Not the Goodemeades. Neither of them was a warrior, and she had endured too much of their silent disapproval over the oath she forced on the knight. She chose Irrith instead, who cared little about Onyx Court politics, and would be going back to Berkshire soon. “Keep behind the arras,” Lune said, “and as silent as you can. You are for security only, in case all should come to the worst.”
Irrith, to her credit, asked no questions. And when she was concealed, even Lune could not tell she was there. Soon Sir Peregrin Thorne escorted the prisoner knight into the chamber, bowed, and exited.
Leaving Lune in private with the one fae she had wronged most in all this war.
He was thinner than he had been—or perhaps it was just his manner that made him seem raw and hard. He stood like a hooded falcon, blindly obedient, but capable of murder if unleashed.
“Sir Cerenel,” Lune said, putting what strength she could into her voice. “In ancient Mab’s name, I release you from your oath.”
He jerked in surprise. She had framed a number of speeches to preface the declaration, during the long minutes while she waited for him to be brought, but in the end it was nothing more than fear. If he felt any charity toward her still, then he would wait and hear what she had to say, even once unbound. If he did not, then all the prologues in the world would not change that.
His eyes burned violet as his chin came up, as if her words had loosed the chains that held his fury in check. She saw his lips part, his balance shift, as if he almost spoke, almost moved. But it seemed he had no words, and did not know what he wanted to do. She took advantage of his hesitation to speak on.
“You served your penance to me when first I sent you to Fife. Returning you there was a decision of politics, not honor. You were the tool I had to hand, and therefore I used you. Speaking as Queen, I do not apologize; had you not gone, I might not have learned the Lord of Shadows’ identity, and suffered all the worse for my ignorance. But speaking as a private individual—I have wronged you, and forced your loyalty too far.”
Cerenel found a voice at last, strained and unmelodic. “Yes. You have.”
Lune concealed the pity she felt; he would only perceive it as an insult. “Your position in the Onyx Guard is restored to you, do you wish it. Moreover, I will grant you a boon of your choosing—reparation for the service you have done. You have but to name it.”
The knight stood motionless, head bowed, black locks falling forward in disarray. Finally, meeting her eye once more, he said, “I wish only to leave this place, and make my home elsewhere.”
Sorrow gripped her heart. Be honest—you hoped the handsome-ness of your apology would reconcile him to you, and make all well again.
But some hurts cannot be undone so easily.
“You are free to go,” Lune said. Despite herself, a waver marred the words. “Wait but a moment without: I will have someone bring your possessions, and enough bread to see you safely on your road.”
His body stiffened, as if he almost bowed and stopped himself. Silently, he turned and left the chamber.
Lune closed her eyes and let her head sag back against a pillow. Exhaustion had drained her to the bone once more, but she could not rest quite yet. “Irrith?”
The faintest of rustles told her the watching sprite had stepped out. “Yes?”
“Please give Sir Peregrin my command. And when you have done that…”
She was not a private individual. She was the Queen, and must do what was necessary.
“Tell the Goodemeades to have one of their birds follow Sir Cerenel. I must know where he goes.”
THE ONYX HALL, LONDON: August 7, 1659
Irrith did not have to ask where to find Lune, when the Irish ambassador sent her in search. The Queen still rested for long hours each day, and spent most of her waking time handling the myriad of tasks involved in rebuilding her court, but when she couldn’t be found in her chambers or public rooms, she was invariably in one other place.
The guards let the sprite through into Lord Antony’s chamber. The furnishings had been ravaged during the occupation; the hobs of the court had swept out the detritus and brought in a new bed, but it was still one of the only furnishings in the room.
The bed, and the chair beside it, where Lune sat like an alabaster statue. “I beg your pardon,” Irrith said softly, regretting the interruption, “but Lady Feidelm sent me with word.”
One slender finger lifted, indicating she should continue.
“She has word from Temair. They found the sword—the Claíomh Solais—and King Conchobar is in a great deal of trouble for it.” Feidelm had used an earthier phrase, but the fine manners of this court were beginning to curb Irrith’s tongue.
Besides, vulgarity seemed out of place in this room. The Prince of the Stone lay unmoving beneath the coverlet, as he had for the last week. Breathing was the only motion Irrith had seen from him in all that time, and even that was barely discernible. He might as well have been dead.
Nearly everyone behaved as if he already was. The courtiers arrayed themselves into complicated factions, and several groups were grooming candidates for Lord Antony’s successor, mostly from the mortals who participated in the battle.
Lune spoke, and it took Irrith a moment to realize she was not responding to Feidelm’s news. “I do not know what to do for him.”
Irrith blinked. Conchobar—no, Antony. What response could she make to that? “Age happens. Mortals tire of life. Their flesh breaks down.”
“It is more than age.” Lune moved at last, leaning forward to straighten the pristine counterpane over the Prince’s body. “Neither of us had ever called on the Onyx Hall so intensely. It has drained him, as it drained me.”
But the Queen was an immortal faerie, and could survive what killed a human—especially an old one. She doesn’t want to admit that she must let him go. “Perhaps…” Irrith began hesitantly. How to make it clear—without being unforgivably rude? “Perhaps what he needs is to be among his own kind. Away from all of this.”
It would no doubt kill him, but that would be kinder than this living death. And Lune’s eyes widened, as if Irrith had lit a candle in the dark room of her thoughts.
“He is lost,” she whispered, hands hovering in the air. Then she stood in one swift motion, showing more vitality than Irrith had seen in her since the invasion. “Go find the Goodemeades. They will know where Antony’s wife is. Have someone bring her to London—we’ll move Antony to his house.” Lune dismissed those words with a sharp cut of her hand. “No, his house is gone. We will arrange for another. But find Lady Ware.”
ST. MARTIN’S LANE, LONDON: August 10, 1659
Jack Ellin reached for Sir Antony’s wrist, less out of need than a desire to be doing something. The unsmiling woman who lived in this house had forbidden him to feed the unconscious baronet any medications; she was sterner than Lady Ware.
He did not actually believe she lived here. Anne Montrose, as she called herself, didn’t show any of the comfortable familiarity that characterized a woman in her home. But Jack was familiar enough with conspiracy not to question it. The woman wanted Sir Antony to recover—despite her orders regarding his treatment—and that was enough to make her Jack’s friend for now.