirably under control. Some of the Irish and Scots had escaped, but the traitor courtiers were imprisoned, and they were the ones who worried Lune the most—aside from Vidar, who had slipped their grasp.

  “There are two asking to see you,” Irrith finished. “An elf-knight and a giant, uh—”

  “Sir Cerenel and Sir Prigurd,” Rosamund supplied, when Irrith floundered for names. “Sir Prigurd is begging your mercy.”

  The beef broth churned uneasily in Lune’s stomach at the memory of his betrayal. Or perhaps not; the cause might be her own handling of Cerenel.

  Prigurd would have to wait. She had to appear strong when she faced him. Cerenel, perhaps, should also wait—but that was expediency talking, not honor. She had already kept him too long.

  Even Irrith argued against that one, but Lune insisted; in the end, they gave in because it was the quickest way to get her to rest. Then there was the question of who would be present for that audience. Lune wished it to be private, but she had to admit she did not trust what Cerenel’s response would be. And if he turned against her, she would be helpless.

  Not the Goodemeades. Neither of them was a warrior, and she had endured too much of their silent disapproval over the oath she forced on the knight. She chose Irrith instead, who cared little about Onyx Court politics, and would be going back to Berkshire soon. “Keep behind the arras,” Lune said, “and as silent as you can. You are for security only, in case all should come to the worst.”

  Irrith, to her credit, asked no questions. And when she was concealed, even Lune could not tell she was there. Soon Sir Peregrin Thorne escorted the prisoner knight into the chamber, bowed, and exited.

  Leaving Lune in private with the one fae she had wronged most in all this war.

  He was thinner than he had been—or perhaps it was just his manner that made him seem raw and hard. He stood like a hooded falcon, blindly obedient, but capable of murder if unleashed.

  “Sir Cerenel,” Lune said, putting what strength she could into her voice. “In ancient Mab’s name, I release you from your oath.”

  He jerked in surprise. She had framed a number of speeches to preface the declaration, during the long minutes while she waited for him to be brought, but in the end it was nothing more than fear. If he felt any charity toward her still, then he would wait and hear what she had to say, even once unbound. If he did not, then all the prologues in the world would not change that.

  His eyes burned violet as his chin came up, as if her words had loosed the chains that held his fury in check. She saw his lips part, his balance shift, as if he almost spoke, almost moved. But it seemed he had no words, and did not know what he wanted to do. She took advantage of his hesitation to speak on.

  “You served your penance to me when first I sent you to Fife. Returning you there was a decision of politics, not honor. You were the tool I had to hand, and therefore I used you. Speaking as Queen, I do not apologize; had you not gone, I might not have learned the Lord of Shadows’ identity, and suffered all the worse for my ignorance. But speaking as a private individual—I have wronged you, and forced your loyalty too far.”

  Cerenel found a voice at last, strained and unmelodic. “Yes. You have.”

  Lune concealed the pity she
felt; he would only perceive it as an insult. “Your position in the Onyx Guard is restored to you, do you wish it. Moreover, I will grant you a boon of your choosing—reparation for the service you have done. You have but to name it.”

  The knight stood motionless, head bowed, black locks falling forward in disarray. Finally, meeting her eye once more, he said, “I wish only to leave this place, and make my home elsewhere.”

  Sorrow gripped her heart. Be honest—you hoped the handsome-ness of your apology would reconcile him to you, and make all well again.

  But some hurts cannot be undone so easily.

  “You are free to go,” Lune said. Despite herself, a waver marred the words. “Wait but a moment without: I will have someone bring your possessions, and enough bread to see you safely on your road.”

  His body stiffened, as if he almost bowed and stopped himself. Silently, he turned and left the chamber.

  Lune closed her eyes and let her head sag back against a pillow. Exhaustion had drained her to the bone once more, but she could not rest quite yet. “Irrith?”

  The faintest of rustles told her the watching sprite had stepped out. “Yes?”

  “Please give Sir Peregrin my command. And when you have done that...”

  She was not a private individual. She was the Queen, and must do what was necessary.

  “Tell the Goodemeades to have one of their birds follow Sir Cerenel. I must know where he goes.”

  THE ONYX HALL, LONDON: August 7, 1659

  Irrith did not have to ask where to find Lune, when the Irish ambassador sent her in search. The Queen still rested for long hours each day, and spent most of her waking time handling the myriad of tasks involved in rebuilding her court, but when she couldn’t be found in her chambers or public rooms, she was invariably in one other place.