“Did you hear that sound, half an hour ago?”
“What sound?”
He smiled at her. “Precisely. All the church bells of the city rang, and you did not hear a thing. This is a haven the likes of which has never existed, not even in legend. In time many fae will come, all of them dwelling in perfect safety beneath a mortal city, and you say it has accomplished nothing?”
She pulled her hand from his and looked away again. “It has not lifted the curse.”
Of course. Francis had known Suspiria far longer than his appearance would suggest; he had not dwelt among mortals for many a year now. This hall had been an undertaking in its own right, a challenge that fascinated them both, and they had many grand dreams of what could be done with it, now that it was built. But it was born for another purpose, one never far from Suspiria’s mind.
In that respect, it had failed.
He shifted closer and put gentle pressure on her shoulder, until she yielded and lay down, her head in his lap. With careful fingers he brushed her hair back, wondering if he should tell her what he knew: that the face he saw was an illusion, crafted to hide the age and degeneration beneath. The truth did not repel him — but he feared it would repel her, to know that he knew.
So he kept silent as always, and closed his eyes, losing himself in the silky touch of her hair, the quiet rippling of the Walbrook.
The gentle sound lifted him free of the confines of his mind, floating him into that space where time’s grip slackened and fell away. And in that space, an image formed.
Suspiria felt his body change. She sat up, escaping his suddenly stilled arms, and took his face in her delicate hands. “A vision?”
He nodded, not yet capable of speech.
The wistful, loving smile he knew so well softened her face. He had not seen it often of late. “My Tiresias,” she said, stroking his cheekbone with one finger. “What did you see?”
“A heart,” he whispered.
“Whose heart?”
Francis shook his head. Too often it was thus, that he saw without understanding. “The heart was exchanged for an apple of incorruptible gold. I do not know what it means.”
“Nor I,” Suspiria admitted. “But this is not the first time such meaning has eluded us — nor, I think, will it be the last.”
He managed a smile again. “A poor seer I am. Perhaps I have been too long among your kind, and can no longer tell the difference between true visions and my own fancy.”
She laughed, which he counted a victory. “Such games we could play with that; most fae would believe even the strangest things to be honest prophecy. We could go to Herne’s court and spread great confusion there.”
If it would lighten her heart, he would have gladly done it, and risked the great stag-horned king’s wrath. But sound distracted him, something more than the gentle noise of the brook. Someone was coming, along the passage that led to the garden.
Suspiria heard it, too, and they rose in time to see the plump figure of Rosamund Goodemeade appear in an archway. Nor was she alone: behind her stood a fae he did not recognize, travel-stained and weary, with a great pack upon his back.
Francis took Suspiria’s hand, and she raised her eyebrows at him. “It seems another has come to join us. Come, let us welcome him together.”
WINDSOR GREAT PARK, BERKSHIRE: June 11, 1590
The oak tree might have stood there from the beginning of time, so ancient and huge had it grown, and its spreading branches extended like mighty sheltering arms, casting emerald shadows on the ground below.
Beneath this canopy stood more than two score people, the greatest gathering of faerie royalty England had ever seen. From Cumberland and Northumberland to Cornwall and Kent they came, and all the lands in between: kings and queens, lords and ladies, a breathtaking array of great and noble persons, with their attendants watching from a distance.
They met here because it was neutral ground, safely removed from the territory in dispute and the faerie palace many still thought of as an unnatural creation, an emblem of the Queen they despised. Under the watchful aegis of the oak, the ancient tree of kings, they gathered to discuss the matter — and, ultimately, to recognize the sovereignty of a new Queen.
It was a formality, Lune knew. They acknowledged her right to London the moment they obeyed her command to leave. Her fingers stroked the hilt of the sword as one of the kings rolled out a sonorous, intricate speech about the traditional rights of a faerie monarch. She did not want to inherit Invidiana’s throne. It carried with it too many dark memories; the stones of the Onyx Hall would never be free of blood.
But that choice, like others, could not be unmade.
The orations had gone on for quite some time. Lune suspected her fellow monarchs were luxuriating in the restoration of their dignity and authority. But in time she grew impatient; she was glad when her own opportunity came.
She stood and faced the circle of sovereigns, the London Sword sheathed in her hands. The gown she wore, midnight-blue silk resplendent with moonlight and diamonds, felt oddly conspicuous; she still remembered her time out of favor, hiding in the corners of the Onyx Hall, dressed in the rags of her own finery. But the choice was deliberate: many of those gathered about her wore leather or leaves, clothing that less closely mirrored that of mortals.
Lune had a point to make. And to that end, she lifted her gaze past those gathered immediately beneath the oak, looking to the attendant knights and ladies that waited beyond.
Lifting one hand, she beckoned him to approach.
Standing between the Goodemeade sisters, Michael Deven hesitated, as well he might. But Lune raised one eyebrow at him, and so he came forward and stood a pace behind her left shoulder, hands clasped behind his back. He, too, was dressed in great finery, faerie-made for him on this day.
“Those of you gathered here today,” Lune said, “remember Invidiana, and not fondly. I myself bear painful memories of my life under her rule. But today I ask you to remember someone else: a woman named Suspiria.
“What she attempted, some would say is beyond our reach. Others might say we should not reach for it, that mortal and faerie worlds are separate, and ever should stay so.
“But we dwell here, in the glens and the hollow hills, because we do not believe in that separation. Because we seek out lovers from among their kind, and midwives for our children, poets for our halls, herdsmen for our cattle. Because we aid them with enchantments of protection, banners for battle, even the homely tasks of crafting and cleaning. Our lives are intertwined with theirs, to one degree or another — sometimes for good, other times for ill, but never entirely separate.
“Suspiria came to believe in the possibility of harmony between these two worlds, and created the Onyx Hall in pursuit of that belief. But we do wrong if we speak only of her, for that misses half the heart of the matter: the Hall was created by a faerie and a mortal, by Suspiria and Francis Merriman.”
Reaching out, Lune took Deven by the hand, bringing him forward until he stood next to her. His fingers tightened on hers, but he cooperated without hesitation.
“I would not claim the Onyx Hall if I did not share in their belief. And I will continue to be its champion. So long as I reign, I will have a mortal at my side. Look upon us, and know that you look upon the true heart of the Onyx Court. All those who agree will ever be welcome in our halls.”
Her words carried clearly through the still summer air. Lune saw frowns of disagreement here and there, among the kings, among their attendants. She expected it. But not everyone frowned. And she had established her own stance as Queen — her similarity to Suspiria, her difference from Invidiana — and that, more than anything, was her purpose here today.