THE ONYX HALL, LONDON: May 1, 1666
Why he expected the creation of a faerie prince to be much less complicated than the coronation of a king, Jack didn’t know. Simple-minded hope, perhaps. Lune’s visit to him in Monkwell Street, without so much as a single attendant shadowing her heels, had made it seem like all that was needed was the offer and acceptance.
Of course not.
The antechamber he stood in now was too small for satisfying pacing; he could go barely three strides before reaching a wall. At least his boots didn’t squeak, for all they were new. Whatever cobbler elf had made them, he knew his craft. The supple leather encased his legs like a glove, and was far from the richest part of his garb.
Fortunately, Jack had won the fight over the style of his clothing. The beauteous lordling in charge of dressing him had fallen victim to the excesses of Charles’s court, and would have put Jack in a frothy confection of multicolored ribbons, petticoat breeches, shoe roses, scented curls, and worse. Jack could not imagine anyone had ever forced Antony into such nonsense, and stood his ground. Three shouting matches later, Lune ordered Lewan Erle to dress Jack as the physician pleased, so long as the material was rich.
And so it was. Jack ran one nervous hand down the emerald-green moire of his doublet, fingertips catching on the silver lace that edged it. The buttons on his waistcoat were diamonds—diamonds, which the fae accounted not the most precious of their jewels. The brooch on his hat glittered with starlight itself, somehow caught in crystalline form. And the silk of his shirt was so fine, it might have been woven of wind.
He hoped the finery would stand him in good stead today. Jack knew full well that many of Lune’s subjects were less than happy at the thought of his elevation.
Somehow, I managed to convince myself there would be no politics. Willful blindness on his part. How could a Prince not get tangled in politics? Aside from the simple fact of his mortality, he was not high-born enough for the courtiers, who considered Antony’s baronetcy scarcely acceptable. They would prefer a peer. Jack tried to imagine Lune making her offer to the Duke of Albemarle, and snorted with suppressed laughter.
Lewan Erle gave him a reproving look. The elf ’s curls hung in golden perfection, and his clothing was even in good taste; it would not be seemly for him to outdo the future Prince in extravagance. He took such matters very seriously, even if Jack did not.
A twinkling light slipped beneath the door and flitted into the center of the room, where it dimmed and brightened three times. Our cue. The ceremony had begun some time before, Lune speaking in memory of her late Princes—Antony, and the one before—but the time had come for its final scene.
Erle bowed and opened the door. Jack took a deep breath, steeling himself, then went through.
The antechamber stood just off the entrance to the great presence chamber, where a pair of burly creatures like very small giants stood at the bronze doors. At his nod, they grasped the handles and hauled the tremendous weight toward them, creating an impressive frame in which Jack stood for a moment, letting everyone see him.
I am, without doubt, quite mad.
Everyone was gathered inside. Not just Lune’s courtiers, but all her lesser subjects as well, and ambassadors from every realm that bothered to maintain relations with the Onyx Court. Half the creatures there, Jack had no name for. They came from all over England, from Wales and Ireland and Scotland, even from the continent. The room was packed to the walls, and rippled with a respectful nod as he passed down the narrow aisle left for him in the center. Nods, no more; he was not Prince yet.
To remedy that, Lune waited on the dais at the far end. She was a splendid sight, attired in a midnight-blue gown that harmonized beautifully with his own green, with her formal crown upon her head. Silver, surprisingly—he expected a richer metal—but it might have been poured from the moon itself. Perhaps it had. In this world, Jack could take nothing for granted.
Feeling like an explorer greeting some foreign potentate, Jack ascended the dais to a spot one step below the Queen, where he knelt. Her voice rang clear in the silence of the hall. “John Ellin. Do you give your sworn word that you are a mortal man born of London, within hearing of the Bow Bells?”
“I do so swear, by Oak and Ash and Thorn.” No invoking God, here; they would not thank him for that. And the “ancient Mab” the fae swore by was apparently not for him.
“John Ellin, do you give your sworn word that you intend no harm to the faerie folk of this court?”
“I do so swear, by Oak and Ash and Thorn.”
“John Ellin, do you give your sworn word that you will serve faithfully the interests of the Onyx Court, seeking harmony between the races of London, mortal and immortal alike, speaking on behalf of the humans of this City, and ruling at my side?”
There came a time in every man’s life when he had to wonder what he was doing, kneeling in a faerie court, swearing to carry out a strange double existence on behalf of creatures for whom the entirety of his lifespan would be no more than an eyeblink.
Satisfying my curiosity, Jack thought wryly. And serving, not them, but the ordinary souls who have no idea they’re here.
“I do so swear, by Oak and Ash and Thorn.”
Did he imagine the tiny sigh of relief from above? “Then be welcome in our halls, John Ellin, as a knight of our court,” Lune said, and a heavy weight struck each of his shoulders, stinging him even through the layers of fabric. He’d seen the sword, waiting in the hands of the captain of her guard, but he hadn’t expected Lune to wield it quite so firmly. It seemed she wanted those oaths to leave a mark.
So now he was a faerie knight. Jack felt no different as he rose to his feet. But they were not done; Lune’s Lord Keeper, a snakelike fellow, brought forward his burden without Lune having to gesture. The cup he held must have some significance, or someone, Jack imagined, would have repaired its dented rim—or chosen a richer piece to begin with.
Lune took the cup from the Lord Keeper, so smoothly that the wine inside barely trembled. “No man can serve Faerie without knowing its nature,” she said. “If you would stand at my side, then drink of this, and bind yourself to us of your own free will.”
Until this point, all their ceremony had vaguely amused Jack, unaccustomed as he was to such ritual. Now, looking into the dark wine, he shivered. The months spent wrangling over his elevation had given him time to read, and all the stories told him what an appallingly bad idea this was. Men who tasted of this other world could never leave it again. Lune swore to him he could still go above, that he would not crumble into dust—but the binding was real. It had almost killed Antony during the Protectorate, and the exile of this court.
He could walk away from those oaths just sworn, if he had to. But once he drank, he was trapped forever.
The many eyes on him exerted palpable pressure, weighing every instant of his hesitation. Jack forced himself to reach out and accept the cup, rippling the dark surface.
What price knowledge?
Ah, Hell. Here’s to my health…
Jack set the dented rim to his lips and drank.
It tasted of shadows and secrets, hidden knowledge to tantalize the mind. He shivered and sweated at once, feeling the wine as if it went, not into his stomach, but the marrow of his bones. Beautiful, and terrible; somehow both bitter and sweet at once. Too much for a mortal palate, but from the first drop he craved it, tilting the cup back, gulping greedily, like a drowning man gulping for air, filling his mouth until he almost choked.