It was clear he wouldn’t be easily diverted, but he could be sped along. “You needn’t repeat the experiment again,” Galen said. “We trust your work. Just tell us your conclusion.”
“Aether does exist.”
Lune stood a short distance away, hands gently clasped against her skirts. “I fear I haven’t Lord Galen’s education, Dr. Andrews. What does that mean?”
“Aether,” he repeated, pronouncing the word clearly. “Said by Aristotle to be the fifth element, the quintessence. At the time that Newton performed this experiment, the thought was that aether existed everywhere, penetrating all solid things. His pendulums showed that it did not. My pendulums show that it does.”
Galen understood his point—to an extent. “Another facet of reality that’s different in faerie spaces. But what is the significance?”
“Faerie spaces! Exactly, Mr. St. Clair. I propose—though I’ve had little time to think it through; I’ve only just finished the calculations for the pendulums—that it is the presence of aether which defines faerie spaces, and differentiates them from ordinary ones. And furthermore, it may resolve a conundrum I’ve been pondering for some time now.”
His voice, Galen noticed, was lighter than it had been, as if Andrews were speaking using only his throat, not the resonance of his chest. A sign of the man’s agitated excitement? Or a symptom of his worsening illness? I fear we’ll lose him before we’re done. I would fear to lose him at all, but I’m not sure it can be avoided—not by any means short of the philosopher’s stone.
“The Dragon,” Andrews said, recalling Galen to himself, “is a spirit of fire. So people have told me on many occasions. And I’ve heard the tale of its exile, the light of its heart being projected onto the comet. But what of its body? Is it a spirit, or a creature?”
Lune, the only one of them who had seen it with her own eyes, said, “It had a body. What we placed in the prison was its heart.”
“Then what was its body composed of?” Andrews asked. “If the spirit is fire, and if those elements obtain in this world—”
“Aether.” Now Galen saw what he aimed at. “You think faerie bodies are aethereal.”
“They could be. The transmission of your Dragon to the comet could, I think, have given it an airy component, which is why I judge it to be sophic sulphur, which shares the qualities of fire and air. And at present—if I am right—it is fire and air without aether, for it is without a body.” Andrews’s vitality seemed to drain away all at once. His hand groped vaguely in the air; then he turned, searched, and found a chair next to his main working table, into which he sank with a sigh. “But we have only one half of the equation. We still need sophic mercury.”
Galen wished—rather childishly—that Lune would be the one to tell him about their concerns. But no; this was his responsibility, and he knew it. “That is what we came for, Dr. Andrews. There is . . . a difficulty.”
He paced a few steps, made himself stop, and clasped his hands behind his back. “If what you say is correct, then we must separate the principle from its aethereal component—yes? But the only established method for doing so would kill the source. And that isn’t acceptable.”
“The source . . .” Andrews’s fingers curled into the stained handkerchief they held. “Mr. St. Clair—have you found one?”
“Abd ar-Rashid believes he has,” Galen answered, each word coming out leaden with reluctance.
“Where?”
He couldn’t say it. Tension rendered him mute. Lune, motionless where she stood, did it for him. “In me.”
Andrews shot to his feet and staggered, off balance, before catching himself against the table. “You— Ah, yes, it would be feminine, I suppose—”
“It is the moon queen,” she said, and her hair seemed to shine brighter with the words, as if to make her point. “Matched with the sun king. I know a little of alchemy, from old experience, and I believe the genie is right.”
“But we can’t do it,” Galen said, finding his tongue once more. “At least, not in the same manner as the Dragon. There are two things you must understand, Dr. Andrews. The first is that no one—no one—can be permitted to hear of this. We three know, and Abd ar-Rashid, but even the rest of the scholars must be kept in the dark. Our problems are not merely intellectual, but also political; the danger of this news is very great.”
The doctor nodded, clearly only half-attending to Galen’s words. “The second,” Galen went on, more forcefully still, “is that we will not proceed with any attempt to create the philosopher’s stone unless we have devised a way to extract this principle without harming her Grace. Or for that matter, any other faerie, should a substitute be found. Do you understand?”
Andrews’s eyes cleared of their fog, and this time his nod was more sincere—but also hesitant. “I do, Mr. St. Clair. Your Majesty. If I may, ah, present a certain argument, though . . .”
“You may always speak,” Lune assured him. “We brought you here for your thoughts; they are of no use to anyone if not shared.”
He twisted his bony hands around one another and began to wander, stepping on his fallen handkerchief as he went. “The philosopher’s stone is more than a means of creating gold. It is perfection, and it creates perfection. It has the potential to heal every gouty gentleman in Westminster, every fever-stricken child in Seven Dials—to transform our society into a veritable paradise on earth.
“At the present moment, we have, or believe we have, one half of what is needed, which—if true—is further than any alchemist has likely got since the world began. Nor is it some tiny spark of a salamander’s heart, either: it is a Dragon. One stripped of its body, which has voyaged through space itself. A purity and power unmatched by any other.”
He paused for breath, and Galen spoke into the gap. “You believe this to be, not just a chance to make the philosopher’s stone, but our only chance.”
Andrews managed a faint laugh. “As much as I can be sure of anything, which is not much. But yes—if it can be done at all, I think it can be done now. And perhaps not ever again. And madam . . .” The beseeching in his face was painful to see. “Is that not an achievement worthy of sacrifice?”
For the briefest instant, Galen though he saw a glitter in Andrews’s eyes. A strange light, that saw beyond reality—even the reality of a faerie palace—into visions of that which was not. Only a touch, the merest whisper of madness . . . but it was there.
Or perhaps Galen imagined it, because the alternative was too dreadful to contemplate. That a man, in full possession of his sanity, might suggest that Lune sacrifice her life.
He could not bear to look at Lune, and therefore heard only her voice, as cool and unruffled as ever. “Dr. Andrews—this is still no more than speculation. You can craft a pretty argument that alchemy works in this realm, and that the Dragon is your sulphur; but we have no certainty that it’s true.”
To Galen’s relief, Andrews nodded, with no sign of mad delusion. “This was the flaw of Aristotle; he and his brethren thought the world could be understood by reasoning alone, without need of experimental testing. Our situation is unfortunately complicated by the impossibility of proper tests; when the Dragon comes, we will have only a single chance to transform it. I’m aware of the uncertainty, madam, and will do everything I can do reduce it. But I beg you—as abominable as it is of me to say this—please consider what we stand to gain.”
Galen’s mouth gone dry. It wasn’t madness, as much as he wished it were. If their reasoning proved correct, then the benefit would be incalculable.
But so would the cost.
Hating himself for that thought, Galen finally turned to Lune. Speaking as much to her as to the doctor, he said, “But we will find another way. That, Dr. Andrews, is what the experimentation is for. Like miners, we will draw the metal from the ore.” He cursed his choice of metaphor the instant it left his mouth, as his imagination supplied him with reminders of smelting. The ore did not survive the process unharmed.
/> Still, Andrews nodded. His expression had gone thoughtful again. “It will be difficult, Mr. St. Clair, to work on that matter without the assistance of your scholars. Two mortal men and one heathen faerie—we aren’t likely to get far on our own.”
Lady Feidelm, Wrain, Savennis. More distantly, the von das Tickens and Ktistes. Lune moved for the first time since she had entered, studying the room; not the furnishings, but the walls and fittings. “We can ensure that nothing said in here will be overheard. I would keep the number to a minimum—only those that work with you here. That, I think, will be safe enough.”
So not the dwarves or the centaur. Galen wondered it if was mere accident that excluded the foreigners. Well, Lady Feidelm is Irish. She has been here longer, though, and proved her loyalty to this court. And Abd ar-Rashid—but they could hardly leave him out, when he was the one who pointed to the moon queen in the first place.
“Be careful,” Galen said, bowing to necessity. “And work fast. The sooner we have an alternative, the safer we will all be.”
And not only against the Dragon.
The Onyx Hall, London: November 14, 1758
Irrith only rarely attended court. The pageantry could be amusing at times, but the business Lune conducted during that time interested her very little. It was, however, the one place she could be sure of finding Valentin Aspell—aside from his chambers, and visiting him there would draw far too much attention.
The greater presence chamber, when she arrived, seemed much emptier than she recalled. Even a full court, summoning everyone in the Onyx Hall, didn’t really fill the enormous space, but the assembled lords and ladies seemed like a handful of dice rattling around in an oversized box. Leaning over to Segraine, who was not on duty today, Irrith whispered, “Where is everyone?”
The lady knight shook her head almost imperceptibly. “Fewer every time. Some are still in the city, but drawing back; others have gone entirely.”
As Carline had predicted they would. And the comet hadn’t even been sighted yet.
Lune called forward Sir Peregrin, the Captain of the Onyx Guard. Four knights followed him, carrying a long, narrow box, which they placed on the floor when they knelt. The captain said, “Your Majesty, the yarthkin Hempry has hafted a piece of the jotun ice to length of ash.” He gestured, and the knights uncovered the box, revealing an an enormously long pike, its end glinting with the same near-invisible material Irrith had seen them wrestling with a year ago. “I have selected these four to be your spear-knights: Sir Adenant, Sir Thrandin, Sir Emaus, and my lieutenant Sir Cerenel. They will stand ready to do battle with the Dragon, and to stab it through its fiery heart, for the defense of the Onyx Hall.”
The Dragon might or might not have a body when it returned, but it would have a heart; that much, they were certain of. Lune thanked the spear-knights and made a speech Irrith didn’t bother listening to. She waited impatiently until court was adjourned, then drifted in Aspell’s direction, knowing better than to run straight for him. Still, the Lord Keeper glared when she drew near. “I am quite busy, Dame Irrith.”
“I have something to tell you,” she whispered. He was the one who brought her into this; if her inability to skulk well bothered him, it was his own damned fault.
His thin-lipped mouth barely moved in response. “Crow’s Head. Two hours.”
For a meeting like this, it was probably the safest place in the Onyx Hall, given the copies of The Ash and Thorn scattered around. And it wouldn’t be easy to slip spies past Hafdean, the surly hob who kept the place. Irrith, lacking a pocket-watch, went early, and sat beneath the preserved human head mounted prominently on the wall. Magrat wasn’t in her usual place. Perhaps the church grim was off haunting some religious folk.
Eventually Hafdean nudged her in passing. Irrith hadn’t seen Aspell come in, nor anyone under a glamour, but she wasn’t surprised; she went through a door at the back of the main room and found herself in a small chamber that undoubtedly had another, hidden exit. Aspell was there, pacing. “You had best not make a habit of this, Dame Irrith. What do you want?”
“To tell you something Lune isn’t making public,” Irrith said, ignoring the insult in his tone. “I think only she and the Prince know about this.” Galen had brought it up while they lay in bed together, not so much conversing with Irrith as talking at her, voicing his fears like that would exorcise them. “Do you know what Dr. Andrews has been up to?”
The Lord Keeper waved dismissively. “Some mortal thing, involving experiments and calculations. Savennis and those other bookish sorts are helping him.”
As she’d suspected. The Queen was keeping this very quiet indeed. But Aspell needed to know, so he wouldn’t do anything rash.
Irrith explained to him about the philosopher’s stone, as well as she understood it. “It isn’t ready yet; they need the other half, this mercury, and apparently that will be difficult to create. Still, it’s different from anything anybody’s thought of in the last fifty years, and I think it’s more likely to work than those bloody spear-knights.”
Aspell’s pacing had halted while she spoke; now he leaned against the dirty wall and crossed his arms. “And you are telling me this because . . .”
“Because you need to know they do have a plan. Not to trap or kill the Dragon, but to change it. That’s better than—than what you were talking about. Before.” Even in the Crow’s Head—perhaps especially in the Crow’s Head—she didn’t feel comfortable naming it directly.
He seemed amused. “So you’ve brought me this confidence in order that I might know we have other hopes. And therefore not pursue this one too far?”
“Yes!” she said angrily, hands tightening into fists. “You said it was a last resort; I’m telling you we have others that can come before it.”
His thin mouth hardened into a stone line. “Dame Irrith, I think you fail to understand something very important: if it does come to that extremity, we shall have little or no time in which to act. A last resort is, by its nature, the thing one does when the alternative is immediate disaster. We cannot abandon our preparations unless there is a surety of success with some other plan—and in truth, not even then, for this is too great a threat to admit of complacency.”
For all the soundness of his argument, it still produced a queasy feeling in Irrith’s stomach. “What preparations, though? You said you would do nothing against the Queen’s will.”
“Indeed.” He drew close, much closer than she liked, and dropped his voice so not even the sharpest-eared goblin at the keyhole could have overheard what he said next. “You already know what I mean, Dame Irrith. The Queen must agree to sacrifice herself. And if she is to do that in time to save London, then it must not come as a surprise; her mind must be prepared for the idea. When the choice comes, there will be no time for explanations or arguments.”
Cold ran down Irrith’s back as if someone had poured the deepest, blackest waters of the Thames over her head. He was right—and right that she already knew. After all, what had that conversation with Lune on All Hallows’ Eve been, if not an attempt to raise the specter of death in Lune’s mind?
She whispered, “Galen would never let her. He loves Lune too much. He’d die before he let harm come to her.”
“Can he be prepared?”
To give up Lune? Not a chance. So she might lose them both: Lune, in trying to save the city, and Galen, in trying to save her.
It felt like someone had placed iron bands around her heart. She didn’t want to lose either one. Even wounded, Lune still commanded Irrith’s respect and admiration; were it not for those two physical flaws, Irrith would have no desire to see her replaced. Who else could balance out this lunatic court, faeries and mortals and ambassadors from distant lands?
But it did little good to save the Queen and lose her court. “So you want me to make certain she’s thought about this. Before the Dragon comes.”
“You are close to her,” Aspell said, still in that all-but-silent murmur. “
And she respects your honesty. If you say it to her, she will listen. She may not agree—not immediately—but the idea will stay in her mind.”
Irrith thought he held her influence in much too high esteem; she wouldn’t call herself “close” to Lune. But it couldn’t hurt to try. If they found some better way, then Lune would never have to face that choice at all.
“Very well,” she muttered, staring blindly at her toes. “I’ll do what I can.” Let him think I mean only what he asked for.
She would speak to Lune, yes. The rest of her time, she would spend in the Temple of Arms, training to battle the Dragon. If it came to Lune sacrificing herself, it would only be after Irrith had done everything possible to prevent it.
I don’t know that I’m willing to die to protect her. But by Ash and Thorn, I’m willing to fight.
The Onyx Hall, London: November 21, 1758
Abd ar-Rashid had gone into the Calendar Room again, to contemplate ways of obtaining sophic mercury without danger to Lune; he would not emerge for eleven days. Lune herself spent half her waking hours with the Goodemeades, using their countless connections of friendship to persuade undecided faeries to stay. Neither of these were matters Galen could help with, and Dr. Andrews had gone back to Red Lion Square for a much needed respite.
In that brief lull, Galen decided that he had put a certain matter off for much too long, and went in search of Irrith.
He found her at last in the Temple of Arms, where he was not looking for her; the sprite was friends with Dame Segraine, and he thought the lady knight might know where to find her. He was startled instead to discover Irrith practicing against the musket targets, with her mouth set in a fierce grimace.
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