Deeds of Men by Marie Brennan Page B

enchanted palace, hidden beneath the streets of London. That was the whole purpose of its presence here: to bring together two worlds which otherwise stood aloof. “When I am gone,” Deven said, “and you are in your grief…what will become of your promise then?”
    She answered him fiercely. “I will keep it. Do you think I would not?”
    “I have every belief you will. But for you to search for a successor, in such a moment…”
    He left the sentence unfinished. Lune sighed, the fire going out of her body. “I know,” she said, and shifted closer, so she could lay her head upon his shoulder, and he could curl his arm about her waist. “If I cannot face the thought now, how can I face the deed then?”
    Deven slid his cheek along the cool silver of her hair. “I have a thought for that. Not a full remedy, I fear, but—”
    A tremor in her body; it turned out to be amusement. “What, no miracle? My faith in your omnipotence is shattered.”
    Deven smiled. If she could find the heart to jest, then he did not fear to go on. “I am two things to you: your lover, and the man who rules at your side. One of these will be replaced. Might it not therefore profit us to separate the two? Create a title, some office I may occupy in my capacity as your consort. Such a thing may be passed on— before I am gone.”
    She had not expected it. And it drove back the fear, at least a little; Lune sat up and tilted her head to a familiar angle, considering the prospect. After a moment, a smile curved her sculpted lips, and she gave him a merry look. “You mortal courtiers—always seeking advancement, honours, titles…”
    “Your gold turns to leaves in the world above,” he said with a mock-apologetic bow. “I must have something to show for all my flattery and service.”
    Lune’s merriment faded too quickly, but not to anger or melancholy. “’Tis a thought,” she admitted, “and a useful one, too. To make of this a political thing…wouldst be a faerie king, then?”
    He hadn’t aimed that high, and she laughed to see the startlement on his face. “Prince, perhaps,” she suggested. “Enough to make you royal.”
    And not enough to imply he stood above her. It was one of the reasons Elizabeth had never wed: few husbands would agree to the lesser position of consort, leaving their Queen-wives to rule the realm. But Deven had been a consort for decades, and did not mind. He said, “Prince of something? Not Wales, obviously; the Tylwyth Teg would not thank us for that. But it needs more than the bare word.” He pondered for a moment, then suggested, “Prince of the London Stone?”
    Lune frowned. “I’d liefer keep that secret; ’tis too vital to the security of our realm.”
    Vital was perhaps too mild a word for it; that unimpressive block was the heart of the Onyx Hall. She was right to keep it concealed. The sound of the phrase appealed to him, though. “Prince of the Stone, then,” Deven amended. “Where the stone in question might be the onyx of the Hall.”
    She repeated his words, as if tasting them. “It might do,” she said at last. “And some ceremony to bestow it upon you. Then you may bear it until another is found.”
    Found, not prepared. No doubt Lune had already surveyed the prospects, even as he had, and deemed them lacking. Few mortals had any dealings with the Onyx Court, despite his and Lune’s efforts; even fewer of them knew it. The fae were slow to entrust their secrets, when iron and Christian faith could hurt them so badly. Of those who walked these halls freely, none, in Deven’s opinion, was fit to be his successor.
    You are hardly an impartial judge, he reminded himself wryly. No more than Lune. Both their hearts were bound up in this matter, and to contemplate a change was painful.
    But that was, after all, the point of doing it.
    He made himself think. A gentleman, at the least—someone with political connections and influence, who could be of use to Lune. Politically