The fae gathered around laugh, taking malicious pleasure in his blind struggles, but it loses all savor when he slumps into the vines they have bound around him. His dreams are so easy to play with, and the Queen never objects. Bored now by his silent shudders, they let the vines fall away as they depart.
He is left in the night garden, where the plants have never felt neither sun nor breeze. High above, cold lights twinkle, spelling out indecipherable messages. There might be a warning in them, if he could but read it.
What good would it do him? He had warnings before, and misunderstood them.
Water rushes along at his side. Like him it is buried, forgotten by the world above, disregarded by the world below, chained to serve at her pleasure.
It has no sympathy for him.
He weeps for his loss, there on the bank of the brook — weeps bloody tears that stain the water for only an instant before dissolving into nothingness.
He has lost the sunlit fields, lost the laughter, lost her. He shares her grave, here in these stone halls. It only remains for him to die.
But he knows the truth.
Even death cannot bring him to her again.
THE ANGEL INN, ISLINGTON: April 25, 1590
“We must get you back into the Onyx Hall,” Rosamund said to Lune.
Gertrude was in the corner, murmuring to a sleek gray mouse that nodded its understanding from within her cupped hands. Lune was watching her, not really thinking; her thoughts seemed to have collapsed in fatigue and shock after she committed herself to treason. It was a reckless decision, suicidal even; tomorrow morning she would regret having said it.
Or would she? Her gaze slid once more to Deven, like iron to a lodestone. His stony face showed no regrets. She had never expected him to become caught in this net, and could not see a way to free him. However lost he might be right now, he would not back away. Though this pact might benefit Elizabeth, it was also harming her; so Tiresias had said — no, Francis Merriman. The seer had fought so hard to reclaim that self. Having killed him, the least Lune could do was grant him his proper name.
Francis Merriman had believed this pact was wrong. The Goodemeades obviously agreed with him. And Deven’s master might well have been murdered at Invidiana’s command. She knew him too well to think he would let that pass.
Lune herself had nothing left to lose save her life, and even that hung in the balance. But was that sufficient reason to betray her Queen?
Faint memories stirred in the depths of her mind. The thought, so fleetingly felt, that once things had been different. That once the fae of England had lived warmer lives — occasionally scheming against one another, yes, occasionally cruel to mortals, but not always. Not this unrelenting life of fear, and the ever-present threat of downfall.
Even those who lived far from the Onyx Hall dwelt in its shadow.
The Onyx Hall. Rosamund’s words finally penetrated. Lune sat bolt upright and said, “Impossible. I would be executed the moment I set foot below.”
“Not necessarily,” Gertrude said. The mouse had vanished; now the brownie was prodding the fire, laying an additional log so that bright flames leapt upward and illuminated the room. “I’ve sent Cheepkin to see if anyone has found Francis’s body. So far as we know, that jewel doesn’t tell Invidiana when someone dies, so she may not yet know.”
Lune’s stomach twisted at the mere thought of being in the same room as the Queen when she learned of it. “She will know how he died, though. And she will wonder to whom he betrayed her.”
Rosamund’s nod was not quite complacent, but it didn’t show half the alarm Lune felt it should. “Which is why we shall give her another target to suspect. And do you some good in the bargain, I think, as you will be the one to tell her.” The brownie’s soft lips pursed in thought. “She will be angry regardless, and afraid; how much, she will wonder, did Francis manage to say before he died? But that cannot be helped; we cannot pretend he died by other means. What we must do is make certain she does not suspect you.”
“Who did you have in mind?” Gertrude asked her sister.
“Sir Derwood Corr. We can warn him to leave tonight, so he’ll be well clear of the palace before she tries to arrest him.”
Deven was looking at Lune, but she had no more idea than he what the Goodemeades meant. “Who is Sir Derwood Corr?”
“A new elf knight in the Onyx Guard. Also an agent of the Wild Hunt.”
Gertrude nodded her approval. “She fears them anyway; it cannot do much harm.”
They seemed to be serious. An agent of the Wild Hunt, infiltrating the Onyx Guard itself — and somehow the Goodemeades knew about it, and were eager to get the knight out of harm’s way. “Are you working with the Wild Hunt?”
“Not exactly,” Gertrude said, hedging. “That is, they would like us to be. We choose not to help them, at least most of the time; someone else brought Sir Derwood in. But we do keep an eye on their doings.”
Lune had no response to this extraordinary statement. Deven, slouched on his stool as much as his stiff doublet would allow, snorted. “The Principal Secretary said ’twas infamous to use women agents, but I vow he would have made an exception for you.”
They are not spies, Lune thought. They are spymasters. With the very birds and beasts of the field their informants.
“So,” Rosamund said briskly. “As soon as Cheepkin reports in, Lady Lune, we shall smuggle you back into the Onyx Hall. You can tell Invidiana that Sir Derwood is an ally of the Wild Hunt; she will discover that he has fled; she will assume Francis spoke to him, and not to you. With any luck, that will sweeten her mind toward you, at least a bit.”
Lune did not hold out much hope for that. Was she truly about to return to her rat’s life, hiding from Vidar and Dame Halgresta and everyone else who might think to curry favor by harming or eliminating her?
The low, smoldering fire that had lived in her gut since her imprisonment — no, since her inglorious return from the sea — had an answer for that.
Yes, she would. She would go back, and tear every bit of it down.
Then I am a traitor indeed. May all the power of Faerie help me.
“Very well,” she murmured.
Deven took a deep breath and sat up. “What may I do?”
“No time for that now,” Gertrude said. “We must return Lady Lune, before someone finds Francis. Might I ask a favor of you, Master Deven?”
He looked wary. “What is it?”
“Nothing dangerous, dearie; just a bit of dodging around Invidiana. Come with me, I’ll show you.” Gertrude took him by the hand and led him upstairs.
Lune watched them go, leaving her behind with Rosamund. “Is this safe?” she asked quietly. “I did not think of it before I came, but Invidiana has spies everywhere. She may learn of what we have said here.”
“I do not think so,” Rosamund said, and now she did sound complacent. “We’re beneath the rosebush, here — very truly sub rosa. Nothing that happens here will spread outside this room.”
For the first time, Lune looked upward, to the ceiling of the hidden chamber. Old, gnarled roots spread fingerlike across the ceiling, and tiny roses sprang improbably from their bark, like a constellation of bright yellow stars. The ancient emblem of secrecy gave her a touch of comfort. For the first time in ages, she had friends she could trust.