And then the cup was empty, and he gasped, his heart pounding in his ears.
I would sell my soul for another taste of that wine.
Perhaps I just did.
Lune reclaimed the cup, handing it back to the Lord Keeper, who bowed and retreated. She’d warned him of this, when she admitted he must bind himself to them to become Prince of the Stone. One cup only; henceforth, all his food and drink would be gathered from above, or made in a fashion that rendered it safe. Too much destroyed a man, she said. Jack could believe it.
“You carry now a touch of Faerie,” Lune said. He became aware again of the watching eyes, the audience that had vanished when the wine reached his lips. They smiled now, in a way he did not entirely like. “We create you Prince of the Stone, and co-ruler of our realm. Hail, Lord John Ellin.”
As a body, the watching fae knelt, repeating her final words. Lune stepped close and kissed him once, chastely, her lips cool against his. She tasted of Faerie, too, and Jack restrained himself from opening his mouth hungrily to hers. This would take more strength of will than he had realized.
Then she took his hand and turned him so they faced the chamber together. “Our realm is whole once more,” Lune said, and the fae dutifully cheered.
The Prince is dead, Jack realized, grieving for his fallen friend. Long live the Prince.
THE ONYX HALL, LONDON: May 1, 1666
The dazed look in Ellin’s eyes, the hectic flush of his cheeks…oh yes, he was bound to them now. It called forth a sharp pang in Lune’s heart, of mixed fondness and grief, remembering the men who came before him. Michael Deven stumbled into this life through love, but Antony Ware had chosen it knowingly—or at least as knowingly as any man could. And John Ellin had done the same. It gave reality to her own choices, the presence of a mortal at her side: one could be accident, or even two, but tonight a third Prince walked the realm, and what might seem a whim had become tradition.
Not all of her subjects were pleased, of course, but they swallowed their objections for now. The celebration was in raucous progress, both here and in the Moor Fields north of London’s wall, where the fae had taken over the grassy meadows and sheltering trees for their May Day festivities. Dawn was yet some hours away, Ellin’s coronation having been carried out just after midnight. Soon enough, they would go above together, and join the courtiers who pretended to like her choice.
First, however, there was one more task to carry out.
They stood alone in the great presence chamber, the bronze doors closed and barred. Around them, the stone reflected back every minute noise, ghostly and faint. “Now,” Lune said, “we shall make you Prince of the Stone in truth.”
Ellin’s eyebrows rose. “How foolish of me—I assumed all that ritual had meaning.”
“It did,” she agreed. His sharp-edged tongue would make their years together interesting, however many those turned out to be. “All of it was necessary, I assure you. But we are not yet done. What I held back, I did for good reason—for this is the most closely kept secret of our realm.” And therefore not something to share with him until she was sure he would not flee.
She beckoned him to follow her down the echoing expanse of marble. Once on the dais, Lune gestured for Ellin to position himself to one side of her throne, while she took the other. He gave the massive silver an extremely dubious glance, and she smiled. “It is not as heavy as it looks.”
Which was not to say it was light; he grunted as they slid it forward. But the grunt turned into a speculative breath, as he saw the opening behind the throne’s back. “I wondered why it stood against the wall.”
“Come and see,” Lune said, and went through.
The alcove behind was scarcely large enough for the two of them, and the wooden platform that occupied most of the floor. Above it, from the unadorned ceiling, hung a scarred and pitted block of limestone, with grooves incised deeply into its surface.
Ellin let out a half-laugh. “Is that—”
“The London Stone. Or rather, a reflection of it. I would explain to you its presence here, but showing is easier. Come.” Lune mounted the steps. The platform put her high enough that the Stone hung just above her head, within easy reach.
Her companion was taller; he could knock his head against the Stone if he was not careful. “Please don’t tell me I have to kiss it. I fear too much that it might also carry a reflection of the filth above.”
She smiled again. A sharp tongue, but an amusing one. “Not at all. Simply give me your left hand, and place your right upon the Stone.”
He bent to give her a wary look. “That’s all?”
“That is all.”
After a moment’s consideration, Ellin shrugged. “I should hardly balk at a simple thing like that, given what else I’ve done this night.” Their left hands crossed beneath the Stone. His palm was dry and bore few calluses, as befit a gentleman, and he held hers with ginger care.
Lune mirrored him as he raised his right hand, and they laid their fingers on the Stone together.
CANNON STREET, LONDON: May 1, 1666
“What in the name of—”
The exclamation was enough to draw the disinterested attention of a constable, standing where Walbrook and Dowgate crossed Cannon Street, but after a moment the man continued on his way, swinging his lantern as he went. Other than that, the lane was deserted. And the London Stone, like all entrances to the Onyx Hall, concealed in some measure those who passed through it.
Lune stifled a laugh as Jack Ellin peeled his hand loose from the limestone, as if from a block of ice. “That—”
She let him absorb it for a moment. The London Stone was the linchpin of the Onyx Hall, and touching it communicated a great deal about the palace’s structure and nature. They could have stayed below, but she wanted him to see as well as feel that connection, the way the Stone anchored itself into the earth and then reflected below. Here, it did not seem like much—an unremarkable block along the south side of the street, half-buried in the dirt—but it was the key to everything. The Onyx Hall would not recognize him as its master until the Stone knew his touch.
Finally Jack said, breathlessly, “You could warn a man.”
“But words would cheapen it,” Lune said, letting go of his other hand. “I am sorry for the surprise.”
“No, you’re not. You enjoyed that.”
She could feel the ease between them now, the connection that bound them through their shared realm. It was unlike what she had shared with Antony, as it would be unlike her bond with his successor, whoever that might be. Each mortal felt slightly different, like the same note struck on a variety of instruments.
Jack shook his head as if to clear it, opened his mouth, and choked on a sound. Lune nodded. “It will fade; you have my word. In time you will be able to call on your divine Master again.”
He swallowed, like a man swallowing his own tongue. When he could speak, he said, “I suppose I’m grateful it’s Tuesday, then. That gives me time.”
The reminder of religion put Lune on edge. She was vulnerable, out here; she had not wanted to go through the coronation and this ritual while shielded against mortality. Soon, though, a bell might ring, and there was iron enough to make her shiver regardless. And they were expected in Moor Fields.
Holding out her hand again, she said, “Shall we go back down? Our escort awaits us there.”