Irrith was already running again. She dropped both spent pistols to the ground and drew her last weapon, the knife of jotun ice. He knocked her aside as she came near, but the blow served her purposes well enough; it threw her that last bit of distance, putting her between Galen and the London Stone.
No. It isn’t Galen. Galen died inside the Monument.
But to her horror, she saw something of him in the twisted snarl on his face. “Irrith,” he said, spitting her name like a curse. “Traitor one day, faithful the next. Can’t you change your mind one more time? For me?”
She tightened her grip on the knife. Its cold seared her hand; the Dragon kept well clear of it as he pushed himself away from the wall. His shirt was beginning to smoke, tiny flames curling up where his skin pressed against the fabric. “Odd,” she said breathlessly, trying to delay long enough for her still-spinning head to settle. The Stone was a hard presence just behind her back. If he got so much as a finger on it . . . “You know the things Galen knows—knew—and yet you don’t know me at all.”
He laughed, and the sound itself burnt her. “Don’t I? I know you’re a coward. You could have loved me, but you were too afraid. Not of the grief—of the possibility that your love would never be returned. That even that ultimate gift couldn’t draw me away from my hopeless devotion to Lune, and you would be left as I was, groveling after someone forever out of your reach.”
“Don’t say that word,” Irrith snarled, past the choking knot in her throat. “I. You aren’t Galen.”
“Half of me is.”
“The body means nothing.”
“All of the body; half of the spirit. That’s what the alchemy meant, Irrith. A wedding of two separate spirits into one, cleaving unto each other like man and wife. Though in this case, the man is the wife.” The Dragon twisted Galen’s mouth into a travesty of a smile. “He welcomed the fire in like a demon lover.”
Fire that was burning his body up from the inside. They weren’t wrong; the conjunction had weakened the Dragon. Might even kill it, in time. But how long would that take?
She saw again the terror in Galen’s face, as he went to his death. Walking into Hell with his eyes wide open. Could the torments of damnation be any worse than this, his spirit shackled to a creature that would destroy those he loved?
As if it could read her thoughts, the Dragon grinned and spread Galen’s arms wide. “Do you think death will free him? We are one spirit now. Kill him, send him to Hell, and I will go with him, for I am Galen St. Clair.”
They both lunged.
The Dragon was ready for Irrith, because it knew her, as Galen had known her. One searing arm came across to block her thrust. But Galen knew weapons as a gentleman did, with rules and courtesy and honor, and he couldn’t block what he didn’t expect.
Irrith’s right hand was knocked out of line—but the knife wasn’t there anymore. Their joined momentum brought them crashing together hard, her slight weight against Galen’s searing body, and her left hand brought the blade up and into his chest.
They staggered, scant inches from the Stone. Then Irrith set her feet and drove him back, slamming his rigid frame against the brick wall behind. Elemental ice and elemental fire warred, sending waves of heat and cold radiating outward, until she wanted to scream and flee to safety. But she hung on, sinking the knife hilt-deep into his ribs, glaring into those eyes of flame, until the light in them flickered and died, leaving behind pits of black ash. When Irrith let go, the body fell limply to the ground. The knife-hilt clattered free, its blade melted away.
She stood gasping, shaking, staring at the corpse of Galen St. Clair.
His blind face seemed to stare at her in accusation. Pain twisted inside her, sharper than the vanished knife. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t love you—I couldn’t.
If she had loved him, she could never have killed him.
Slowly Irrith became aware of eyes on her. No one stood near, but mortals were watching from a safe distance, peering through shutters and half-cracked doors, whispering to each other in the shadows. From farther off she heard shouts and running footsteps: a constable, no doubt. Her concealment had fallen at some point, and now she stood over a dead man’s body, with her faerie face bared to the world.
She could not leave him there, lying in the filth of the street. Clenching her jaw, Irrith bent and took hold of Galen’s lifeless, unresisting hand. With an effort, she heaved him over her shoulder, then built another concealment for them both. It was hard, with so many people watching, but the darkness helped; she slipped away down Cannon Street, carrying the dead Prince, taking him home to rest.
The Onyx Hall, London: May 1, 1759
Fae knew little of funerals. Those mortals who died among them were generally deposited back in the world they’d come from, in their beds or in a gutter, according to the kindness of the one who put them there. The fae did not bury their own dead. There was no need, when their bodies fell so soon to nothingness, the spirits that shaped them gone to oblivion.
The Princes of the Stone were always returned to their families, to be buried with Christian rites. Only Michael Deven lay interred in the ground of the Onyx Hall, beneath a stand of ever-blooming apple trees in the night garden, forever close to the faerie Queen who loved him.
Michael Deven—and now Galen St. Clair.
For him, the fae gathered in solemn observance, lining the path through the night garden. Or at least as close to solemnity as they could manage: some were puzzled by this semimortal ceremony, and some showed too-sharp curiosity in his death, fascinated by the experience that came among them so rarely. But knights of the Onyx Guard stood sentinel along the path, and Bonecruncher’s loyal goblins lurked behind; anyone who thought to profane the Prince’s funeral vanished instantly from view, with a minimum of fuss.
The pall-shrouded bier came through the arch, borne on a tatterfoal-drawn open carriage. Preceding it was an honor guard of five elf-knights and one half-mortal valet; Edward Thorne and his father Sir Peregrin led the way, side by side. The plaintive sound of a flute threaded through the quiet air, marking time for their slow procession. Fae knelt as they went by. The bier crossed the Walbrook, passed under the drooping branches of willow trees, and came among new mourners: the mortals of the Onyx Hall, all those who had been under Galen’s authority as Prince. They rarely gathered in one place, those mortals, and made an odd assortment standing together. Men of all classes, from the wealthy through to lawyers and artisans, laborers and the humble poor. Women, some beautiful, some scarred by disease. Old and young, and a large knot of children, lured away into a realm of wonder, their eyes wide as they watched grief go by.
At last the procession reached its end: the obelisk listing Princes of the Stone. A small flame burnt in its base, and a new line had been chiseled into the plaque:
Mr. Galen St. Clair 1756–1759
A small group waited there. Mrs. Vesey supported Delphia St. Clair, who wore mourning sewn for her by the finest faerie seamstresses. Lune stood alone, dressed in the same white she wore every October, when she came to grieve for Michael Deven.
And Irrith, clad in green, the executioner attending the funeral.
The honor guard lifted the carriage’s burden down to the grass. Irrith stared at the pall draped over the coffin, grateful for its presence. She preferred to remember the man she’d first seen, extending his hand to the muddy, swearing sprite who had just fallen through the Newgate entrance; but every time she blinked, she saw the gaping voids of Galen’s eyes, burnt out by the Dragon. And nothing could block her ears to the memory of that searing voice, taunting her with the inexorable truth. Kill him, send him to Hell, and I will go with him, for I am Galen St. Clair.
They had saved the Onyx Hall, but nothing could rob the beast of that victory.
Galen’s family would bury a manikin disguised as their son and brother, thinking Galen the victim of some illness or misfortune. Irrith hadn’t inquired after the lie. There would be Christian
rites then, but they could hardly say any here, in the heart of the Onyx Hall. Delphia had not pressed for any. She understood what this court had meant to Galen, and where he would wish to be buried.
Once the bearers folded the pall and retired into a line, Lune came forward, and laid her hand upon the grass.
They weren’t certain if she could do this, without a Prince’s aid. It might come to shovels after all, the indignity of digging a grave and piling the dirt atop the coffin. The Hall answered to Queen and Prince together, a faerie and a mortal. But either Lune could in this small way command it alone, or the palace recognized the interment of its former master, for after a few breathless moments, the bier began to sink beneath the earth. The grass closed over the coffin’s lid, and still the Queen knelt; then, at last, she let her breath out and stood.
No more ceremony than that—but Lune looked to each of them, and repeated the words she’d spoken in the great presence chamber. “Remember him.”
Irrith, hearing the Dragon’s laughter in her mind, wished she could forget.
Word came that evening, from someone’s mortal pet: a Londoner named John Bevis had sighted the comet on the night of April thirtieth.
The people of London had all but forgotten Halley’s prediction. Their fears of fiery demise had flared too soon, sparked by the false alarm of the comet two years ago; the ongoing inability of their astronomers to sight the returning comet had slain the last of their fears. It was just a star now, trailing its diminished tail, an object of astronomical curiosity and little more.
The message was brought to Lune in her privy chamber, where she sat with only the Goodemeades for company. Most of her court was above, in the Moor Fields, celebrating May Day and their release from fifty years of fear. No Sanist concern kept Lune below, not this time; she simply could not join their revelry. Not while she wore her gown of mourning white.
She thanked the usher who brought the message and dismissed him, then lapsed once more into silence.
The two brownies had kept her company before, permitting her quiet and melancholy when she needed it. If they spoke, it was because they thought it necessary. Still, that didn’t prevent a surge of resentment when Gertrude said, “You should go to them.”
Leaving aside the fact that she didn’t wish to go anywhere at all—“Them?”
“Irrith and Delphia.”
Lune passed one weary hand over her eyes. “Mrs. St. Clair will not wish to see me, I think, nor anyone of this world. Not after what we’ve done to her husband.”
“Then you haven’t come to know her very well,” Rosamund said. “She’s here, in the Onyx Hall. Right now. But if you leave her alone, then pretty soon you’ll lose her. And Irrith’s thinking of leaving for the Vale. So if you want to keep either of them in your court, you should go to them.”
The Goodemeades were the only two who could speak so bluntly to her. The two of them, and the Prince of the Stone. Galen never availed himself of that privilege, too awed by her—too worshipful—to presume such familiarity. She’d hoped that in time his awe would fade to something more comfortable.
But his time was cut too short.
“Find them,” Lune said. “We will meet in private.”
The parlor of Galen’s chambers still lay as it had days before, with chairs turned toward the hearth, a book open facedown on a table, fragments of porcelain strewn across the floor. It was easy to believe the Prince might walk through the door at any moment. Coming here was painful, but Lune thought it the right choice. There was no hiding from his ghost. Better to face it directly.
Delphia’s face showed the marks of sleeplessness and tears, though she was composed now, like a painting of grief. Irrith’s countenance was formed of something colder and more brittle: marble, perhaps, veined with flaws, that would shatter under the wrong tap of the hammer.
Lune had offered her formal condolences to Delphia before, in full view of her court; now she offered her informal sympathy. “I lack the words to tell you how grateful I am to Galen. That’s little comfort to you, I’m sure; no doubt you wish he were still alive. Or even that he’d never wed you at all, so that you’d be spared this sudden loss, and the knowledge of how it came about.”
The young widow shook her head. “The loss, yes. Galen was a good man, and I mourn his passing. But had I not wed him, I would have faced something much worse; and more, I would never have known of this world.” She hesitated. “I—I know you permitted me among you because of him. If it would be possible, though, I’d like to stay.”
It had never occurred to Lune that Delphia might think her place revoked. It occurred to Rosamund and Gertrude, though. She blessed the absent brownies for their insight. “Galen may have been the means by which you came to our attention, but that does not make you his servant, to be turned out once he is gone. You will always be welcome among us, Lady Delphia.”
The woman’s plain face flushed a delicate pink. Brushing one hand over the book that lay upon the table, she said, “Indeed, if it isn’t too presumptuous . . . the academy Galen suggested to you, on our wedding day. He and I had spoken of it before. I’d like to see that done.”
Faerie and mortal scholars, furthering the work Galen had begun here. Dr. Andrews was dead, and Savennis, but there were others. If Delphia would work with an Arab, Lune suspected Abd ar-Rashid would be happy to lend his aid. “Granted, and with pleasure.” It would be a more fitting memorial than a simple flame.
Through this all, Irrith had stood stiffly to one side, with none of the loose grace that characterized her usual posture. Her hands fiddled with a shard of porcelain, collected from the floor. Lune searched for the right words, that wouldn’t shatter her composure. “Irrith . . . I’ll understand if you wish to leave. The deed you performed on this court’s behalf is not one that people can praise, however necessary it was. But know that you, too, are always welcome here, if you wish to return.” There was no question now of punishing her for the Sanist affair, even if Lune had intended to.
The sprite nodded, saying nothing. What haunted her? It wasn’t the agony of a heart lost to death; Lune was sure of that much. Yet some shadow hung over Irrith, its claws hooked deep.
Hoping to draw the sprite out, she said gently, “Indeed, I owe you a great debt. Ask anything of me, and it will be yours.” Save the abdication of her throne—but after Valentin Aspell, Irrith would never ask it.
Unfortunately, the effect was not what she intended. The green eyes sickened, and Irrith dropped her chin. “You can’t give me what I want, your Grace.”
“Perhaps another could?” The sprite shook her head, a quick jerk with hunched shoulders. Refusal of more than just that possibility. “We’ve known each other for a century, Irrith. Whatever it is, you needn’t fear saying it in front of me.”
“Not you.” The wince that followed made it clear that had slipped out against her will.
There were only three of them in the room, and Delphia could count as well as any. With the abruptness of a woman who must force the words out of her mouth, she said, “The ladies of this court gossip, in the manner of ladies everywhere. I know you shared his bed. And I—I won’t begrudge you your grief.”
The sprite shook her head vehemently, auburn tangles whipping. “No. I didn’t love him. Not in the way that we do—not real love, the sort that hurts forever.”
But there was grief in her voice, even if it was of a transient kind. Delphia, folding her hands like one at prayer, offered up a misplaced mortal reassurance. “We may comfort ourselves that he is with—that he is in a better place now.”
It was the wrong thing to say. Not just a Christian comfort, and meaningless to fae; no, this was the hammer stroke, shattering Irrith’s mask and laying bare the horror beneath it. “No, he isn’t! He killed himself, and now he’s in Hell!”
The word rang through the room like a thunderclap—and then the air changed.
Irrith thought at first that tears were blurring her vision. And so they were; bu
t the shape remained even when she blinked the moisture away.
It formed above the carpet, in the center of the triangle the three of them created. White mist at first, almost too faint to see; then it thickened, solidified, color seeping through it like slow dye, never quite attaining the vibrancy of life.
Delphia sank to the floor in shock, and Irrith almost did the same.
Those bound to the fae sometimes lingered among them after death.
The ghost of Galen St. Clair seemed puzzled at first, unsure of where he was. Then he saw Delphia on the floor; then Irrith and Lune, standing to either side. He turned from one to the other, half-drifting, and Irrith’s heart tried to burst from relief when she saw his eyes, clear of any flame.
“The Dragon,” he whispered.
She had to try three times before the word came out. “Dead. Do—do you remember?”
The question sent a shudder down his spine. Galen was dressed as he had been in death, free from all the armor of elegance, but his shirt was whole; no mark of the beast’s flame showed on him anywhere. “I . . . I remember pain.”
“You were burning,” Irrith said, voice wavering so badly it was almost unintelligible. “It would have killed you eventually. And maybe that would have killed the Dragon. But I—”
“Destruction.” Galen might not have heard anything she said; he was lost in the fog of his own memories. “For its own sake, at first; that was the fire of the Dragon. Then destruction for the sake of making others suffer. And that was my fire.”
His gaze pinned Irrith, swift as an arrow. “I hurt you.”
She shook her head so hard, pain flared in her neck. “No. That wasn’t you.”
“It was. The me that was the Dragon. The two of us as one . . .” He trailed one ghostly hand across his chest, where she had stabbed him. “The ice put out the flames. I think some part of it is still in me—I remember the comet, and the vastness of space. But there is no more fire.”
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