Midnight Never Come (10 page)

He was and she knew it. “You will find a way to tell me, regardless.”

“I could be more subtle, but this is so much easier.” Anne folded her hands demurely across the front of her cloak. “ ’Tis a minor thing, to my eyes, but I never know when some minor thing fits into the greater patterns you and your master see. You are aware of Doctor Dee?”

“The astrologer? He had an audience with the Queen a month gone, at Richmond.”

“Do you know the substance of it?”

Deven shook his head. “He was at court only a day or two, and I did not speak to him.”

“My lady of Warwick tells me ’tis some difficulty with his house and books. Someone despoiled them while he was abroad; he seeks redress. You may expect to see more of him, I should think — or at least to hear people arguing on his behalf.”

“People such as your countess?”

“I thought you did not want me carrying tales.” She laughed as he mock-scowled at her. “I imagine your master knows of his situation — they are friends, are they not?- — but I can learn more if you would like.”

This, he was unpleasantly aware, was often how espionage worked. Few of those who fed Walsingham information did so in an organized and directed fashion, deliberately infiltrating places where they did not belong, or masquerading as that which they were not. Most of the intelligence that reached the Principal Secretary came from men who simply kept their eyes and ears open, and wrote to him when they saw or heard something of interest.

Men, and the very rare woman.

As if she had heard that thought — he must be as transparent as glass to her — Anne said, “ ’Tis not as if I were offering to return information from the court of the Holy Roman Emperor, or the Pope’s privy closet. I will simply tell you if Doctor Dee calls on the countess again.”

“I cannot ask a woman to spy,” Deven said. “It would be infamous.”

“ ’Tis listening, not spying, and you are not asking me. I do it of my own free will. Consider it a dowry of an intangible sort, paid in advance.” Anne took his hand again, and tugged him a step forward, so they stood in the shadow of the banqueting house. There she cupped his jaw in her gloved fingers and kissed him again. “Now I must return; my lady will be rising.”

“As will mine,” Deven murmured, over the rapid beating of his heart. “You will tell me what the countess says — whether the Queen would be angry at the thought of our marriage?”

“I will,” Anne promised. “As soon as I may.”

M
EMORY
:
December 21, 1581

M
any parts of the subterranean palace consisted of adjoining chambers, one opening into the next with never a break. Some were arranged around cloistered courtyards of sculpture or night-blooming plants; others connected via long galleries, hung with tapestries and paintings of rich hue.

But there were other passages, secret ones. Few fae ever saw them, and almost no mortals.

The man being escorted through the tunnel was a rare exception.

Of the other mortals who had been brought that way, most were attractive; those who were not held influential positions at court or in trade, and compensated for their lack of handsomeness by their use. This one was different. His cowl taken from him, his clipped, mutilated ears were bared for all to see, and though he was not old, cunning and suspicion — and at the moment, fear — robbed his face of any beauty. Nor was he a powerful man.

He was no one. But he knew a little of faeries, and now his investigations had brought him here, to a world whose existence he had never so much as suspected.

A door barred the way at the end of the passage, bronze-bound and painted black. One of the escorting fae, a hunched, goblinish thing, raised his bony-knuckled hand and knocked. No response came through the door, but after a moment it swung open on oiled hinges, as if of its own accord.

The chamber into which the mortal man stepped was as sumptuous as the corridor outside was bleak. The floor was bare of either rushes or carpets, but it was a fine mosaic in marble, strange figures that he would have liked to study more closely. Cool silver lights gleamed along the walls; out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw wings moving within their depths. The walls were likewise marble, adorned at regular intervals by tapestries of colored silk studded here and there with jewels. The ceiling was a masterwork display of astrological notation, reflecting the current alignment of the stars far above.

But all this richness was dominated into insignificance by the curtain before him.

Was it black velvet, worked elaborately in silver? Or cloth-of-silver, painstakingly embroidered with black silk? His escort, his guards, stood between him and it, as if he would have approached to examine it. Some of the gems encrusting the fabric appeared to be diamonds, while others were more brilliant and alive than any diamonds he had ever seen. Pearls as large as hummingbird eggs weighted its bottom edge. The curtain alone displayed wealth only the crowned heads of Europe could hope to equal, and not even all of them.

He was not surprised when one of his escorts kicked him in the back of the knee, forcing him to the floor.

The stone pressed hard and cold against his knees as he waited.

And then a voice spoke from behind the curtain.

“You seek after magic, Edward Kelley.”

“I do.” The words came out rusty and faint on the first try; he wet his lips and said it again. “I do. And I have found it.”

Found more than he had ever dreamed of.

A soft sound came from behind the curtain, a cool laugh. The voice was melodious and controlled, and if the face that accompanied it was anything to match, she must be the most beautiful faerie lady to ever call England home.

-Lady — or queen? Even among fae, he doubted such riches were common.

The lady spoke again from her concealment. “You have found only the meanest scraps from the table of magic. There is more, far more. You wish to know the secrets of creation? We have them bound in books. You wish to transform base metal into gold? ’Tis child’s play, for such as us.”

Faerie gold. It turned to leaves or stones before long — but a man could do a great deal with it, while it still shone. And though it was a poor substitute for true transformation, the Philosopher’s Stone, learning of it might advance his alchemical work.

Yes, there was a feast here for him.

“I would be your ladyship’s most humble student,” he said, and bowed his head.

“I am sure,” the lady said. “But you must know, Edward Kelley — all gifts carry a price. Especially those from fae.”

He was a learned man. Some believed fae to be devils in different guise. Others placed them midway between Heaven and Hell: above men in the hierarchy of creation, but below the celestial forces that served God.

Regardless of the explanation, all agreed that to strike a bargain with their kind was a dangerous business. But having seen this much, no man who laid claim to intellectual curiosity could be expected to turn back.

He had to swallow before his voice would work. “What price would you demand?”

“Demand?” The lady seemed offended. “I will not ask for your soul, or your firstborn child. I merely have a request of you, that I think you will find it easy enough to grant.”

That was more ominous than a straightforward demand would have been. He waited, eyes on the hanging pendants of pearls, to hear more. They did not quite touch the floor, and in the shadows beyond he thought he could see just the hem of a glittering skirt.

At length the lady said, “There is a mortal scholar known as Doctor John Dee.”

Kelley nodded, then remembered the lady could not see him. “I know of him.”

“He seeks to speak with angels. For this purpose he has contracted the services of a man named Barnabas Saul. My request is that you take Saul’s place. The man is nothing more than a charlatan, a cozener who seeks to take advantage of Doctor Dee. We will arrange for him to be discredited, and you will replace him as scryer.”

“And then?” Kelley knew it would not end there. “Once I am in Dee’s confidences — assuming I can make it there —”

“ ’Tis easily arranged.”

“Then what would you have me do?”

“Nothing damaging,” the hidden lady assured him. “He will never speak to angels, whatever scryer he contracts to assist him. But ’tis in our interests that he should think he has done so. You will describe visions to Dee, when he asks you to gaze into the crystal. You may invent some if you wish. From time to time, one of my people will visit you in that glass, and tell you what to say. And in exchange, we will teach you the secrets you wish to learn.”

Kelley had never met the man; what did he care if Dee was led astray by faeries? Yet it made him nervous all the same. “Can you promise me the things I say will not harm him? Can you give me your word?”

All around him, the silent fae of his escort stiffened.

Silence from behind the curtain. Kelley wondered how badly he had offended. But if the lady fed him visions that would incite Dee to treason, or something else harmful . . .

“I give you my word,” the lady said in a clipped, hard tone unlike her previous voice, “that I will give no orders for visions that will harm Doctor John Dee. If you lead him astray with your own invention, that is no fault of ours. Will that suffice, Edward Kelley?”

That should be enough to bind her. He hoped. He dared not press for more. Yet he had one further request, unrelated to the first. “I am most grateful,” he said, and bowed his head again. “You have already given me more than I ever dreamed of, bringing me here. But though it be presumptuous of me, I do have one more thing to ask. Your voice, lady, is beauty itself; might I have the privilege of gazing upon your face?”

Another silence, though this time his escort did not take it as strongly amiss.

“No,” the lady said. “You shall not see me tonight. But on some future day — if your service pleases — then perhaps, Edward Kelley, you shall know who I am.”

He wanted to see her beauty, but she had surmised correctly; he also wanted to see whom he was serving. But it was not to be.

Was he willing to accept that, in exchange for what the fae might teach him?

He had answered that question before he ever agreed to accompany them beneath the streets of London.

Edward Kelley bowed until his forehead touched the cold marble and said, “I will serve you, Lady, and go to Doctor Dee.”

T
HE
O
NYX
H
ALL
, L
ONDON
:
February 5, 1590

The night garden of the Onyx Hall had no day garden with which to contrast, but still it bore that name. It was enormous, comparable in size to the great presence chamber, but very different in character; in place of cold, geometric stone, there was instead the softness of earth, the gentle arch of branches. The quiet waters of the Walbrook, the buried river of London, bisected the garden’s heart. Paths meandered through carefully arranged beds of moonflower, cereus, and evening primrose; angel’s trumpet wound its way up pillars and around fountains. Here and there stood urns filled with lilies from the deeper reaches of Faerie. Night lasted eternally here, and the air was perfumed with gentle scents.

Lune breathed in deeply and felt something inside her relax. As much as she enjoyed living among mortals, it was exhausting beyond anything else she knew. Easy enough to don human guise for a trip to Islington and back; living among them was a different matter. Being in the Onyx Hall again was like drinking cool, pure water after a long day in the sun and wind.

The ceiling above was cloaked in shadow, and spangled with brilliant faerie lights: tiny, near-mindless creatures below even a will-o’-the-wisp — barely aware enough to be called fae. The constellations they formed changed from time to time, as much a part of the garden’s design as the flowerbeds and the delicate streams that rippled through them. Their shape now suggested a hunter, thrown through the air from the antlers of a stag.

That was troubling. There must have been some recent clash with the Wild Hunt.

Lune was not the only one in the garden. A small clutch of four fae had gathered a little distance away, under a sculpted holly tree. A black-feathered fellow perched in the branches, while two ladies gathered around a third, who sat on a bench with a book in her hands. Whatever she was reading aloud to them was too quiet for Lune to hear, but it sparked much mirth from her audience.

Footsteps on the flagstones made her turn. Lady Nianna Chrysanthe hurried to her side, saying breathlessly, “You must have come early.”

“I finished my business sooner than expected.” Vidar had not questioned her nearly as closely as he might have. Lune was not sure whether to find that worrisome, or merely a sign that he was not as competent as he liked to believe. “What do you have for me?”

The honey-haired elfin lady cast a glance around, then beckoned Lune to follow. They went deeper into the garden, finding their own bench on which to sit. They were still within sight of the group beneath the holly tree, and now another pair at the edge of a fountain, but the important thing was that no one could overhear them.

“Tell me,” Nianna whispered, more out of excitement than caution, “what does —”

“Give me your news first,” Lune said, cutting her off. “Then I will tell you.”

Pushing Nianna was dangerous. Lune’s work among mortals had gone some way toward restoring her status, but not her former position in the privy chamber, and Nianna alone of her former companions there deigned to speak with her much at all. Lune did not want to lose her most reliable source of information. But she knew Nianna, and knew how far the lady could be pushed. Nianna pouted, but gave in. “Very well. What do you wish me to begin with?”

Lune pointed at the faerie lights in their constellation. “How stand matters with the Wild Hunt?”

“Not well.” Nianna deflated a little. Her slender fingers plucked at the enameled chain that hung from her girdle. “There are rumors they will ally at last with the Courts of the North —”

“There have always been such rumors.”