Midnight Never Come

by Marie Brennan

No one had run her through — yet. She dared not breathe. One nod from Invidiana . . .

  The cool, measured voice said, “Would this be your own treachery, false one?”

  Obedient laughter greeted the question.

  “The Wild Hunt,” Lune said, “has placed a traitor in your midst.”

  The hated, growling voice of Dame Halgresta spoke from behind Invidiana. “Lies, your Majesty. Let me dispose of this vermin.”

  “Lies hold a certain interest,” the Queen said. “Entertain me, worm. Who am I to believe a traitor?”

  Lune swallowed. “Sir Derwood Corr.”

  No voices responded to her accusation. She had the name right, did she not?

  One of the blades piercing her back vanished, and then Lune cried out as the other two dug in deeper; someone grabbed her by the tattered remnants of her high collar and wrenched her to her feet. Standing, Lune found herself under the blazing regard of a handsome elf knight, black-haired, green-eyed, and transfigured with fury.

  “Lying slut,” he spat, twisting his left hand in her battered collar. A sword still hovered in his right. “Do you think to rise from where you have been thrown by accusing me, a faithful knight in her Majesty’s service?”

  Sun and Moon. He did not leave.

  Lune dared not look at Invidiana. Even the slightest hint of hesitation . . . “A faithful knight?” she asked, heavy with derision. “How long have you served the Queen, Sir Derwood? An eyeblink, in the life of a fae. What tests have proved your loyalty to her? Has it been so very strenuous, parading about in your fine black armor, keeping a pleasant smile on your face?” She wished she dared spit, but trapped as she was, it could only go into his face. “Your service is words only. Your heart belongs with the Hunt.”

  Corr snarled. “Easy enough for a worm to make a baseless accusation. My service may be new, but it is honest. Where is your proof of my guilt?”

  “You received a message last night,” Lune said. “From outside the Onyx Hall.”

  For the first time, she saw his confidence falter. “ ’Tis common enough.”

  “Ah, but with whom did you communicate? And what answer did you send back?” She saw a crack, and hammered it. “They say the Hunt is in the north right now. If we send that way, will we find your messenger seeking them? What news does he bear?”

  Riders of the Wild Hunt were deadly foes in combat, but they had not the subtlety and nerve to survive in the Onyx Court.

  Lune’s collar ripped free as she flung herself backward. Not fast enough: the tip of Corr’s sword raked across the skin above her breast. One of his fellow guardsmen reached for his arm, meaning to stop him; Invidiana did not tolerate murders in front of her that she had not commanded herself. But Corr was too new, and did not understand that. Metal shrieked as his blade skidded uselessly off the other knight’s armor.

  Curled up tight to protect herself from the feet suddenly thundering around her, Lune did not see exactly what happened to Corr. The press of bodies was too great regardless, with the fae of the Onyx Guard flocking to protect their Queen, and Sir Prigurd wading in with his giant’s fists, his normally placid face showing betrayed anger at the failure of his newest protégé.

  Corr did his best to sell his life dearly, but in the end, his was the only body that fell.

  You should have left, Lune thought, when she heard the rattle of his armor crashing to the floor. Your true loyalty was too strong. This is no place for faithful knights such as you.

  She did not resist when she was hauled to her feet once more. The guardsman who held her said nothing; he just kept her upright as she lifted her face to Invidiana.

  Lune did not see the Queen at first, just the muscled bulk of Dame Halgresta. Then, at an unspoken signal, the Captain of the Onyx Guard stepped aside, abandoning her protective pose, but keeping her wide-bladed sword in hand.

  Invidiana’s cold black eyes took in the sorry remnants of Lune’s gown, the blood that now coated her breast. “Well, worm,” she said. “It seems you spoke true — this time.”

  Lune could not curtsy, with the guardsman holding her. She settled for inclining her head. “I would not have inflicted my presence upon your Grace without great reason.” And that was true enough.

  Around the two of them, the array of lords and ladies, guardsmen and attendants waited, every last one of them ready to smile or turn away in disdain, following their Queen’s lead in how Lune was to be treated now.

  “Release her,” Invidiana said to the guardsman, and the hands on Lune’s shoulders vanished.

  Lune immediately knelt.

  “You are filthy,” Invidiana said in bored tones, as if the very sight of Lune tasted bad. “Truly like a worm. I do not tolerate filth in my court. Have your wounds dressed, and clean yourself before you show your face here again.”

  “I will most humbly obey your Majesty’s command.”

  The instant Lune rose to a crouch and backed the requisite three steps away, off to one side, the procession reassembled itself and swept onward down the gallery. Only a few goblins remained behind, to collect and dispose of the corpse of Sir Derwood Corr.

  Lune permitted herself one glance down at his slack, blood-spattered face. No one would investigate the message he received last night; they would assume it came from the Hunt. But it seemed he had sent a reply, and not to the Goodemeades. What had he told the Hunt? That the Goodemeades were interfering?

  She needed to warn them. And to apologize for having brought about Corr’s death. Lune did not mourn him, but they would.

  The stinging cut across her breast, the smaller wounds along her back, gave her all the cause she needed. Some fae at court practiced healing arts, but no one would think it strange if she went to the Goodemeades.

  Corr’s body, dragged by the heels, scraped along the floor and out of the gallery, leaving a smear of blood behind. Lune lifted her gaze from it and saw those fae still in the chamber staring at her and whispering amongst themselves.

  Invidiana had given her leave to wash and be healed. It was a tiny sign of acceptance, but a sign nonetheless. She was no longer to be hunted.

  Bearing her head high, Lune exited the gallery, with all the dignity and poise of the favored lady she no longer aspired to be.

  LONDON AND ISLINGTON: April 26, 1590

  In the morning, it all seemed so terribly unreal.

  Colsey’s silently disapproving glances chastised Deven for his late return the previous night; the manservant affected to have been asleep when he came in, but Deven doubted it. He had gone to bed straightaway, and suffered uneasy dreams of everyone he knew removing masks and revealing themselves to be fae; now he awoke in brilliant sunlight, with nothing to show for his strange night except a feeling of insufficient sleep.

  Had any of it happened?

  Deven rose and dressed, then suffered Colsey to shave him, scraping away the stubble Ranwell had left behind. With his face now peeled — Colsey had attended to his task with perhaps a little too much care, as if to show up his upstart fellow — Deven wondered, blankly, what to do with himself.

  Whereupon he saw the letter on the windowsill.

  Staring at the folded paper as if it were a viper, he did not approach immediately. But the letter stayed where it was, and moreover stayed a letter; at last he drew near and, extending one cautious hand, picked it up.

  The top read “Master Michael Deven” in a round, untutored secretary hand. Pressed into the sealing wax was a fragment of dried rose petal.

  Deven held his breath and broke the seal with his thumb.

  To Master Michael Deven, Castle Baynard Ward, London, from the sisters Gertrude and Rosamund Goodemeade of the Angel in Islington, sub rosa, greetings.

  The paper trembled in his hand. Not a dream, then.

  We hope this letter finds you well rested and in good health, and we beg your presence at the Angel Inn when occasion shall serve, for there are matters we neglected to discuss with you before, some of them of great importance.
Speak your name at the rosebush when you arrive.

  Deven exhaled slowly and refolded the paper. Brownies. He was receiving letters from brownies now.

  Colsey leapt to his feet when his master came clattering downstairs. “My sword and cloak,” Deven said, and the servant fetched them with alacrity. But when Colsey would have donned his own cloak, Deven stopped him with an outstretched hand. “No. You may have another day of leisure, Colsey. Surely after so many days in the saddle, you could do with some time out of it, eh?”

  The servant’s eyes narrowed. “You’re most gracious, master — but no thank you. I’m fit enough to ride some more.”

  Deven let out an exasperated breath. “All right — I shall be more blunt. You’re staying here.”

  “Why, sir?” Colsey’s jaw was set in a determined line. “You know you can trust my discretion.”

  “Always. But ’tis not a matter of discretion. I simply must go alone.”

  “You riding to see that necromancer again?”

  “There’s no evidence of Dee practicing necromancy, and no, I am not going to Mortlake.” Deven gave his servant a quelling look. “And you are not to follow me, either.”

  The disappointed expression on Colsey’s face made him glad he’d issued the warning.

  Deven hit upon something that would stop him — he hoped. “I am about Walsingham’s business, Colsey. And though I trust you, there are others who would not. You will stay behind, lest you foul what I am attempting to do here.”

  Though Colsey kept the rest of his grumbling objections behind his teeth, Deven imagined he could hear them pursuing him as he rode back out through Aldersgate, retracing the path of black feathers he had followed the night before. Knowing his destination, he rode faster, and came soon to the sturdy structure of the Angel.

  He rode past it, tethered his horse, and made his way to the spot behind the inn.

  The rosebush was there, looking innocuous in daylight. Feeling an utter fool — but who was there to hear him, if he were wrong? — he approached it, cleared his throat, bent to one of the roses, and muttered, “Michael Deven.”

  Nothing happened for a few moments, and his feeling of foolishness deepened. But just when he would have walked away, the rosebush shivered, and then there was an opening, with a familiar figure emerging from it.

  Familiar, but far too tall. Gertrude Goodemeade arranged her skirts and smiled up at him from a vantage point much closer to his collarbone than his navel. “I am sorry to keep you waiting, but we did not expect you so soon, and I had to put the glamour together.”

  She still looked herself — just larger. Deven supposed a woman less than four feet tall might attract attention in broad daylight. “Aren’t you afraid someone will see us standing here, with the rosebush . . . open?”

  Gertrude smiled cheerily. “No. We are not found so easily, Master Deven.” Bold as brass, she reached out and took his arm. “Shall we walk?”

  The rosebush closed behind her as she towed him forward. Deven had thought they might go into the woods behind the Angel, but she led him in quite the opposite direction: to the front door.

  Deven hung back. “What is in here?”

  “Food and drink,” Gertrude said. “Since you do not trust our own.”

  He had slept far later than his usual hour; now it was the noontime meal. Gertrude secured them a spot at the end of one of the long tables, and perhaps some faerie charm gave them privacy, for no one sat near them. “You can drink the mead here,” the disguised brownie said. “ ’Tis our mead anyway — the very same I gave you last night — but perhaps you will trust it when you see others drink it.”

  A rumbling in Deven’s stomach notified him that he was hungry. He ordered sausage, fresh bread, and a mug of ale. Gertrude looked a trifle hurt.

  “We have your best interests at heart, Master Deven,” she said quietly.

  He met her gaze with moderate cynicism formed during his ride up to Islington. “Within reason. You also wish to make use of me.”

  “To the betterment of her you serve. But we also wish you to be safe, my sister and I; else we should not have brought you in last night, but left you out where Dame Halgresta could find you.” Gertrude lowered her voice and leaned in closer. “That is one thing I wished to warn you of. They know Lady Lune had close dealings with you, and that you served Walsingham; they may yet come after you. Be careful.”

  “How?” The word came out sharp with resentment. “It seems you can make yourselves look however you wish. Some faerie spy could replace Colsey, and how would I ever know?” The thought gave him a jolt.

  Gertrude shook her head, curls bouncing free of the cap on her head. “ ’Tis very hard to feign being a familiar person; you would know. But ’tis also true that we can disguise ourselves. You have a defense, though.” She took a deep breath, then whispered, “The name of your God.”

  She did not shrink upon uttering the word. Deven took a bite of his sausage, and thought of the bread he had given Lune last night.

  “They’ll be protected against it, of course,” Gertrude said in normal tones. “Most of them, anyhow. But most will still flinch if you say that name, or call on your religion in any fashion. ’Tis the flinch that will warn you.”

  “And then what?”

  The brownie shrugged, a little sheepishly. “Whatever seems best. I would rather you run than fight — many of those she might send against you do not deserve to die — but only you can judge how best to keep yourself safe. And we do want you safe.”

  “Who are ‘we,’ in this matter?”

  “My sister and I, certainly. I have no right to speak for Lady Lune. But I believe in my heart that she, too, wishes you safe.”

  Deven stuffed a hunk of bread into his mouth, so he would not have to reply.

  Glancing around the inn, Gertrude seemed willing to change the subject. “Tell me, Master Deven: what do you think of this place?”

  He chewed and swallowed while he considered the room. The day was sunny and warm; open shutters allowed a fresh breeze into the room, while tallow dips augmented the natural light. Dried lavender and other strewing herbs sweetened the rushes on the floor, and the benches and tables were well scrubbed. The ale in his leather jack was good — surprisingly tart — the bread fresh, the sausage free of unpleasant lumps. What reason had she for asking? “ ’Tis agreeable enough.”

  “Have you spent any nights here?”

  “Once or twice. The beds were refreshingly clear of unwanted company.”

  “They should be,” Gertrude said with a sniff. “We beat them out any night they are not in use.”

  “You beat . . .” Deven’s voice trailed off, and he set his bread down.

  Her smile had a kind of pleased mischief in it. “Rosamund and I are brownies, Master Deven. Or had you forgot?”

  He had not forgotten, but he had not yet connected their underground home to the inn — and he should have. As he looked around the room with new eyes, Gertrude went on. “We do a spot of cleaning every night — scrubbing, dusting, mending such as needs it — that has been our task since before there was an Angel, since a different inn stood on this site. Even last night, though I don’t mind saying we were a bit rushed to get our work done, after you left.”

  Deven could not resist asking; he had always wondered. “Is it true you leave a house if the owner offers you clothes?” Gertrude nodded. “Why?”

  “Mortal clothes are like mortal food,” the brownie said. “Or fae clothes and fae food, for that matter. They bring a touch of the other side with them. Wear them, eat them, and they start to change you. Your average brownie, he’ll be offended if you try that with him; we’re homebodies, and not often keen to change. But some fae crave that which is mortal. It draws them, like a moth to a candle flame.”

  The solemnity in her voice was not lost on Deven. “Why did you summon me here, Mistress Goodemeade?”

  “To eat and drink in the Angel.” She held up one hand when he would have said s
omething in retort. “I am quite serious. I wished you to see this place, to see what Rosamund and I make of it.”

  “Why?”

  “To stop you, before you could grow to hate us.” Gertrude reached out hesitantly, and took his hands in her own. Her fingers were warm, and somehow both calloused and soft, as if the gentleness of her touch made up for the marks left by lifetimes of sweeping and scrubbing. “Last night you heard of politics and murder, saw Lady Lune as a fugitive, hiding from a heartless Queen and her minions. The Onyx Court hides a great deal of ugliness behind its beautiful face — but that is not all we are.

  “Some of us find purpose and life in helping make human homes warm and welcoming. Others show themselves to poets and musicians, giving them a glimpse of something more, adding fire to their art.” She met his gaze earnestly, her dark honey eyes beseeching him to listen. “We are not all to be feared and fought.”

  “Some fae,” Deven said in a low voice, so that others would not hear, “play tricks on mortals — even unto their deaths. And others, it seems, play at politics.”

  “ ’Tis true. We have pucks aplenty — bogy beasts, portunes, will-o’-the-wisps. And our nobles have their games, as yours do. But the wickedness of some humans does not turn you against them all, does it?”

  “You are not human.” Yet it was so easy to forget, with her hands gripping his across the table. “Should I judge you by the same standards?”

  Somberness did not sit well on Gertrude; her face was meant for merriment. “We follow your lead,” she said. “There is a realm of Faerie, that lies farther out — over the horizon, through twilight’s edge. Some travel to it, mortal and fae alike, and some fae dwell there always. That realm rarely concerns itself with mortal doings. But here, in the shadows and cracks of your world . . . when your leaders took chariots into battle, ours soon went on wheels as well. When they abandoned chariots for horses, our elf knights took up the lance. We have no guns among us, but no doubt that will change someday. Even those who do not crave contact with mortals still mimic your ways, one way or another.”

  “Even love?” He had not meant to say it.