Except by a few.
A vaulted gallery led out from the bottom of the staircase. Cool lights shone down from among the ribs that supported the ceiling, some wandering gently of their own will, so that the shadows shifted and danced. This place reflected the world above, but not directly; the Threadneedle entrance lay not far from him, though a goodly distance away as he had walked it. If Antony’s guess was right, he was near the place—and the person—he sought.
A liveried sprite stood at a nearby door, confirming his guess. The creature bowed deeply, threw the door open, and announced in a voice far larger than his body, “The Prince of the Stone!”
The sight that greeted him inside the chamber was a blinding one, an array of jewel-bright silks and fantastical bodies, sitting or standing at carefully-posed leisure. Long use had accustomed him to the splendor—but not to its centerpiece, the axis around which it all revolved.
Lune stood by her chair of estate, with the alert, arrested posture of a deer. The elaborate curls of her silver hair still trembled against her cheek, for she had turned her head sharply just before the usher’s cry. They outshone the cloth-of-silver of her petticoat, and made the lutestring silk of her bodice and looped-up overskirt a richer midnight by comparison. Sapphires winked in her circlet, each one worth a lord’s ransom.
Their eyes met; then he blinked, breaking the spell. A faerie queen was a powerful sight, however often one saw it. And he had been some time away.
Lune came forward to greet him. A small furrow marred the line of her brow; she must be concealing a much larger frustration. “Antony,” the Queen said. Her voice rang purely, after the harsh clamor of the streets above, and she smiled to see him, but it did not reach her unsettled eyes. “I am glad for your return. Will you walk with me in the garden?”
It suited his purpose well. Antony made his bow, then offered her his arm. Together they left the chamber, a small flock of her closest ladies trailing behind.
The fae they passed along the way bowed out of their paths, deference offered to both the Queen and her mortal Prince. Antony had never grown entirely accustomed to it. His wealthy father had purchased a baronetcy when old King James created the rank and sold titles to prop up the Crown’s sagging finances, but a hereditary knighthood did not merit the kinds of courtesies offered to a prince. He had long practice at shifting between the two, but never quite ceased to find the honors strange.
They came through a delicate arch into the night garden. Here, against all nature, greenery thrived; the efforts of dedicated faerie gardeners produced fantastical sprays of blossoms, and fruit out of season. Its proximity was one reason Lune preferred the lesser presence chamber to its more imposing counterpart, where her throne stood. She walked often along the winding paths, in company or alone, listening to musicians or the liquid melodies of the Walbrook. Antony himself found regrettably little time to enjoy it.
A current eddied the stars above them as they stepped out into the cool, fragrant air; the constellation of faerie lights regrouped themselves into a tight mass, a counterfeit moon. “I take it something troubles you,” Antony said, and felt Lune’s fingers tighten on his arm.
“Not something—someone. Would you care to guess?”
He smiled wryly. “There are but two likely suspects. I shall guess Nicneven.”
“I almost wish it were.”
The sour response surprised him. Faerie Scotland was not a single kingdom, no more than faerie England was, and Lune had occasional trouble with the monarchs up north. The Gyre-Carling of Fife, however, was a constant thorn in her side. Nicneven made no secret of her hatred for this court and everything it stood for, the close harmony of mortals and fae. She had on more than one occasion threatened to kill Antony, or curse his family for nine generations.
On the whole, his preference was for Irish trouble. “I can guess the substance of it, then,” he said.
Lune released his arm, going to the side of the path, where a lily bloomed in an urn. Its pristine white petals darkened into a bloody throat, and she stroked them with a fingertip. “One day some clever lad over there will get it into his head to murder Wentworth.”
“They know better than that,” Antony said, alarmed. “If the King’s deputy in Ireland dies, it will go much harder for them.”
“Oh, indeed—some of them know it. But all it needs is one hotheaded warrior, one goblin out to make mischief…” Behind them, the flock of ladies hovered, like birds in jeweled feathers and elegant little masks. Lune sighed and continued down the path to a fountain, where she arranged herself on a bench, and her ladies perched themselves near enough to listen discreetly. “Eochu Airt said his masters at Temair had information I would desire. I shall have to find something else he wants in exchange.”
Antony leaned against the lip of the fountain, palms flat to the cool marble. The water flecked his back, but his rose-colored doublet was of plain serge; it could survive a wetting. He had not dressed for elegance. “Wentworth isn’t popular at court. His relationship with the King is uneven; Charles does not entirely trust him, but still supports him, for he is one of the few effective men serving the Crown. There has even been talk of his making Wentworth a peer. But the Lord Deputy has enemies in plenty, not just in Ireland but in England, who do not like his influence over the King. His downfall might not be far away.”
“Will that change anything for Ireland?” Lune’s question was clearly rhetorical. She scowled at the embroidered toe of her slipper for a moment, then fixed her attention back on Antony. “So what has brought you below? When last you were here, you said you wished to spend more time with Lady Ware and your new son. How fares he? Is he growing quickly?”
Her distraction was charming. Children came so rarely to fae; they found the young of mortals fascinating. “Robin grows healthy and strong—no doubt thanks to your blessing.” Three children, and none of them lost to childhood illness. Antony knew more godly sorts would say he had sold his soul for those blessings, consorting with fae as he did. Seeing his family thrive, he thought it a worthy price.
Lune’s eyes narrowed. “But you, it seems, did not come to talk about your son. What, then? You walked into the presence chamber with a purpose.”
“An opportunity,” Antony admitted. “One that may sweeten your mood.”
The ladies leaned closer to hear as he went on. “The war with Scotland does not go well. Charles has marched an army up there to suppress the Covenanters, but that army is falling apart at the seams, for want of money to hold it together. And so he has asked the City for a loan.”
“Again?” Lune said, echoing his own response to Soame. “This begging has become habit, and unfitting to a king.” He couldn’t argue the truth of that. “But why bring you this to me? It won’t help matters to pay the loan in faerie gold.”
“Of course not. My intent is not to pay it at all.”
The Queen stared at him, silver eyes unblinking. Her entire image might have been cast from silver, and draped in darkest lapis. He waited while she weighed the repercussions. “I am sure you have your reasons,” she said at last, the statue coming to life once more. “You know the finances of the City better than I. But see the larger picture: failure to crush the Covenanters now will mean their stronger presence in the future. Too much of London is sympathetic to them already, and they are hostile to us.”
Us had many possible meanings, depending on the occasion. Sometimes it was the royal pronoun. Sometimes it meant Londoners, above and below. This time, it was unmistakably the meaning in between: the fae of the Onyx Court. Nowhere in the world, that Antony knew of, was there a faerie city alongside a mortal one; the other kingdoms of the fae held their seats in places remote from human habitation.