20 Wisdom crieth without; she uttereth her voice in the streets:
21 She crieth in the chief place of concourse, in the openings of the gates: in the
city she uttereth her words, saying,
22 How long, ye simple ones, will ye love simplicity? and the scorners delight in their
scorning, and fools hate knowledge?
23 Turn you at my reproof: behold, I will pour out my spirit unto you, I will make
known my words unto you.
24 Because I have called, and ye refused; I have stretched out my hand, and no man
regarded;
25 But ye have set at nought all my counsel, and would none of my reproof:
26 I also will laugh at your calamity; I will mock you when your fear cometh;
27 When your fear cometh as desolation, and your destruction cometh as a whirlwind;
when distress and anguish cometh upon you.
28 Then shall they call upon me, but I will not answer; they shall seek me early, but
they shall not find me.
-- Proverbs 1:20-28
*****And though that he were worthy, he was wys,
And of his port as meke as is a mayde.
He never yet no vileinye ne sayde
In al his lyf, unto no maner wight.
He was a verray, parfit, gentil knyght.
-- Geoffrey Chaucer, General Prologue to The Canterbury Tales
Rosencrantz: I don't believe in it anyway.
Guildenstern: What?
Rosencrantz: England.
Guildenstern: Just a conspiracy of cartographers, you mean?
-- Tom Stoppard, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead
No sound of footfalls disturbs the hush as the man -- not nearly so young as he appears -- moves through the shadows where the lights do not reach.
His whisper drifts through the air, echoing from the cool stone of the walls.
"She loves me . . . she loves me not."
His clothes are rich, thick velvet and shining satin, black and silver against the pale skin that has not seen sunlight for decades. His dark hair hangs loose, not disciplined into curls, and his short beard has grown untidy.
"She loves me . . . she loves me not."
The slender fingers pluck at something invisible in his hands, as if pulling petals from a flower, one by one, and letting them fall, forgotten.
"She loves me . . . she loves me not."
He stops abruptly, peering into the shadows, then reaches up with one shaking hand to touch his eyes. "She wants to take them from me, you know," he confides to whatever he sees -- or thinks he sees. The haze of too many years dreaming is overtaking him once more. "She spoke of it again today. Taking my eyes -- Tiresias was blind. He was also a woman betimes; did you know that? He had a daughter. I have no daughter."
The faraway look on his face becomes melancholy. "I had a family once. Brothers, sisters, a mother and father -- I was to be married. I might have had a daughter. But they are all gone now. She took them from me, so that I would have only her."
He sinks back against the wall, heedless of the grime that mars his fine clothing, and slides down to sit on the floor. This is one of the back corridors of the Onyx Hall, far from the cold, glittering beauty of the Court. She lets him wander, though never far. But who does she hurt by keeping him close -- him, or herself? He is the only one who remembers what this Court once was, in its earliest days. Sometimes he thinks even she has chosen to forget.
"That which is above is like that which is below," he whispers to his unseen companion, a product of his fevered mind. "And that which is below is like that which is above." Turning his head, he looks upward, as if to see through the stones and magics which keep the Onyx Hall hidden, to the glorious Tudor Court that rules the mortal world.
"Ah, Faustus," he murmurs,
"Now hast thou but one bare hour to live,
And then thou must be damned perpetually!
Stand still, you ever-moving spheres of heaven,
That time may cease and midnight never come!"
His laugh is soft, little more than a clicking in his throat. Did a fae quote those lines in his hearing, from a visit to the theatres above? Or did he learn them in a dream? The time when he could tell is long since past.
His gaze falls to his hands, and he lifts them once more, as if recalling the flower he held a moment ago.
"She loves me . . . she loves me not . . . she loves me . . . .
"She loves me not."
As summer fades into fall and the leaves begin to turn, rumours spread, in the City and out of it. No one knows where the rumours began, but they grow stronger as the weeks go by, until at last, not long before Samhain, messengers ride out to the farthest corners of Albion. In the City of the Tower, the message is delivered by the chimerical ravens, in a faithful imitation of King Dallin's resonant voice.
"My fellow fae of Albion.
"I address you as fellows, not as subjects, for the rumours you have heard are true: the Dreaming no longer recognizes me as King.
"Were this fall due to mine own error, I would accept my failure with shame, and stand aside for my successor. This wound, however, goes deeper than that. The very dream of kingship was weakened when Charles, by the Grace of God, King of England, Scotland, France and Ireland, Defender of the Faith, and first of his name, was executed at Whitehall Palace. Now, it seems, it has weakened yet further. The Dreaming has not merely ceased to recognize myself as King: it does not recognize any King over Albion.
"Whatever your own feelings on the matter which so vexes the mortals now, I pray that all recognize the hurt the Dreaming has suffered.
"I send this message to all the fae of Albion, not merely to mark this dark time, but to issue a call to arms. Long has it been since this land of ours saw a quest in the style of old. Let any fae who stands in defense of the Dreaming ride forth, with this object: to restore the dream of kingship to its place.
"I cannot promise that sovereignty and title to whomsoever succeeds in this quest; that will be for the Dreaming to judge. I do promise, with my most solemn oath, to grant any boon in my power to that person. Be he Kithain or Gallain, chimera or kinain, Seelie or Unseelie, childling, wilder, or grump, whomsoever restores our wounded dream will have my gratitude, and the honor of all Albion.
"Your former sovereign, and still a faithful servant of Albion, Dallin Cynefrid."
In the churchyard of the newly-rebuilt Cathedral of St. Paul, nine people wait. To most eyes, they are a strange group: men and women, short and tall, respectable and scruffy and everything in between. To their own eyes, the variety sorts itself into meaningful pattern: nine people, nine fae, a Seelie representative of every major kith. Others loiter in the crowd of mortals wandering the churchyard, watching, but they stand at a distance. These nine wait together.
Across the City of the Tower, bells ring out, a staggered chorus from clocks that keep slightly different time. The nine stand waiting when the chorus begins, and they stand waiting when it ends.
Noon has come and gone on Beltaine day. And the Master of the Tower has not appeared.
Clang-Tom's jaw clenches briefly, and he spits out a tired curse. "Bastard did it."
The short companion at his side touches his shoulder. "You knew he was going to," Jocko Goodemeade says.
Behind them, the other representatives of the Seelie Court are murmuring amongst themselves. The fae watching from elsewhere in the churchyard shift uneasily, as they realize what has happened. Cyclical rule has governed the City for years. Now it has been disrupted -- perhaps ended.
The Seelie Council waits a while longer, just in case, but no one expects Harrow Bonecruncher to come. Eventually they leave, retiring to Clang-Tom's freehold, hoping to come up with a plan to counter Bonecruncher's move.
Not until they get back to the freehold do they realize that one of their number has vanished.
***
The tall, handsome figure looks out of place in this cracked, disused sewer in the Borough of Shadows. His boots splash through the thin stream of water that has collected in it -- runoff from the morning's rain -- but he pays his surroundings no heed. Soon he comes to a junction of tunnels, and there he waits.
A voice comes from the shadows, deep and smooth. "As expected, then."
"Yes." Sir Cedric does not bother trying to look for the source of the voice. He merely relates, in quick but thorough summary, the responses made by each of his fellow representatives on the Seelie Council.
Silence follows his words. Then the voice says, "Thank you. Keep me informed."
Cedric hesitates, then says, "Sir? Do you want me to . . . do anything?"
"No. Not until I learn more of Bonecruncher's plans. Don't let them do anything stupid."
Cedric nods, bows to the darkness, and departs. Alone in the sewer, the voice sighs heavily, then murmurs to himself.
"There may *be* nothing to do."
"This living hand, now warm and capable
Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
And in the icy silence of the tomb,
So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
That thou would wish thine own heart dry of blood
So in my veins red life might stream again,
And thou be conscience-calmed -- see here it is --
I hold it towards you."
-- John Keats
unpublished poem
1819
Beneath the fog and smoke of Georgian London, two opposing forces strive: the dreamlike fervor of Romanticism, and the mechanical power of industry. Disease and poverty ravage the City of the Tower, and without a lord to keep order, the Goblin Market and groups even less savory conduct their business unchecked. It is a dark time for dreams, but nightmares flourish in every shadow.
CHARCOAL EDDIE'S FINGERPRINTS ARE ALL OVER THE TOWER OF LONDON.
NOW HE'S DEAD AND I'M TO BLAME.
EDDIE'S DEAD, LONG LIVE EDDIE.
EDDIE'S DEAD, LONG LIVE EDDIE.
The words are scrawled on the wall of a Markets pub, and by Tuesday morning, rumour has spread like wildfire around the City of the Tower. Charcoal Eddie is dead -- killed by cold iron, they say. Dozens of explanations are offered: he committed suicide out of remorse for his crime of stealing the ravens. The Seelie Court murdered him in punishment. The Shadow Court used him as a pawn, and disposed of him when they were done. Charcoal Eddie's fae soul was actually a fomori, and now it's fled back to its dark masters.
Worse than those rumours are the ones that say he wasn't the first one to die.
The Lord Chancellor of the Tower issues a statement by raven, reassuring citizens that there's no need to fear -- but no one is reassured.
And everyone is wondering who will be next.