So fixed was Lune upon her fellow sovereign that she took no notice of anything else, until Jack gasped quietly and nudged her hand.
The attendants behind the Unseely Queen made a surprising crowd, far more numerous than she expected. Lune recognized Sir Cerenel, of course; but it took her a moment longer to realize she recognized others, as well. Not attendants at all. Stumbling forward, prodded by the goblins who followed behind, were the ragged and soot-stained figures of her missing knights.
Her attention leapt back to Nicneven just in time to see the Gyre-Carling smile. “We found them escaping the ashes of your City,” she said in her broad Scottish accent, the words carrying to the far corners of the hall. Behind her, Peregrin and all the rest jerked to a halt—but not Prigurd. Lune could not see the giant anywhere among them. “And I thought to myself, this Onyx Queen is reluctant to give up Vidar. Perhaps we shall give her more reason.”
The threat struck home. How Nicneven had brought in the prisoners without anyone marking it, Lune could not guess; Aspell looked honestly stunned. Some charm, perhaps. For prisoners they most certainly were: tight twists of grass bound their hands and gagged their leaf-stuffed mouths. All their proud dignity was worn and broken, lost in the exhaustion of their battle above—but if Segraine could have killed with her eyes, the Gyre-Carling would lie cold on the stone.
Instead that Unseely Queen stood in the heart of Lune’s own realm and smirked. And this blow, coming without warning, shattered Lune’s last attempt at cool serenity. With Jack’s words ringing in her ears, she came to one stark realization, diamond-edged and clear.
Ifarren Vidar was not worth the lives of these loyal subjects.
Indeed, he was worth very little at all. These, who had fought so hard to preserve their home, were worth far more. If by surrendering her throne Lune could preserve the Onyx Hall and its people, she would have done it. Better that than to betray the service these had given, and all the loyalty she had won from her own subjects, both during the exile and after it. They deserved more from her.
Which told her, quite simply, where Ifarren Vidar was wrong.
Not my power. My people. They are what I wish to protect.
Lune fought her expression under control. Though her hands shook upon the arms of her throne, she could not simply concede Vidar to Nicneven. Not to save his life, but rather to save the Onyx Hall. It would survive no longer in Scottish hands than it took the Gyre-Carling to break the enchantments. But would it be enough to let Jack capitulate on her behalf?
“My heart,” Jack drawled, into the gap left by her faltering. “And here I thought they came under the aegis of a safe conduct.”
May all the powers of Faerie bless John Ellin. “Indeed,” Lune replied, narrowing her eyes. “I do believe this would violate the terms by which the Gyre-Carling was invited into our court. But I cannot believe she would err so foolishly as to threaten our subjects; why, if she did that, then she in turn could not expect us to keep our word as given.”
The Onyx Guard might be in Nicneven’s grasp, but there were other knights in the chamber, and goblins aplenty. Now all those toothy grins served Lune well. The Scottish folk had been chosen too well to flinch obviously, but she saw them note the odds, and mislike them. Cerenel, to his credit, looked unhappy with the entire affair.
As well he might be. If it did come to battle, he would fall with the Scots. And he did not deserve that, either.
But Nicneven simply laughed. “So it would be. Our paths crossed, as I said, and now we return them to you, like lapdogs found wandering. Besides—they have something to tell you.” She nodded, and Cerenel leapt to unbind Peregrin, not bothering to hide his relief.
The weary knight spat out the leaves that filled his mouth. Before his hands were even free, he gasped, “Your Grace—the Dragon is not dead!”
Lune’s heart might have stopped. All her thoughts were on how to manage Nicneven without surrendering too much; his cry made no sense at first. Then it penetrated, and all her blood went cold. “What?”
“We saw it,” Segraine rasped, chafing her freed wrists. “In the ashes of the City. Prigurd cut it to bits before he died, and we thought it dead, too. But it has reformed.”
Prigurd dead. The tears that threatened took her by surprise; Lune had not thought herself capable of grieving for the giant who had betrayed her. But in the end he was loyal—to the point of reason, and beyond—and the great cruelty was that she could not mourn him as he deserved.
Not with her oath suddenly binding her soul tight.
In Mab’s name. I swear to you that I will do everything I can to preserve London and its people from disaster—and let fear hinder me no more.
The Gyre-Carling’s smile deepened, as if anticipating blood. “So again you face your choice, as I gave it to you before. Give me Ifarren Vidar—or your realm shall be destroyed.”
Not just the Onyx Hall, but the City. The Cailleach alone was no threat to the mortals above, but with the Dragon still alive…Lune had escaped the trap of her oath thus far by seeking parley, by battling it at the Stone, by making plans to slay the beast. Any means of saving London that did not mean giving in to Nicneven. If she had failed, at least she had fought, had done everything she could.
Now only this remained: to surrender her realm and her throne. To sacrifice the Onyx Court for the mortals above.
The oath tightened its grip, forcing the words toward her lips. Lune clenched her teeth until her jaw ached, knuckles rigid and white. Jack Ellin’s gaze bored into her, but he could not save her from this; she was caught. It was too late for any more evasions.
She might as well have surrendered days before, when that first street began to burn. Lune wished she had. But she had not foreseen the terrible price of resistance—and now she must give her realm into the hands of Nicneven, who was glad to see London burn.
And upon that thought, the pressure vanished.
Breath rushed back into her lungs. Lune released her grip on the arms of her throne, steadied herself, then said, “And when we have given you the traitor—why, then, we still have a Dragon on our doorstep, and the Cailleach under your command. You, madam, have sought the destruction of our realm since first you sent a man to the Aldersgate tree, flint and tinder in hand. What reason have we, in this world or any other, to believe that you will simply take your prize and go home?”
Those who lived in the Onyx Court soon learned to lie very well. Nicneven, Queen of a simpler and more honest land, had no such skill. Anger flared across her wild features, obvious even to the most naïve of hobs.
Lune lifted her chin and turned her attention to those hobs, and the goblins and pucks, the sprites and elves, and those few fae of the natural world who brought themselves within her stone halls. “You see the truth upon her,” she said, pitching her voice more loudly. “She would burn us out, with Ifarren Vidar or without him. London lies in ashes because she, seeing the Fire driven on by the wind, refused to spare the City you love. We are twisted, she thinks, every one of us corrupted by the mortal shadow in which we dwell. Nothing less will suffice for her but the utter destruction of our home—below and above.”
She returned her gaze to Nicneven then, and took strength from the throne on which she sat, the London Stone lying concealed at her back. Lune had traveled the breadth of England as a beggar Queen, a supplicant to the courts in which she dwelt; now, for the first time, she faced a fellow sovereign as an equal, from the seat of her own power.