They reached the old Norman keep at the heart of the fortress, and silent as ghosts slipped into the cellar. Its three rooms were crowded with stores—beer barrels here, gunpowder there—but no one had covered over the well that pocked the earthen floor. Water glimmered cold and clear in its depths.
Lune knelt at its edge, and set a dagger to her palm.
Three drops of blood fell into the water below. Each one sounded a deep note, like the tolling of an immense bronze bell, audible only to the ears that knew to listen for it. In Threadneedle Street, the well’s rope could lower a knowledgeable traveler into a small antechamber; here, the stones shuddered and changed their configuration. The water drained away, leaving a black, dank pit, that had been here since before the Norman conqueror built his Tower. Dripping stones offered uneasy footholds, spiraling down its sides.
Irrith, waiting at her side, offered a malapert grin. “You’ve been in my home for years; I’m eager to see yours.” And before Lune could say anything, the sprite was the first down the stairs.
THE ONYX HALL, LONDON: August 1, 1659
“Stay in stealth as long as you can,” Antony whispered to his men, scarcely more than breathing the words. “You will only get one chance at surprise. Make it count.”
Bonecruncher’s expression suggested he was only just restraining himself from snorting. They had been over this a dozen times and more. But they crouched now beneath the crumbling weight of St. Paul’s, and Antony found his nerves as hot as any green young man’s, facing his first battle.
It is my first battle. Old man that I am.
Old he might be, but just standing here gave him strength. “And remember,” he said, glaring down Bonecruncher’s impatience. “Wound them only, if you can.”
Cheerful words. Most of his supposed soldiers would be lucky to find their targets. He prayed surprise would be enough.
Now they moved with speed, slipping out of the chamber and through the Onyx Hall. Every Berkshire faerie or mortal was paired with a Londoner; Lune had drilled them on their paths, but it was easy for a stranger to become lost. Antony himself waited with Bonecruncher and a wispy, unarmed sprite named Dandelion.
A chill rippled down his bones, and he startled. “What?” Bonecruncher growled, glaring at him.
“Lune is here.” The words came without need of his mind. Had he always been able to feel her presence? Perhaps—but only now, with his body starved of the Onyx Hall’s touch, was he raw enough to notice it.
Bonecruncher took his revelation in stride. “Then let’s get moving.”
They were the last to leave, and went by the most secret route. Antony’s target was the treasury. Vidar would have claimed its contents for himself, of course, but the chamber was the most protected location for keeping the enchanted objects that belonged to the Crown; they were hoping he had left things of use there.
But they could not move entirely by hidden passages, not from where they began. They had to traverse some of the same chambers used by the palace inhabitants. Antony had planned a course that took them through the Hall of Figures, a long, sunken gallery filled with statuary; it was not often frequented. But as they reached the top of the steps leading to its floor, Antony saw movement ahead.
Bonecruncher reacted before Antony could think. Down on one knee, and up came the weapon Wayland Smith had forged for this attack. One clawed hand on the barrel, one on the stock, flaming eyes squinted close—
A deafening crack broke against the walls, and an elfin voice screamed.
God be praised—he hit him.
Even that thought was a delay he could not afford. Antony drew one of the pistols from his belt, and for the second time in its long history, the Onyx Hall rang with the sound of a gun.
He missed; pistols were less accurate than the firelock musket Bonecruncher carried. But the guns Wayland had forged were as much instruments of terror as weapons; fae had seen them in mortal hands—occasionally even been shot by them—but to bring them into a faerie war was unthinkable innovation.
At least for Vidar, who scorned humanity and its works as beneath him.
Two fae had been conversing beneath a statue of a man beset by snakes. One fled. The other collapsed to the floor. Bonecruncher stopped long enough to tap him into unconsciousness, with enthusiasm that made Antony wince—but fae rarely died of wounds that did not kill them outright, and the guns fired elfshot instead of ordinary lead.
They had not even finished crossing the Hall of Figures when Antony heard more gunfire in the distance. He prayed the fae were conserving their shots; muskets and pistols were slow to load, and he had forgone lessons of speed in favor of teaching them to aim.
“Keep moving, m’lord,” Bonecruncher growled. “Your war isn’t over yet.”
Some of Lune’s courtiers had switched their allegiance to Vidar, when he invaded. Others joined her exiled court in Berkshire. Most of the remainder had gone elsewhere, giving up on this war entirely.
Half a dozen languished in cells beneath the White Tower, from which Antony had been unable to free them.
Lune’s force—or rather Irrith’s—subdued the guards without resorting to the firearms they carried. The six fae in the cells stumbled out, weak and blinking; Vidar had kept them in darkness and deprived of food and water, such as would kill any human kept thus.
But those long, black years had refined their hatred. Angrisla bared all her teeth, and gladly claimed the knife someone offered her. “I will bring him to you screaming,” the mara promised.
“Stay with us,” Lune ordered her. “The time for revenge will come.”
The mara’s obedience to that order would be dubious at best, but Lune had no one to spare for watching her, nor the others. The Tower squad split, each group to their particular task. The White Horse was long gone, cantering off on its own inscrutable exploration, but that might be all to the good; its presence would baffle Vidar’s folk, spreading confusion they could use.
The sudden ring of blades announced the commencement of battle just outside the chamber Lune sought. Trusting Irrith and her companions to hold the door, Lune laid a hand upon a floor stone that would lead them into a lower passage, bypassing the royal apartments, which Vidar had claimed for himself.
When her fingers touched marble, her vision blurred. Instead of the floor, she saw—
“Antony!” The name tore free of her. He was leaving the Hall of Figures, and behind him—she could not discern details, but three figures were approaching at speed, and they were not friendly.
She reacted without thinking. Antony passed through the double doors at the end of the hall, and she flung them shut behind him.
The wind of the doors ruffled his hair, it came so close, and the bronze panels almost swung shut on Dandelion, who leapt clear with a squeak. Bonecruncher whirled and raised his spent musket. “What—”
Shouts from behind them, on the other side of the doors. “Move,” Antony snapped, and they went on at a run, ducking sideways into a little-used passage.
His first thought was that Vidar had closed the doors. But why would the usurper act to protect Antony’s group? By the pounding on the bronze, those on the other side were hostile, and trying to break through.
And who else would the Onyx Hall answer to but Lune?