Fingers playing across the petals of a faerie tulip, Henry mused this over. “They say he is mad, for love of the Infanta.”
As mad as any twenty-two-year-old man might be, unwed and constrained by both position and personal inclination from the kind of dalliances that might blunt the edge of his desire. “Mad enough to leap a garden wall, at least, for a glimpse of his promised wife. But the journey itself? ’Twas a matter of diplomacy, more than passion. Charles went—and James allowed him to go—because they hoped it might tip the balance, pushing Spain into agreement.”
Henry snorted, and that was comment enough.
“And now Spain keeps him,” Deven said. “The latest word is that he will depart at the end of August. Lune hears a great many disturbing things about the promises the Spanish offer, to keep Charles there without Buckingham at his side, but neither man has much trust for such promises any longer. As for your original point…” He had to smile, ruefully. “I have no great love for Buckingham, but his corruption is of the same sort found in every great lord and minister; his venality differs only in degree, not kind. And, no doubt, ’tis hated in greater proportion because he began so low. But he is beloved of both James and Charles, which promises a modicum of stability that will serve England well, when that day of transition must come.”
“That’s what worries me,” Henry muttered. “He is too beloved, of James in particular. No man who is not King should have such a voice in the governance of a realm.”
Except, perhaps, a Prince. Would this work, when the time came? Would Lune be able to rule alongside a man she did not love? For as much as Lune found Henry pleasing, Deven knew it went no further than friendship.
It had to work. Lune might not be a mortal Queen, forced to wed for the sake of alliance, but in the end it might come to the same thing. She needed a Prince, someone to speak for the world above. It was not so different from Charles’ marriage, after all.
Henry fingered his cards, hesitating, before finally laying them down. Deven displayed his own hand, and his friend sighed in defeat.
No, not perfect. But Henry could learn. He had already begun. And Deven was more than willing to teach him, for the sake of both Lune and the Onyx Court.
The Onyx Hall, London: 8 June, 1625
Steam veiled the bathing chamber, wafting up from the salamander-heated water, such that Lady Carline did not see the pale figure until it was nearly upon her.
She yelped in surprise, splashing water out of her bath, but gave an impatient sigh when she saw the figure properly. “Of course you would linger,” she said to the ghost, in the tone of one not expecting a reply. “I wonder if his lordship troubled to mention it, that you might end up as some wretched shade. Well, along with you; whatever message you bear, I have no interest in it.” She settled her head against the pool’s rim, muttering under breath, “I would we had that Eurydice creature still, to dispose of these remnants.”
Had the lady been attending, she would have seen a nonplussed expression cross the spectre’s face. Deven, watching from concealment, suppressed a smile. After a moment’s hesitation, the ghost of Henry Ware drifted away, soundless on the stone floor.
Deven pulled him aside just before a servant came through to wait upon Carline, and together they slipped out while the two were distracted. Still wearing his brother’s deathly seeming, Antony Ware said, “I would never have believed a person could dismiss a ghost so easily.”
“She isn’t a person; she’s a faerie.” Deven wiped steam from his face and said, “She did not look guilty to me.”
“Nor to me. The ladies here intrigue with such venom, that you would suspect her?”
“They see little reason why human notions of womanly behaviour should affect them, unless they wish it. After all, what holy book commands them to propriety?”
For all that this masquerade had been his own idea, it disturbed Deven to look at the illusory face of Henry. And he could not decide which was worse: when Antony behaved as himself, incongruous with his appearance, or when he adopted the mannerisms of his brother. He did the latter unnervingly well.
Antony shifted uncomfortably, as if trying to settle a doublet that kept binding across the shoulders. “How many do you intend to test?”
As many as I must. But he couldn’t parade Antony in front of every courtier and subject in the realm; sooner or later someone would notice the illusion. “One more,” Deven said, “that I think a likely suspect. If that yields us nothing, we must consider our next move. Come, before someone sees you.”
The passage they entered was a secret one, and little more than a cramped tunnel, which they traversed on their hands and knees. Lune had arranged for it to be cleaned, at least, so they would not emerge filthy on the other end. Though it ran straight enough, the path it followed obeyed no mortal geometry; despite the stair they had climbed to reach the opening, Deven knew they were passing below several chambers. And when they reached the far end—
Antony gasped when he saw what lay before them. “I hope you do not fear the height,” Deven said.
The young man shook his head, though his eyes were wider than usual. “But how are we to get down? I have no wings.”
Deven’s throat tightened with unexpected tears. The chamber before them was called the Vault of Birds, a soaring space punctuated by columns, arches, bridges, and platforms, an aerial maze built for play. The first time he saw it, and the flying fae who gambolled there, Henry had asked if he, too, could be given wings.
The Vault was empty now, by Lune’s design. “There are handholds,” Deven said, once his voice was steady. “And a bit of a path, that will take us much of the way without climbing.”
It was still a heart-stopping experience, and by the time they were done he suspected Antony’s true face was pale. But the young man breathed not a word of complaint, and followed Deven silently out the triple archway on one side of the chamber, before ducking into a cramped room whose door was invisible in the black wall.
The hidden closet was too small for furniture. One chair, with a man sitting in it, would have left scarcely enough space for the other to stand. But it stood near the chambers of Valentin Aspell, Lune’s Lord Keeper and the other likely murderer, and so Antony slid down the wall to the floor, folding his legs to leave room for Deven to sit as well. “These suspects,” he said abruptly. “The ones who may have ordered my brother’s death. Why them? Or rather, why him?”
As awkward as it would be to share the floor with the young man, looming over him would be worse. Deven crouched in the remaining space, ruing that even faerie-bestowed youth could not make his knees happy. “Patronage. I favoured Henry for a position, and those I suspect had their rival clients. This court was once a murderous place indeed, and not all, I fear, have fallen out of such habits.”
The young man brooded upon this for a moment, then said, “Your position. Am I right?”