Midnight Never Come

by Marie Brennan

  The words rolled on and on, in a sonorous, ceaseless chant. He supplicated the Creator, Lune sensed, extolling the glory of Heaven and its Lord, describing the intricate structure of the world, from the pure realms of God down to the lowliest part of nature. And for a brief span she perceived it as if through his eyes: a beautifully mathematical cosmos, filled with pattern, correspondence, connection, like the most finely made mechanical device, beyond the power of any mind save God’s to apprehend in its entirety, but appreciable through the study of its parts.

  To this, he had devoted his life. To understanding the greatest work of God.

  In that moment, all the aimless, immortal ages of her life seemed by comparison to be flat and without purpose.

  And then she felt suffused by a radiance like that of the moon, and her lips parted; she spoke without thinking. “Something comes.”

  Dee’s invocation had finished, she realized, but how much time had passed, she did not know. A soft scratching reached her ears: his quill upon paper. “What do you see?”

  “Nothing.” The sphere filled her vision; how long since she had last blinked?

  “Speak to it.”

  What should she say? Her mind was roaringly empty of words. Lune groped for something, anything. “-We — I — most humbly beseech your power, your aid. The Queen of the Onyx Court has formed a pact with Hell. Only with your power may it be broken. Will you not help us?”

  Then she gasped, for the crystal vanished; she saw instead a figure, its form both perfect and undefinable. The table was gone, the chair was gone; she stood in an empty space before the terrible glory of the angel, and sank to her knees without thinking, in respect and supplication.

  As if from a great distance, she heard Dee utter one word, his own voice trembling in awe. “Anael.”

  Her spirit lay exposed, helpless, before the angel’s shining might. With but a thought, it could destroy her, strip all faerie enchantment from her being, leave her nothing more than a mortal remnant, forever parted from the world that had been hers. She was no great legend of Faerie to defend herself against such, and she had laid herself open to this power of her own free will.

  All that defended her now was, as Dee had said, charity and love.

  She trembled as the figure drew closer. The strength might have crushed her, but instead it held her, like a fragile bird, in the palm of its hand. Lune felt lips press against hers, and the cool radiance flooded her body; then they were gone.

  “Bear thou this kiss to him thou lovest,” the angel Anael said, its words the true and pure form of the language Dee had spoken, a force of beauty almost too much to bear.

  Then the light receded. She was in her chair; the crystal was before her; they were alone once more in the room.

  Dee murmured a closing benediction, and sank back into his own chair, from which he had risen without her seeing. The notebook sat next to him, hardly touched.

  Lune’s eyes met the philosopher’s, and saw her own shock echoed there.

  He, who had no gift for seeing, had seen something. And he knew, as she did, that it was a true angelic presence, and it had answered her plea.

  Bear thou this kiss to him thou lovest.

  She had made that choice. What it meant, she did not know; she had never given her heart before. How a kiss would aid her, she could not imagine. It seemed a weak weapon against Invidiana.

  But it was Heaven’s response to her plea. For Michael Deven’s sake, she would go into the Onyx Hall, and somehow win her way through to him. She would bring him Anael’s kiss.

  What happened after that was in God’s hands.

  THE ANGEL INN, ISLINGTON: May 8, 1590

  “She must be distracted,” Lune said. “Else she will place all her knights and guardsmen and other resources between me and Deven, and I will stand no hope of reaching him. They will kill me, or they will bind me and drag me before her; either way, I will not be able to do what I must.”

  The Goodemeades did not question that part of it. Lune had told them in brief terms of what had passed in Mortlake — brief not because she wished to hide anything from them, but because she had few words to describe it. Their eyes had gone round with awe, and they treated her now with a reverent and slightly fearful respect that unnerved her.

  Not so much respect, though, that they didn’t question certain things. “My lady,” Gertrude said, “she will be expecting you to do exactly that. You have not come back, which means you know of your peril. If you are not simply to walk into her claws, then you must try to draw her attention away. But she will recognize any diversion as just that — and ignore it.”

  From across the rose-guarded room, Rosamund, who had been silent for several minutes, spoke up. “Unless the diversion is something she cannot ignore.”

  “The only thing she could not ignore would be —”

  “A real threat,” Lune said.

  Something Invidiana truly did have to fear. A war on her very doorstep, that she must send her soldiers to meet, or risk losing her throne.

  The list of things that fit that name was short indeed.

  Gertrude’s face had gone white, and she stared at her sister. Grimness sat like a stranger on Rosamund’s countenance, but if a brownie could look militant, she did. “We could do it,” she said. “But, my lady, once such a force is unleashed, it cannot be easily stopped. We all might lose a great deal in the end.”

  Lune knew it very well. “Could anything stop them?”

  “If she were to draw the sword out again — perhaps. That, more than anything, is what angers them. They might be satisfied, if she renounced it.”

  “But Invidiana would never do it,” Gertrude said. “Only Suspiria, and perhaps not even her.” She stared up at Lune, her eyes trembling with tears. “Will we have her back, when you are done?”

  The unspoken question: Or do you go to kill her?

  Lune wished she could answer the brownie’s question, but she was as blind as they. The angel’s power waited within, alien and light, but she did not know what it would do. Could a faerie spirit be damned to Hell?

  Her reply came out a whisper. “I can make no promises.”

  Rosamund said heavily, “With that, we must be content. We have no other choice.”

  “You must move with haste.” The knot of tension in Lune’s stomach never loosened, except for a few timeless moments, in the angel’s presence. “Use Vidar.”

  “Vidar?”

  “Corr was his agent, or at least an ally. He bade me be silent about any others I might find at court. I do not know his scheme, but there must be one; we can make use of it.” Her vow did not prevent her from telling the Goodemeades; the last person in creation they would share the information with was Invidiana. But she had never expected to use such a loophole.

  Rosamund came forward, smoothing her apron with careful hands, and put an arm around her white-faced sister. “Make your preparations, my lady. Gertrude and I will raise the Wild Hunt.”

  THE ONYX HALL, LONDON: May 9, 1590

  The sun’s heat baked his shoulders and uncovered head. His ride had been a long one, and he was tired; he swung his leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground, handing off his reins to a servant. They were gathered by the riverbank, an elegant, laughing crowd, playing music, reciting poetry, wagering at cards. He longed to join them, but ah! He was so thirsty.

  A smiling, flirtatious lady approached him, a cup of wine in each hand. “My lord. Will you drink?”

  The chased silver was cool in his fingers. He looked down into the rich depths of the wine, smelling its delicate bouquet. It would taste good, after that long ride.

  With the cup halfway to his lips, he paused. Something . . .

  “My lord.” The lady rested one hand gently on his arm, standing closely enough that her breasts just touched his elbow. “Do you not like the wine?”

  “No,” he murmured, staring at the cup. “That is . . . ”

  “Drink,” she invited him. “And th
en come with me.”

  He was so thirsty. The sun was hot, and the wine had been cooled in the stream. He had not eaten recently; it would go to his head. But surely that did not matter — not in this gay, careless crowd. They were watching him, waiting for him to join them.

  He brought the cup to his lips and drank.

  The liquid slid down his throat and into his belly, chilling him, making all his nerves sing. No wine he had ever drunk tasted thus. He gulped at it, greedy and insatiable; the more he drank, the more he wanted, until he was tipping the cup back and draining out the last drops, and shaking because there was no more —

  There was no sunlight. There was no meadow by the stream. There were courtiers, but the faces that watched were wild and inhuman, and all around him was darkness.

  The lush faerie lady stepped back from him, her face avid with delight, and from some distance away Invidiana gave sardonic applause. “Well done, Lady Carline. Achilles, you need not restore his gag.” The Queen smiled across the chamber at Deven, letting all her predatory pleasure show. “He will speak no names against us now.”

  The cup fell from Deven’s hand and clanked against the stone, empty to the dregs. Faerie wine. He had refused all food, all drink, knowing the danger, but in the end his body had betrayed him, its mortal needs and drives making it an easy target for a charm.

  Even if Lune came for him now, it was too late.

  He reached for the names that had been his defense, and found nothing. A mist clouded his mind, obscuring the face of . . . what? There had been something, he knew it; he had gone to church, and prayed. . . .

  But the prayers were gone. Those powers were no longer within his reach.

  Laughter pursued him as he stumbled away, seeking refuge in a corner of the chamber. Now, at last, the stoicism he had clung to since his capture failed him. He wanted more; his body ached with the desire to beg. Another cup — a sip, even —

  He clenched his hands until his knuckles creaked, and waited, trembling, for the next move.

  LONDON: May 9, 1590

  The moon rose as the sun set, its silver disc climbing steadily into the sky.

  The curfew bells had rung. London was abed — or ought to be; those who were out late, the drunken gentlemen and the scoundrels who waited to prey on them, deserved, some would say, whatever happened to them.

  On the northern horizon, without warning, storm clouds began to build.

  They moved from north to south, against the wind, as clouds should not have done. In their depths, a thunder like the pounding of hoofbeats against the earth, up where no earth was. A terrible yelping came from the clouds, that more skeptical minds would dismiss as wild geese. Those who knew its true source, hid.

  Brief flashes of lightning revealed what lay within the clouds.

  The hounds ran alongside, leaping, darting, weaving in and out of the pack. Black hounds with red eyes; white hounds with red ears; all of them giving that terrible, belling cry, unlike any dog that ever mortal bred.

  Horses, shod with silver and gold, flaring with spectral light. Formed from mist, from straw, from fae who chose to run in such shape, their headlong gallop brought them on with frightening speed. And astride their backs rode figures both awful and beautiful.

  Stags’ horns spiked the sky like a great, spreading crown. Feathered wings cupped the air, pinions whistling in the storm wind. Their hair was yellow as gold, red as blood, black as night; their eyes burned with fury, and in their hands were swords and spears out of legend.

  The forgotten kings of faerie England rode to war.

  It went by many names. Wisht Hounds, Yeth Hounds, Gabriel Rachets, Dando and His Dogs. A dozen faces and a dozen names for the Wild Hunt, united now in a single purpose.

  They would not involve mortals in their war, and for decades their enemy had lain safe behind that shield. But something else was vulnerable, could not be hidden entirely away; to do so would negate its very purpose, and break the enchantment it held in trust. And so it stood in the open, unprotected, on Candlewick Street.

  The Wild Hunt rode to destroy the London Stone.

  ST. PAUL’S CATHEDRAL, LONDON: May 9, 1590

  The wind was already stirring, fleeing before the oncoming storm, when Lune reached the western porch of St. Paul’s Cathedral.

  “The entrances will be watched, my lady,” Gertrude had said, when word came that the irrevocable move was made, the Wild Hunt was alerted to the secret of the London Stone, and the battle would take place under the full moon. “But there’s one she cannot guard against you.”

  St. Paul’s and the White Tower. The two original entrances to the Onyx Hall, created in the light of the eclipse. The latter lay within the confines of a royal fortress, and would have its own protection below.

  But the former lay on Christian ground. No faerie guard could stay there long, however fortified with mortal bread he might be. None had passed through it since Invidiana had confined Francis Merriman to the chambers below.

  The only question was whether it would open for Lune.

  She passed the booksellers’ stalls, closed up for the night. The wind sent refuse rattling against their walls. A snarl split the air, and she halted in her tracks. Light flashed across the city, and then from the sky above, a roar.

  She glimpsed them briefly, past the cathedral’s spire. Dame Halgresta Nellt, towering to a height she could never reach in the Onyx Hall. Sir Kentigern, at his sister’s right hand, howling a challenge at the oncoming storm. Sir Prigurd, at the left, his blunt features composed in an expression of dutiful resolution. She had always liked Prigurd the best. He was not as brutal as his siblings, and he was that rarity in the Onyx Hall: a courtier who served out of loyalty, however misplaced.

  They stood at the head of the Onyx Guard, whose elf knights blazed in martial glory. Their armor gleamed silver and black and emerald, and their horses danced beneath them, tatterfoals and brags and grants eager to leap into battle. Behind stood the massed ranks of the infantry, boggarts and barguests, hobyahs and gnomes, all the goblins and pucks and even homely little hobs who could be mustered to fight in defense of their home.

  The Onyx Hall. It was their home. A dark one, and twisted by its malevolent Queen, but home nonetheless.

  Before the night was done, the Wild Hunt might reduce it to rubble.

  But if Lune let herself question that price, she would be lost before she ever started.

  The great doors of the western porch swung open at her approach. Stepping within, she felt holiness pressing against her skin, weirdly close and yet distant; the waiting tension of the angel’s kiss thrummed within her. Like a sign shown to sentries, it allowed her passage.

  She did not know what she sought, but the angel’s power resonated with it, like a string coming into tune. There. A patch of floor like any other in the nave; when she stepped on it, the shock ran up her bones.

  Here, faerie magic erupted upward. Here, holy rites saturated the ground. Here, London opened downward, into its dark reflection.

  Lune knelt and laid one hand against the stone of the floor. The charm that governed the entrance spoke to her fingers. Francis had prayed, the words of God bringing him from one world to the other without any eyes seeing him. For her, the angelic touch sufficed.

  Had any observer been there to watch, the floor would have remained unchanged. But to Lune’s eyes, the slabs of stone folded away, revealing a staircase that led downward.

  She had no time to waste. Gathering her courage, Lune hurried below — and prayed the threat of the Hunt had done its job.

  THE ONYX HALL, LONDON: May 9, 1590

  The marble walls resonated with the thunder above, trembling, but holding strong.

  Seated upon her throne, Invidiana might have been a statue. Her face betrayed no tension — had been nothing but a frozen mask since a hideous female giant brought word that the Wild Hunt rode against London.

  Whatever he might say against her, Deven had to grant Invidiana this: s
he was indeed a Queen. She gave orders crisply, sending her minions running, and in less time than he would have believed possible, the defense of the Onyx Hall was mustered.

  The presence chamber was all but empty. Those who had not gone to the battle had departed, hiding in their chambers, or fleeing entirely, in the hope of finding some safety.

  Most, but not all. Invidiana, motionless upon her throne, was flanked by two elf knights, black-haired twin brothers. They stood with swords unsheathed, prepared to defend her with their lives. A human woman with a wasted, sunken face and dead eyes crouched at the foot of the dais.

  And Achilles stood near Deven, clad only in sandals and a loincloth, his body tense with desire to join in the slaughter.

  The thunder grew stronger, until the entire chamber shook. A crashing sound: some of the filigree had detached from between the arches, and plummeted to the floor. Deven glanced up, then rolled out of the way just in time to save himself as an entire pane of crystal shattered upon the stones.

  Achilles laughed at him, fingers caressing the hilt of the archaic Greek sword he wore.

  Where was Lune, in it all? Up in the sky, riding with the Hunt to save him? Battling at some entrance against guards that would keep her from the Onyx Hall?

  Would she bring the miracle he needed?

  He hoped so. But a miracle would not be enough; when she arrived, Achilles and the two elf knights would destroy her.

  His sword was gone, broken in the battle against Achilles; he had not even a knife with which to defend himself. And he had no chance of simply snatching a weapon from the mortal or the knights. While he struggled with one, the others would get him from behind.

  His eye fell upon the debris that now littered the floor, and a thought came to him.

  They said Suspiria had called her lover Tiresias, for his gift. She had clearly continued the practice, naming Achilles for the great warrior of Greek legend.

  Deven glanced upward. More elements of the structure were creaking, cracking; he dove suddenly to one side, as if fearing another would fall on him. The movement brought him closer to Achilles, and when he rose to a kneeling position, a piece of crystal was cold in his palm, its razor edges drawing blood.