The Onyx Court had other crown jewels, but none of equal significance. This was the blade that, drawn from the London Stone, had made her Queen; with it in her hands, some of the terrible uncertainty she had felt ever since Charles’s death receded. The Onyx Hall is still mine. Whether simple possession of the Sword would grant Vidar sovereignty, Lune didn’t know, but she did not intend to find out. Let him take the decoy, and think himself the victor.
I will take that from him soon enough.
Belted over her dress, the Sword looked less than dignified, but it would be too easy to snatch from her hands. With it secured, she swung the case back into position, then replaced the false blade in its velvet nest.
Behind her, she heard a faint, choking gurgle.
Nothing more. No sound of the door, no cry from Hipley. But when Lune turned, she found Sir Leslic standing over the threshold, pinning the intelligencer to the wall by a knife through his throat.
“My hat is off to you, madam,” the golden-haired elf-knight said ironically, not so much as touching his velvet cap. “I move quickly, but it seems you have me bested.” He pulled the dagger free, and Hipley crumpled to the floor. “Two swords? Very clever. Perhaps I shall let Vidar have the one on the wall, and keep the one you hold for myself.”
He would be on her before she could reach the secret door, let alone close it behind her. Hipley twitched, choking on his own blood; she would find no second salvation there.
Drawing the London Sword, Lune said, “You know what that requires.”
“Oh yes.” Leslic unsheathed his own rapier, and smiled murder at her. Pain flared from the iron wound. “Believe me, madam—it will be my pleasure.”
Then a foot of bloody silver punched through the front of his doublet. “No,” Cerenel said from behind him, “It will not. This, cur, is for the humiliation you forced upon me.”
Leslic opened his mouth—to reply, to scream—but never had a chance. Cerenel’s dagger hand flashed around, and blood cascaded from the traitor’s throat.
The tip of the London Sword threatened to waver as the knight pulled his rapier free and let Leslic’s corpse drop. Lune had no more notion of how to fence than she did of how to conduct a Catholic Mass: she had seen it done, but had no capacity for it herself. Perhaps it’s time I learned.
No goodwill warmed Cerenel’s eyes when he looked up. The oath bound him, but it could not command his heart. I should not have forced him, Lune thought. I have made of him an enemy, too—though one who must fight on my behalf.
She wanted to apologize for the necessity that had trapped him in Scotland these long years. She wanted to release him from his oath. But the latter would free him to turn on her; she could not afford such mercy. And the former, on its own, would be a mockery.
“You should go, madam,” he said with cold formality. “Vidar’s forces are moving to control the entrances; soon you will not be able to leave.”
Only those he knows of. Lune prayed she was right, that three remained a secret known only to a few. Regardless, she should hurry.
Stepping past Cerenel, she put her fingers to Hipley’s neck, but knew the answer before she did. “One more favor I will ask of you,” she said to the oathbound knight. She didn’t want to command him, but he was the only tool available to her now. “See to it that this man receives proper burial. Do not let Vidar’s people have him.”
“As you command, your Grace.” He bit the words off.
She would not force his loyalty any further. Lune waited until he was gone with Hipley’s body, then slipped back into the secret passage, the London Sword at her side.
THE ANGEL INN, ISLINGTON: January 31, 1649
The group that gathered in front of the hearth was a small one, and dismal. Lady Ware waited upstairs, unaware that her husband sat in a faerie house below. The necessary tales had been told; now Lune sat, exhausted and blank, realizing the enormity of the disaster.
Charles dead. Herself dethroned. The two should not be connected; that bond was severed back in Elizabeth’s day. But the execution of the King cut far deeper than any faerie pact, into the heart of England itself. She could only guess at the consequences.
Guess, and try to find a way forward. But her mind refused to stir.
“There will be others,” Rosamund predicted, after a painfully long silence. “Loyal to you, that is, not—” She paused, blinking away tears for Ben Hipley, then went on. “Lady Amadea, for one. They’ll know to come here, as you did.”
“All the worse,” Antony said. His voice was harsh from weariness and suppressed grief. “Everyone knows this is a place of safety. It will not be long before Vidar thinks to look here.”
“We can turn him away—”
Lune shook her head, finding the energy to speak once more. “No, Rosamund. Your pretense of innocence will not be enough, not this time. Even if Vidar believes you outside of court politics, he knows my people will come to you. The only safety is for him to find no one here.”
Silence again. Even the crackling of the fire seemed subdued. Gertrude twisted her hands in her apron and said, “We can hide you—but that isn’t what you mean, is it?”
Lune stared into the flames. The London Sword lay across her knees, a heavy reminder. It must not fall into Vidar’s hands.
She’d been thinking in immediate terms since she fled Westminster. Evade pursuit; escape Vidar’s trap; protect the London Sword. But the immediate moment was past, and she could no longer avoid the truth.
“Whatever courtiers escape,” she said, “whoever is still loyal—they will not be enough. As we are…we cannot retake the Onyx Hall.”
Retake. Cold acknowledgment: she had lost the palace.
Gertrude’s breath caught. In her peripheral vision, Lune saw Rosamund touch her sister’s hand. There was nothing they could say. In one disastrous day, she had lost a war on two fronts; she had failed in every way as a Queen. She could protect no one, not Charles, not her subjects—not even her Prince.
Against her will, she lifted her gaze to meet Antony’s.
The strain showed on him, not just of this night, but of the years that brought them to it. What mortal wars and Army arrest could not manage, the faerie invasion had accomplished in a single night: it had driven Antony from his home. And it had very nearly killed him.
Once, Lune would have staked her life on his loyalty. But now…
If he leaves, I will not stop him.
He took a deep breath, and she saw him force weariness aside, taking up the duty that lay before him. “Then we must find you allies.”
MONDAY SEPTEMBER 3, 1666
The Battle for the Stone
All through the night, London’s riverside has lain under the glow of a false dawn. Drifting smoke obscures the stars, and hides for a time the sun’s true approach to the horizon. But the day at last blooms gloriously bright, the firmament arching perfect blue over the Hell below.
At Queenhithe, men scurry like ants, frantically clearing the market square that sits at the harbor’s northern edge. Their defense at Three Cranes failed in the night, but now they have a second hope. Here, they need not tear down houses to make space; here, they may be able to check the Fire’s progress.