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 would 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.