But the quiet grated on her. Farmers lived in the Vale of the White Horse, and there was a village within easy reach, but she felt terribly isolated out here, with only the Berkshire fae and the remnants of her own small court for company. She had few dealings with mortals. Even a glamour only helped so much, when the laws against vagrancy meant any traveler was looked upon with suspicion. And so along with her freedom, she had ignorance: she was utterly dependent on others to keep her informed, as the world passed her by.
The still air was broken by hooves, beating a dull rhythm on the chalk-and-flint lane that passed near the mound and its concealing trees. If it was not who Lune expected, he would ride on by—or if he did not, she scarcely cared. The humans knew the tales of this place. But the figure who rode under the arms of the beeches was familiar, for all it had changed.
The sight of Antony Ware brought unexpected pain. Where once his association with faerie kind had slowed his aging, now it seemed to speed it. All but exiled from the Onyx Hall, he’d lost at least two stone, and most of the color from his hair and beard. The shoulders under his buff coat were raw bone, and after two hard days of riding, his hands shook on the reins.
She would not insult him by pointing out the obvious, though. Lune took the reins and steadied his mare while he dismounted—a real mare, not a transformed faerie. “Leave a silver coin,” she said, attempting humor, “and you’ll find her shod ere we are done.”
“Even I cannot be at two tasks at once.” The voice came from behind her, a deep, friendly growl. For such an enormous man, Wayland moved far too silently.
The King of the Vale did not look obviously fae; at first glance, he seemed nothing more than a brawny blacksmith, with muscles cording his arms and straining his plain leather tunic across his chest. But Lune offered him a respectful greeting, never forgetting she owed this royal cousin her present sanctuary.
Wayland acknowledged her with a nod and gripped Antony’s arm familiarly, then bent to scratch between Teyrngar’s ears. “We have food for you within,” he said to the exiled Prince, “safe for you to eat.” Which meant some puck had stolen it from a nearby farm. But the fae here, never hardened by the old ways of the Onyx Court, were willing enough to do some good in return; Lune trusted the farmer had woken to find his house swept bare of dirt, his cows fed and milked.
It was the old way of things, simple and familiar, even though Lune herself had not dwelt in the countryside for an age. Wayland plied his hammer for any mortal brave enough to come and pay his fee, and though they were fewer with every passing century, his name was yet remembered. Who remembers me?
Fortunately, she had reason enough to put aside such self-pitying thoughts. “Your advisers have gathered,” Wayland told them, unperturbed by any consideration that a king should not play messenger. Social distinctions were another thing that was simpler out here. “They wait on you.”
“We will be there presently.” She had one thing to ask Antony, though, before they went in. When Wayland had left them, Teyrngar frisking at his heels, she said, “What change?”
In all matters but this, she would not hesitate to speak in front of their advisers. But they had uncovered one planted spy and one suborned puck in the past, and would not risk this detail reaching Vidar. “He is still blind,” Antony said, tethering his mare where she could graze, and pulling the saddle from her back with a grunt. “He tears the palace apart in search of the London Stone, but he has not found it, and he does not know what will make it answer to him if he does. He thinks this mortal partnership of yours nothing more than a foolish fancy.”
Tiny points of tension unknotted in Lune’s back. The Onyx Hall owed its existence to both mortal and faerie hands, and no one had ever claimed its sovereignty without mortal aid. She did not believe it could be done alone. And so long as Vidar remained ignorant of that, she would not have to worry he would overcome his arrogance and pride to take a human consort.
So long as she held that advantage and the London Sword, she held Vidar in check.
But she wanted more; she wanted her realm back. “Let another tend your horse,” she said. “We have word from both Ireland and Scotland, that may at last be of use.”
Four upright slabs guarded the front end of the barrow mound, like turrets flanking the narrow, stone-lined passage that cut back into the soil. The cruciform chamber at its end was small; Lune had to crouch to enter it. Inside, the wall slid away with a quiet grinding she should have heard when Wayland came out—and how he ever fit through here, she could not guess. She straightened with relief into the space beyond.
Wayland’s realm could not have contrasted more starkly with hers had he tried. Warm torchlight illuminated the high, round ceiling of the cavern they stood in, and dried leaves of scarlet and gold carpeted the dirt floor. Fae congregated here, but not in attendance on their King, who stood conversing with a tatterfoal off to one side. Hobs clustered around several pots that hung suspended over open fires, and a trio of pucks played an elaborate game that might have once been related to mumblety-peg, tossing a complex pattern of knives into the dirt.
The fae of the Onyx Hall stood out like London grandees tossed among farmers, even those who had given up the stiffness of court finery. Sir Peregrin Thorne, once lieutenant, now captain of the remaining Onyx Guard, demonstrated a complex sword pass to his companion Dame Segraine, who spun a dagger across her fingers as she watched. Tom Toggin, who commanded her household in exile, put the finishing touches on some elaborate marzipan subtlety, tongue protruding from between his buck teeth. Others were scattered elsewhere in the mound, no doubt pursuing their own accustomed habits as well as they could.
Lune knew all of them, far more intimately than she had when they were merely a few among many. Dame Segraine, for example: when in London, the lady knight had often disguised herself as a man to learn from the great fencing masters in their schools. Sir Peregrin, with enough wine in him, told harrowing tales of the hag Black Annis in Leicestershire, under whose rule he had formerly lived. Tom created enormous sweets for Lune’s table, knowing she would not eat more than a fragment, so he could consume the remainder without feeling guilty.
They made their bows as she and Antony passed, still obedient to the manners of courtly life, and Peregrin fell in behind them. The Berkshire fae merely nodded, if they bothered to look up at all. Together, the exiled Queen and her Prince crossed the Great Hall and went out through one of the root-arched tunnels.
Their advisers waited in a smaller chamber, in chairs carved from beechwood, around an oaken table that might have seen William the Conqueror’s day. The floor beneath them was carpeted with wild strawberries, blossoming out of season. The little group rose and knelt when Lune and Antony entered, removing their caps, and sat when she gestured. Peregrin took up a position behind them, standing guard as well as attending. “Thank you for coming,” she said. “The journey was a long one for some of you. I hope you bring me good news.”
Her council here was a motley thing, including in its number fae who weren’t subjects of hers—one who was not even English. Lady Feidelm’s clothing was more outlandish here than even Antony’s buff coat, but she seemed at home in these caverns. Though technically still an ambassadress, her outrage at Eochu Airt’s betrayal left her with no compunctions about giving her own aid to the court in exile.
The sidhe looked less than hopeful when Lune nodded to her, though. “I fear there’s been little change. Few of the other kingdoms approve of Conchobar’s alliance with Nicneven, but they do not disapprove so strongly as to take action against him.”