Free In Ashes Lie by Marie Brennan Page B

barely waited for the word to leave her mouth. Quick as a snake, he leapt forward, and Leslic recoiled. With a rapid flurry of blows, they crossed the sand, Leslic dodging aside from a thrust to keep from being trapped against the low wall. No question of it: Cerenel was a fine swordsman.
    But Leslic had for the last year been tutored by Il Veloce, an Italian faun resident in the Onyx Hall. He had a clever dagger hand, and was quick to use Cerenel’s momentum against him. First once, then again, the dark knight found his accuser unexpectedly within his guard, and saved himself only with a desperate twist away.
    The silence that had marked their beginning was long since broken, fae shouting out encouragement to the one they favored. Cerenel’s name sounded but rarely. Leslic was the hero of the moment, but that was not all; listening, Lune identified more of his allies, more fae who shared his views on mortals. Their approval did not stop at one dead murderer.
    Below, the blades continued their glittering dance. Whether above or below, the point of a duel was to show oneself willing to defend one’s honor; the outcome was almost immaterial. Almost, but not quite: in the final accounting, Cerenel had been negligent. Leslic’s words were true. And so while the audience came hoping for a good show, everyone knew how it would end.
    Leslic beat his opponent back to the wall and trapped his sword against it; the swift thrust of his dagger would have maimed Cerenel’s hand, had the other knight not abandoned his sword and pulled away. But however desperately he retreated, twisting and leaping, he could not defend himself long with only a knife, and Leslic closed in for the kill.
    “Hold!” Lune called out, just before the blade would have slid home.
    Cerenel had fallen to his knees; the tip of Leslic’s rapier stopped a mere finger’s-breadth from his throat. Duels rarely went to the death, but in a matter touching so closely on the Queen’s honor, no one would have faulted Leslic. To proud to cry craven and thus save his life, Cerenel would have died.
    But Lune had other plans for him.
    “To shed the blood of a fae is an abominable thing,” she said. “Such a fate, we must reserve for true traitors to our realm. The negligence of Cerenel has been proved. Let his punishment be thus: that for a year and a day, he be exiled from the Onyx Court and all its dominions, and his place in our guard revoked. But when that time ends, he will be welcomed back in our halls, and may in time regain the honors he formerly held.”
    Did she imagine the brief flash of anger in Leslic’s eyes? It was quickly hidden, regardless; he sheathed his rapier and dagger and said, “Your Majesty’s wisdom and mercy is a great gift to this realm.”
    Looking across the sand, Lune caught the gazes of the Goodemeades, who nodded minutely.
    “Go,” she said to Cerenel, where he still knelt in the sand. “Your exile begins at once.”

THE ANGEL INN, ISLINGTON : May 11, 1640
    “Would you like more privacy, madam?”
    “No,” Lune said. “That will not be necessary.”
    She hoped it would not. If matters had come to such a pass that she needed to take elaborate measures to protect her secrets, she was in a worse state than she believed. But Lune doubted anyone would be following her movements closely enough to eavesdrop on the comfortable chamber in which she now sat.
    Not yet, at least.
    Cerenel stood rigid by the hearth, hands locked behind his back. He had accepted the Goodemeades’ offer of shelter; their home lay within the bounds of Lune’s realm, but Rosamund had assured him the Queen would not take it amiss if he tarried there a single night. Lune had watched his face settle into hard, understanding lines when she came down the staircase and threw back the hood of her concealing cloak.
    She came out in secret, not even informing Sir Prigurd of her departure. It was easy enough to ensure she would not be disturbed in her chamber—all