Or perhaps not. He had no way of knowing. But one thing he did know: Lune was Anne. He had loved this faerie woman before he knew the truth, and now that he did…
His feelings had not vanished when her mask did.
It might be foolish of him — no doubt it was — but also true.
“You do not have nothing,” he murmured, mouthing the words soundlessly to himself. “You have your own strength. And the aid of the Goodemeades. And… you have me.”
Slack water had come, the turn of the tide; the river was never more quiet than now. Why, then, did he hear a sound, as if something disturbed its tranquility?
His first thought was that a boat approached; one hand went for his sword, remembered he did not have it, and groped instead for his knife. How would he explain their presence here? But no boat was near, and his fingers released the hilt, suddenly weak with shock.
The water between the two piers was swirling against all nature. The surface mounded, rose upward, then broke, and standing upon the Thames was an old man, broad-shouldered and tall, gray-bearded but hale, with centuries of wisdom graven upon his face.
“Rarely do I speak, in these times that so choke my waters with the passage of ordinary life,” the spirit of the river said. His voice was deep and slow, rising and falling in steady rhythm. The murky gray fabric of his robe shimmered with hints of silver in its folds. “But rarely do two call me forth together, mortal and fae. Thus do I come, for the children of both worlds.”
Deven froze. Lune’s head came up like a doe’s when it hears the hunter’s step. Could she see him, concealed behind the edge of the pier?
Father Thames was not looking at him, but still he felt shamed. He could not hide from the venerable spirit.
Stepping around the edge, onto the nearer half of the starling, Deven made his most respectful bow, as if he approached the Queen herself. “We are most grateful for your presence.” A back corner of his mind worried, What form of address does one use for a river god?
Lune rose slowly to her feet, staring at him. She seemed to speak out of reflex. “As he says, Old Father. You honor us by rising tonight.”
Deven moved far enough that they both stood before the spirit, on opposite sides of the arch. The fathomless eyes of Father Thames weighed them each in turn. “Daughter of the moon, you spoke the name of Suspiria.” Lune nodded, as if she did not trust her voice. “An old name. A forgotten name.”
“Forgotten not by all,” she whispered. “We seek knowledge of her — this mortal man and I. Can you tell us of her? What wrong did she commit, that she was cursed to suffer as if human?”
The spirit’s gaze fixed inexplicably on Deven, who tried not to shiver. “She came to me for this tale, begging every night for a year and a day until I took pity on her and spoke. Her mind was clouded by her suffering. She did not remember.
“’Twas long and long ago. A town stood upon my banks, little more than a village, save that the chieftain of the mortal people dwelt within its palisade, and thereby lent it dignity beyond its size. Within the hollow hills lived the faerie race, and there was often conflict between the two.
“And so a treaty was struck, a bargain to bring peace for both peoples. Faerie kind would walk in freedom beneath the sun, and mortals go in safety beneath the earth. But ’twas not enough simply to agree; the bargain must be sealed, some ritual enacted to bind both sides to honor its terms. The son of the chieftain had gone more than was wise among the faerie people, and seen many wonders there, but one stood high in his mind: the beauty of an elfin lady, who of all things seemed to him most fair.
“Thus was it proposed: that the treaty be sealed by marriage, joining a son of mortality to a daughter of faerie.”
The measured, flowing cadence of Father Thames’s words carried the rhythm of simpler times. Not the crowded, filthy bustle of London as it was now: the green banks of the Thames, a village standing upon them, a young man dreaming of love.
The river god’s eyes weighed Deven, seeing deep into his thoughts, and the admission he had not spoken aloud. Then the spirit continued on.
“But the lady refused her part.
“The dream that might have been was broken. The peace that would have been faded ere it took hold. Spurned, the man cursed her. If she held mortality in such disdain, then he condemned her to suffer its pangs, to feel age and sickness and debility, until she understood and atoned for her error.”
Lune whispered, “The Onyx Hall.”
At last Father Thames shifted his attention to her. “The time for treaties between the two peoples has passed. The beliefs of mortals are anathema now, and drive fae kind ever farther into the wilderness, where faith and iron do not yet reach. Only here, in this one place, do faeries live so closely with human kind.”
“But ’twas not enough, Old Father,” Deven said. “Was it? She created the Onyx Hall, and still was cursed. How did she escape it in the end?”
Water rippled around the hem of the spirit’s robe. “I know not,” he said simply. “That which occurs upon my waters, along my banks, from the dawn of time until now: all that lies within my ken. But that which is done beyond my sight is hidden to me.”
In Lune’s gaze, Deven read the thoughts that filled his own mind. They still did not have the answer they needed: what pact Suspiria had formed. But this tale mattered, if only because it helped them understand the being that had once stood where Invidiana did now.
“I will bear you safe to shore,” Father Thames said, and held out his broad hands.
Without thinking, Deven stepped forward to accept. Only when it was too late did he realize his feet had left the starling. But he did not falclass="underline" the surface of the water bore him like a slightly yielding carpet, against all the custom of nature.
Lune took Father Thames’s left hand, and then the river flowed beneath them. With gentle motion it carried them out from under the bridge, slantwise across the breadth of the water, until they came to the base of the Lyon Key stair, within sight of the Tower wall. When his feet were securely on the stone, Deven turned back.
Father Thames was gone.
Then he looked at the rippling surface, and understood. The river god was never gone.
“Thank you,” he murmured, and Lune echoed him, her own words no louder than his.
BRIDGE AND CASTLE BAYNARD WARD, LONDON: May 6, 1590
Lune realized, as if through a great fog, that she stood openly on the bank of the Thames, her elfin form undisguised, Michael Deven at her side.
Summoning a glamour took tremendous effort. She should not have let her guard down, out there on the starling; not only had Deven been listening — why had he followed her? — but allowing herself to relax her control had been a mistake. Weariness dragged at her like leaden chains, and she could not focus.
What face could she wear? Not Anne Montrose. Not Margaret Rolford. Her first attempt failed and slipped, without even being tested. She took a deep breath and tried again. The illusion she created was a poor one, unnaturally generic; it would seem strange, like a badly crafted doll, if anyone looked at her closely. But it was the best she could do.
She surfaced from her concentration to find Deven watching her with an odd expression.
“Have you somewhere safe to go?” he asked.
Lune forced herself to nod. “There’s a chamber in the Onyx Hall I have been permitted to claim as my own.”
He bit his lower lip, apparently unconscious of the gesture. “But will you be safe there?”
“As safe as I may be anywhere at court.” It sounded stiff even to her; she did not want to appear like she sought pity. “We should part. ’Tis not safe for you to be seen with me.”