“It makes matters easier,” he said, as they approached the Hall of Figures, where the gems of the Onyx Hall’s statuary were kept. “I have chambers here in the palace, and often stay in them; if you’ve heard Cynthia complain of my absences, that is why. Having one valet who can attend me in both worlds is simpler than managing two. The servants who maintain my quarters are faeries, though.”
“Perhaps I—” Delphia began, then lost the rest of it in a gasp. They stood at the top of a half flight of stairs, which gave a splendid view of the long gallery, lined on both sides with statues. Some, in imitation of mortal habit, had been pillaged from Italy and Greece. Others were older and cruder, or simply stranger, taken from no land or time Galen knew of. He’d never liked this place; the frozen ranks of figures unnerved him too much. But Delphia, seeing them for the first time, was entranced.
Then he realized her eyes were fixed on the far end of the gallery, where stairs led up again to a dais and the far doors, and a single statue stood in glory.
They made their way toward it slowly, for there were other things in the chamber worth seeing. On this side, an enormous head, so lifelike it might have been taken from a noble-faced giant; across the way, a strange tangle of honey-veined marble, a figure half-emerging from the trunk of a tree. But mere stone was by comparison a weak thing, so before long they climbed the stairs and stood before the sculpture Galen liked least in all the Onyx Hall.
The flames spiraling around the central form gave off enough heat to prove their reality, not enough to drive the viewer back. They moved, though, writhing and twisting, and created the illusion that the figure trapped within them was moving, too. He towered above Galen’s and Delphia’s heads, hands clenched around semisolid flames, massive shoulders hunched as if to tear his enemy apart, and such was the skill of the artisan that it was impossible to tell which was winning, giant or flames.
Delphia held one hand up, fingers glowing against the ruddy light, and breathed, “What is this one?”
“A memorial.” Galen wrapped his arms around his body, though it was impossible to be cold while standing upon the dais. “This realm’s answer to the Monument to the Great Fire. Have you ever been there?”
She nodded. “The view from its gallery is splendid.”
“There are folk here who remember that fire—who saw it with their own eyes. Who fought it.” The curling flames, twining serpentlike around the statue, trapped his gaze and would not let him go. “I told you there were less pleasant things, ones Mrs. Vesey does not know about. This is one of them.”
Delphia turned away from her contemplation, hand dropping to her side. “What do you mean?”
He gestured at the statue. “That’s meant to represent a giant in battle with the Dragon. The Fire was more than flames, Delphia; it was a great beast, that tried to devour all of London—and succeeded in devouring a great deal of it. While the mortals fought the blaze, the fae battled its spirit. And in the end they imprisoned it.”
With the light behind her, Delphia’s expression was hard to read, but he thought he saw her brow furrow. “A grand and terrible bit of history . . . but you look as if it troubles you even now.”
“It troubles us all,” he whispered. “Because it’s coming back, Delphia. The comet everyone is waiting for—that is the Dragon’s prison. If I have been tired and distracted and absent these past months, it’s because the day is not far off when we will be back to this.” And he gestured at the statue, the faerie locked in combat with the beast.
She cast a glance over her shoulder, then back at him. “You mean—some kind of battle?”
“We hope not. But I fear—” He shivered, and pressed his elbows into his ribs, as if that would stop it. “I fear that all our clever plans will come to nothing, and it will be this. Battle against an immortal beast, in order to save London. And people will die. Fae, and perhaps mortals, too.”
Perhaps myself. The thought terrified him, and yet he clung to it, as if familiarity could wear down the sharp edges, rendering the fear incapable of wounding him. Galen did not want to die, but he wanted even less to live a coward. If it came to battle . . .
Here in the Onyx Hall, he could not speak God’s name, but he could cry out in his thoughts. Please, O Lord, give me the courage to face that prospect like a man.
Delphia came forward, hands rising and then hesitating. But there was no one in the Hall of Figures save they two, and so she went on as she had begun, wrapping her arms around his stiff body and laying her cheek along his. After a moment Galen uncrossed his own arms and laid his hands on her waist, feeling the rigid armor of her stays. Irrith rarely wore any—a comparison he should not be making, not when Delphia would be his wife.
“I don’t understand everything you’ve said,” she murmured. “Comets and Dragons and all of that. But I’m sure it will be all right.”
Meaningless words. As she admitted, she had no understanding of the circumstances—the Dragon’s power, the details of their plan, any of it. Still, he needed to hear that assurance, empty though it was.
I’m sure it will be all right.
Galen disengaged from her embrace, forcing himself to concentrate upon her face, and not the fiery memorial behind. “Thank you. Now come; there are more—and more pleasant—parts of the Onyx Hall to see.”
The Onyx Hall, London: December 25, 1758
On certain days—May Day, Midsummer, All Hallows’ Eve—the fae went out into the mortal world to uphold their ancient traditions.
During the Christmas season, they stayed below.
Deprived of Galen’s company, and bored as a result, Irrith went to the night garden. There she passed the day playing increasingly absurd dice games with Ktistes, sprite and centaur taking turns to add a new rule with every new round. They threw the dice upon the polished boards of his pavilion, chatting upon inconsequential subjects with determined carelessness, until Irrith, rising to stretch, caught sight of something outside.
A holly nymph, spirit of one of the garden’s trees, stood on the dewed grass with her head tilted back, staring upward.
“What is it?” Ktistes asked. Irrith didn’t answer; by then, her feet were already carrying her down the ramp and onto the grass, into open space where she could see the ceiling above.
A comet blazed across the night garden.
The faerie lights that formed its sky had drawn inward, leaving most of the ceiling black and empty. The tail of the comet pierced that blackness like a sword, trailing back from a core of brightness too painful to look at directly. It stretched nearly from one side of the garden to the other, a radiant omen of doom.
The knocking of Ktistes’s hooves against the wood sounded hollow as death behind Irrith. Then the centaur was there, and she put one hand against his flank, needing the support.
“Someone has seen it,” he whispered—a tiny sound, coming from so great a body. “We must find out who.”
Does it matter? Irrith wondered. Her muscles were wound so tight she thought her bones might snap. We are out of time.
The comet—and the Dragon it carried—had returned.
PART SIX
Dissolutio
Winter 1759
Substance and form in me are but a name,
For neither of the two I rightly claim,
A spirit less, and yet such force enjoy,
As all material beings shall destroy.
—“A Riddle,”
attributed to Elizabeth Carter,
The Gentleman’s Magazine, November 1734
Distance shrinks to nothing at the touch of eyes. A man in a night-black field, peering up at the sky, seeing its wonders magnified beyond their natural size.
Seeing the comet.
The Dragon coils within its prison. Its being is light, part of the growing brilliance that shrouds the comet’s dark core. Matter could not leap the distance between this traveler and that night-dark field, but light can, light does.
Freedom awaits.
&nb
sp; Freedom, yes—but little more. There is no power there. Grass, and trees, and the man with the watching eyes; these things could be burnt, and there would be joy in that.
The Dragon wants more than joy.
It wants the city, and the shadow beneath it.
Patience. After so many years, the beast has learned its meaning. The light streams outward now, a banner through the void; it is a declaration of war, growing brighter with each passing instant. Other eyes will come, forging links between Earth and the far-distant comet, and in time one will—must—lead to the Dragon’s prey.
It can wait.
For now.
The Onyx Hall, London: January 6, 1759
“It was a German.” For once Galen came in without pausing for a bow, brandishing the folded letter Wilhas had given him. “Johann Palitzsch, in Saxony. A gentleman farmer, if you can believe it; he practices astronomy as a pastime.”
The people assembled to hear him were a motley sort of war council, seated around the chamber’s grand table. Peregrin and his lieutenant Sir Cerenel, representing those who were prepared to fight. Cuddy for the dwarves, who were still in their workroom, swearing over Niklas’s most recent attempt at a trap. The alchemical scholars: Dr. Andrews and Lady Feidelm, Wrain and the exhausted Savennis, and even the genie Abd ar-Rashid. Irrith. Rosamund Goodemeade. And Lune herself, who stood tensely behind her own chair, gloved hands resting on its back.
The Queen said, “And nothing has happened to him.”
She phrased it as a statement, but the tension in her eyes said she wasn’t certain. Galen hastened to reassure her. “Nothing at all, or the Hanoverian fae would have said. The Dragon did not leap down.”
Lune let her breath out slowly, good hand relaxing. “Then that is our first question answered. Either it needs a closer approach to Earth, or it does indeed want this place, and will not settle for another. Though I wouldn’t test that with a sighting by anyone in England, whether at Greenwich or not.”
Which led all eyes to Irrith. The sprite grinned, though it was a strained thing. “They’d be lucky to find the moon, through the clouds we have right now.”
Galen returned her smile. “Lord Macclesfield says Messier has been complaining since November that the skies above Paris are very frequently cloudy. He’s scarce been able to take any observations at all.”
“But will it hold?” Wrain asked.
Irrith frowned in doubt. With this meeting being held in Lune’s council chamber, Ktistes could not join them; the sprite was the only one speaking for the clouds. “How much longer do we need them?”
Once Galen would have needed to consult his notes, but at this point the dates were engraved in his memory. “Perihelion is mid-March. We can’t be sure how long the comet will remain visible afterward, though. To be safe, call it three months, the inverse of Palitzsch’s sighting. Can we stay hidden until Midsummer?”
The sprite chewed on her lower lip. Her hands were clasped around her knees, and her shoulders hunched inward. “Maybe,” she said, drawing the word out. “I’ll have to ask Ktistes. But we might be able to hold it that long.”
Sighs of relief sounded all around the room, from almost everyone there. Not Irrith, though, or Galen, or Lune.
The Queen met his eyes, and he saw his own thoughts mirrored in her. They think we can avoid the question. Put it off until the next century. And perhaps they could, if the clouds held. But they both knew the risk of complacency: all it took was one slip, one tear in the veil, and they could find themselves facing a battle for which they were unprepared.
No, it’s more than that. Even if we knew for sure . . . Lune is done with waiting. And so am I.
The time has come to face our enemy.
The thought should have terrified him. In some respects, it did. But Galen discovered, to his surprise, that even fear could not last forever. The omen in the night garden, Palitzsch’s sighting of the comet, lanced a wound that had festered for years. He no longer had to dread this moment. It had come, at long last, and now they would make their answer.
Lune straightened, and with that simple motion a regal mantle settled over her shoulders. Here in the crowded council chamber, she commanded as much respect as she would have done seated on her throne. “Thank you, Dame Irrith. Warn us if that cover seems in danger of breaking.”
Her eyes sought out and held every person in the room, from Dr. Andrews to Wrain. “Understand this: we mean to answer this threat. We hide, not like mice, hoping the eagle will pass us over, but like cats, awaiting the best moment to strike.
“Lord Galen estimates our danger shall last at least until Midsummer. I say now that we will not wait that long. Sir Peregrin, how ready are your knights?”
The Captain of the Onyx Guard stood and bowed. “Your Grace, they would fight today if you called upon them.”
The imperious demeanor softened a bit, and she gave her captain a wry look. “I’m sure they would. But how stands their skill?”
“They’re ready,” he assured her. “Spear-knights and others alike. They’ll train from now until you need them, because a soldier must always keep his skills in practice; but if they were to fight today, I would send them into battle with pride.”
“Good. You are our third line of defense; the clouds are the first. Which brings us to the alchemists.” Lune looked to Dr. Andrews. Galen held his breath, wondering if she was about to do something terribly foolish. He almost melted in relief when she said, “Lord Galen and I set you the task of finding a suitable procedure to refine sophic mercury. Do you have one yet?”
Thin to begin with, Andrews had worn down to a skeleton held together by little more than passionate hope. His febrile eyes shifted restlessly, unable to hold Lune’s gaze. “I’m not sure, madam. There are still fundamental questions—”
“Dr. Andrews,” Galen broke in, before the man could say anything injudicious in front of the others. “I understand your uncertainty, but the time for hedging is past. You needn’t say it will be ready tomorrow. In a few weeks—perhaps mid-February—the comet will draw too close behind the sun for anyone to see it, even with a telescope; the clouds can protect us until then. After that, I doubt if anyone will be able to sight it until perihelion at the earliest, in mid-March. That gives you more than two months. Can you be prepared by then?”
The doctor licked his lips, then said, “Yes.”
Andrews’s answer might be a guess, rather than a promise, but Galen counted it as victory nonetheless. Without a date to aim for, the scholars could ponder their questions endlessly, never arriving at a firm conclusion. Placing a boundary would do them good. And if the procedure were truly not ready then, they could always extend the time—so long as the clouds held out.
“You have until perihelion, then,” Galen said. “After that, the comet will draw nearer to the Earth, and our danger will be at its greatest. As soon as you are ready, we will dismiss the clouds, call the Dragon down, and end this.”
Andrews nodded, and wiped sweat from his pale brow.
Lune still stood alone, behind her chair. Galen circled the table and positioned himself at her side. For once—perhaps for the first time—it felt right. Queen and Prince, shoulder to shoulder, against the threats that faced their court.
Their court. His as well as hers.
“Until March, then,” Lune said. “May Fate and Faerie bless us all.”
The Onyx Hall, London: January 25, 1759
If, upon her arrival in the Onyx Hall, anyone had asked Irrith how she would spend her final weeks before the confrontation with the comet, she would have confidently predicted a wild adventure through the streets of London, visiting taverns and shops and the houses of mortals, enjoying the city as if she might never see it again.
Instead she divided her time between the Temple of Arms and Dr. Andrews’s laboratory, wishing she could be of greater use in either place. But she had done her part; their first defense was holding, and others were far more qualified to contribute to th
e second and third than she was. Especially on the alchemical side. Galen had abandoned her bed, though, and the laboratory was the surest place to find him.
Him, and half the Onyx Hall. An exaggeration, of course, but right now the room held Galen and Dr. Andrews, Wrain and poor Savennis, Lady Feidelm and Abd ar-Rashid. Even Podder had been pressed into service; when Irrith entered, he sat with a penknife and a pile of quills, carving each to a fresh point.
It wasn’t entirely true Irrith was of no use. “Lune’s had word from the Cour du Lys,” she announced to the various mortals and fae. “Messier thinks he’s spotted the comet from Paris.”
Galen slammed shut the book he’d been consulting. “Damnation. Is it public yet?”
Irrith grinned. “No. The French king—the faerie one—has done Lune a favor. Delisle, the fellow in charge of the observatory at Cluny, has told Messier not to announce anything just yet. Messier’s furious.”
“Good,” Galen said, fingers curling around the book’s edge. “The silence, not the fury. The fewer people who are aware of this, the better.”
She smiled at him, but in his distraction, he didn’t return it. What his scruples over marriage had failed to accomplish, the sighting of the comet had done; Galen had little time for anything but preparation these days.
No one did. Irrith hadn’t realized just how complicated this “alchemical plan” would turn out to be. She wandered toward Abd ar-Rashid and stood frowning over the Arab’s shoulder. He was sketching something with a careful hand, but she could make no sense of it. “What is that?” she asked.
The genie answered without looking up. “We need a vessel, an alembic, in which to effect our work. The intent is to use the Monument to the Great Fire, the chamber in its base.”
That explained the general shape, but—“What about that stuff at the top?”
A Star Shall Fall Page 33
