Lune swore foully. “Not at their posts? I gave orders to guard the entrances! Sir Prigurd is still outside—” They were a ragged procession, hurrying through the maze of galleries that led to her throne room, but it mattered little; there were no courtiers out to see. Ahead were the double doors, open for her already. “I do not know what our pursuers intend—”
The answer awaited her inside.
“Hello, Lune,” Ifarren Vidar said, from his comfortable seat on her throne.
THE ONYX HALL, LONDON: January 30, 1649
The bony, long-limbed fae looked like a spider, one arm and one leg draped over opposite sides of the silver throne. He sat without the cold grace of its former occupant, but his pale skin and black hair were all too similar; for one wrenching instant, Lune saw Invidiana.
She could not control her flinch, and it widened Vidar’s smile. Laughter came from the faerie lord’s right hand, breaking the spell; Lune realized Sir Leslic was standing with drawn sword, displaying a smile more like a snarl. Antony’s seat had been knocked down and shoved to one side, its cushion slashed in half. Leslic’s fellow prisoners also stood free, ranged about the dais.
That much Lune saw before she spun. But the doors were already swinging shut, and Essain was there, his sword leveled at her breast. “Do not, your Majesty.”
Mellehan still supported Antony, but with a dagger at his throat, while a goblin knotted a gag across his mouth. Lune met the Prince’s eyes briefly, and saw the confusion and horrified disbelief there. She could not answer him. Instead she pivoted back to face Ifarren Vidar.
Doing so, she marked for the first time the fae who stood along the walls of the presence chamber, beneath the silver filigree and crystal panels of the vaulted ceiling. Some—too many—were knights of her own Onyx Guard. But others…
Vidar’s narrow face split into a merciless smile. “Did you think the Scots my only allies? You have disappointed the Irish terribly, Lune. So many broken promises, so many missed opportunities. They desire an Onyx Court that will not hesitate to use every tool at its disposal.”
Nicneven lacked the might to attack. But others did not. Red Branch knights: Ulstermen, led by Eochu Airt. The former ambassador was there, standing well back from the drawn swords, out of possible danger. Now she understood why he had left her court. This had been planned for at least two months, and likely longer than that. But by Temair itself, or only King Conchobar of Ulster?
Surrounded by swords, and yet politics are all I can think of. Because they were the only weapon she had. Drawing herself up as if she cared not a rush for the blades all around her, Lune made herself meet Vidar’s gaze.
She had never known where he came from. Lune was not certain if he was even English. But the rumor was that he fled his original court after his ambition earned him the wrath of his lord, and she believed it. Ifarren Vidar would do anything to gain power. This was only the latest attempt—and, she feared, the most well laid.
“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.”