Ink and Steel by Elizabeth Bear Page B

bells, as if she stood, or stretched, or danced a step and stopped.
    His breath froze in his belly when she said his name. She’s just a wench, he thought desperately. She’s ensorcelled me. This is sorcery. Glamourie.
    â€œGentle Christofer.” Another whisper of bells. Robin got up and shuffled aside. He didn’t dare raise his eyes. “You grace our court with your presence. We have seen your work. It pleases us, and we know of your other duties before your Queen, and Gloriana pleases us as well.”
    Somewhere, he found a voice, although it didn’t sound like his own. “You are gracious, Your Majesty.”
    â€œLook upon us,” she said, and his chin lifted without his conscious will. I am bewitched, he thought, and then realized how close she had somehow drifted, silent as a thistledown. She reached out with soft fingertips, laced them through his hair, and traced the outline of his ear as if exploring a flower petal. He whimpered low in his throat, an anxious whine, and gritted his teeth as a low, amused chuckle swept the room.
    They knew what she was doing to him. His breath came like a runner’s around the fire in his chest, but he managed to answer in pleasant tones. “Yes, Your Highness.”
    Like velvet stroked along his spine, like a hand in the hollow of his back, her voice kept on. “I’d grant you a place in my court, Master Poet. Your old life is lost to you. Will you play for my pleasure, sir?” A little ripple of delight colored her tone at her own double meaning.
    â€œI’m sworn to another—” he began.
    The hardest words he could imagine speaking then, but the Mebd cut him short with a wave of her lily-white hand. Pearls and diamonds slid about her wrist when she moved, and emeralds and amethysts sparkled on her fingers. “Hath been our royal pleasure to assist our sovereign sister Elizabeth in maintenance of her realm, whether she wits it or not. She’ll not grudge us your service, Master Poet—”
    â€œSir Poet.” A voice like the yowl of a cat after the Mebd’s silken perfection. A voice from his blind side.
    Kit turned his head. Morgan stood beside him and a few steps back, her hands loose by her sides as she dropped a brief curtsey to the Queen. “I’ve knighted him, sister dear.”
    â€œAh.” The Queen let her fingers trail across Kit’s neck. “Stand, then, Sir Poet.”
    Her voice said she smiled, but her eyes didn’t show it, and Kit struggled but didn’t have to take Morgan’s subtly offered hand. “A man cannot serve two Queens, Your Highness,” Kit said softly, against the pressure within that told him to throw himself down and kiss this woman’s slipper, the perfect hem of her perfect gown. “Much as it may pain him.” He shook his head, in pain. “Oh, thou art fairer than the evening air / Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars; / Brighter art thou than flaming Jupiter / When he appear’d to hapless Semele: / More lovely than the monarch of the sky / In wanton Arethusa’s azured arms . . .”
    â€œYour Faustus ,” she said, but she seemed well pleased. She stepped back, a silver slipper gliding through the rose petals curling on the tile, and Kit felt something snap in the air between them as cleanly as if he’d broken a glass rod between his hands. “We know it.” She settled back on her chair. “Thou canst never go home, Christofer Marley. Art dead unto them.”
    Kit swallowed around the dryness in his throat. The dream was broken, the moment of perfection fled like the touch of the Queen’s soft hand. His belly ached, his chest, his ballocks, his face; he trembled, and only half with exhaustion. “Your Highness,” he said, and his voice was again his own, if raw as the cawing of crows. “I crave a boon.”
    â€œA boon?” She leaned forward in a tinkle of bells. “We