She rode stiffly, her head turned away from him even though she sat sideways in the saddle. “He claims to speak with angels. I doubt he would speak with us.”
Us. She might look human when she chose to, but she was not. Us did not include him.
“But you have agents among — among mortals.”
“Of course.”
“Who? Gilbert Gifford?”
A considering pause. “It depends on which one you mean.”
“Which one?”
“The Gifford who went to seminary in France was exactly who he claimed to be. The Gifford that now rots in a French jail is someone else — a mortal, enchanted to think himself that man.” She sniffed in derision. “A poor imitation; he let himself be arrested so foolishly.”
Deven absorbed this, then said, “And the one who carried letters to the Queen of Scots?”
She paused again. Was she doubting her decision to array herself against her sovereign? Deven knew what Walsingham did with double agents who then crossed him in turn. Could he do that to Lune?
“Lord Ifarren Vidar,” she said at last. “When he was done, a mortal was put in his place, in case Gifford might be of use again.”
Not so long as he was imprisoned in France. Deven asked, “Henry Fagot?”
“I do not know who that is.”
How much of this could he trust? She had lied to him for over a year, lied with every particle of her being. He trusted the Goodemeades, but why? What reason had he to trust any faerie?
They were nearing the Barbican crossroads. “Where am I going?”
She roused, as if she had not noticed where they were. “We should go in by Cripplegate. I’ll use the entrance near to it.”
Entrance? Deven turned his horse east at the crossroads, taking them through the sleeping parish of St. Giles. At the gate, he bribed the guards to let them pass, and endured the sly expressions on their faces when they saw he rode with a lady. Whatever the faerie had done to the men at Aldersgate, he did not want to see it happen here.
Then they were back inside the city, the close-packed buildings looming dark and faceless, with only the occasional candle showing through a window. The hour was extremely late. Deven followed Wood Street until she said, “Left here,” and then a moment later, “Stop.”
He halted his gelding in the middle of Ketton. The narrow houses around them looked unexceptional. What entrance had she meant?
She slipped down before he could help her and made for a narrow, shadowed close. No doubt she would have left him without a word, but Deven said, “’Tis dangerous, is it not? What you go to do.”
She stopped just inside the close. When she turned about, Margaret Rolford was gone; the strange, inhuman face had returned.
“Yes,” Lune said.
They stared at one another. He should have let her go without saying anything. Now it was even more awkward.
The words leapt free before he could stop them.
“Did you enchant me? Lay some faerie charm upon me, to make me love you?”
Lune’s eyes glimmered, even in the near total darkness. “I did not have to.”
A moment later she was gone, and he could not even see how. Some door opened — but he could see no door in the wall — and then he was alone on Ketton Street, with only his tense muscles and the rapidly fading warmth along his chest to show there had ever been a woman at all.
THE ONYX HALL, LONDON: April 26, 1590
A faerie queen did not process to chapel in the mornings, as a mortal queen might, but other occasion was found for the ceremony that attended Elizabeth’s devotions. Invidiana left her bedchamber with an entourage of chosen ladies, acquired an escort of lords in her privy chamber, then passed through a long, columned gallery to the chamber of estate, where a feast was laid for her each day. It was an occasion for spectacle, a demonstration of her power, wealth, and importance; any fae aspiring to favor attended, in hopes of catching her eye.
Lune hovered behind a pillar, her pulse beating so loudly she thought everyone must hear it. This was the moment at which she trusted the Goodemeades, or she did not; she put her life in their hands, or she ran once more, and this time did not return.
A rustling told her that the fae in the gallery were withdrawing to the sides, out of the way of the procession that was about to enter. Hunting horns spoke a brief, imperious fanfare. She risked a glance around the pillar, and saw the Queen. Vidar was not with her, but Dame Halgresta was, and Lord Valentin Aspell, Lady Nianna, Lady Carline… did she want to do this so very publicly?
The moment was upon her. She must decide.
Lune dashed out into the center of the gallery and threw herself to the floor. She calculated it precisely; her outstretched hands fell far enough short of Invidiana’s skirts that the Queen did not risk tripping over her, but close enough that she could not be ignored. Once there, she lay very still, and felt three trickles of blood run down her sides where the silver blades of Invidiana’s knights pricked through her gown and into her skin.
“Your Grace,” Lune said to the floor, “I bring you a warning of treachery.”
No one had run her through — yet. She dared not breathe. One nod from Invidiana…
The cool, measured voice said, “Would this be your own treachery, false one?”
Obedient laughter greeted the question.
“The Wild Hunt,” Lune said, “has placed a traitor in your midst.”
The hated, growling voice of Dame Halgresta spoke from behind Invidiana. “Lies, your Majesty. Let me dispose of this vermin.”
“Lies hold a certain interest,” the Queen said. “Entertain me, worm. Who am I to believe a traitor?”
Lune swallowed. “Sir Derwood Corr.”
No voices responded to her accusation. She had the name right, did she not?
One of the blades piercing her back vanished, and then Lune cried out as the other two dug in deeper; someone grabbed her by the tattered remnants of her high collar and wrenched her to her feet. Standing, Lune found herself under the blazing regard of a handsome elf knight, black-haired, green-eyed, and transfigured with fury.
“Lying slut,” he spat, twisting his left hand in her battered collar. A sword still hovered in his right. “Do you think to rise from where you have been thrown by accusing me, a faithful knight in her Majesty’s service?”
Sun and Moon. He did not leave.
Lune dared not look at Invidiana. Even the slightest hint of hesitation… “A faithful knight?” she asked, heavy with derision. “How long have you served the Queen, Sir Derwood? An eyeblink, in the life of a fae. What tests have proved your loyalty to her? Has it been so very strenuous, parading about in your fine black armor, keeping a pleasant smile on your face?” She wished she dared spit, but trapped as she was, it could only go into his face. “Your service is words only. Your heart belongs with the Hunt.”
Corr snarled. “Easy enough for a worm to make a baseless accusation. My service may be new, but it is honest. Where is your proof of my guilt?”
“You received a message last night,” Lune said. “From outside the Onyx Hall.”
For the first time, she saw his confidence falter. “’Tis common enough.”
“Ah, but with whom did you communicate? And what answer did you send back?” She saw a crack, and hammered it. “They say the Hunt is in the north right now. If we send that way, will we find your messenger seeking them? What news does he bear?”
Riders of the Wild Hunt were deadly foes in combat, but they had not the subtlety and nerve to survive in the Onyx Court.
Lune’s collar ripped free as she flung herself backward. Not fast enough: the tip of Corr’s sword raked across the skin above her breast. One of his fellow guardsmen reached for his arm, meaning to stop him; Invidiana did not tolerate murders in front of her that she had not commanded herself. But Corr was too new, and did not understand that. Metal shrieked as his blade skidded uselessly off the other knight’s armor.