A Star Shall Fall (40 page)

Irrith had heard the stories, but dismissed them as—well, as mortals dismissed stories of faeries. Charming fictions. Then again, faeries were not fictions, so perhaps their continuance wasn’t, either. But this wasn’t the certainty mortals had, one of two choices, or maybe Purgatory if the Catholics were right. It was a true mystery, with nothing but guesses to light the path, and all of those guesses possibly wrong. Maybe there was nothing for the fae but black void, the end of all existence.

“Which would you choose?” Irrith asked. They were crossing above the western city now, from the hovels of Seven Dials to the townhouses of Grosvenor Square. She wondered who left more ghosts, the poor or the wealthy. The poor died in greater numbers, certainly, but who clung harder to this world?

The Queen bent her head until her chin almost touched the black shadow of her riding jacket. “Sometimes I envy the mortals their assurance of continuation. But when I am weary, then I think it preferable to end as we do—a true end, with nothing after. Rest at last.”

Valentin Aspell’s voice whispered in memory, saying,
a sacrifice.

Weariness. Had it worn on Lune so much she would welcome that end? Especially if it would save her people?

Irrith suddenly wished she’d never come out this night, never accepted Lune’s invitation to ride at her side. And she spared an additional wish that they’d been riding sticks of transformed straw instead, rather than two faeries who had no doubt been eavesdropping on this entire conversation.

Fortunately, they were almost done. Lune had timed their ride well, no doubt from centuries of experience: as they flew above Hyde Park, leaving the habitations of London behind, distant church bells began to toll. Twelve strokes for midnight, and Irrith twisted in her saddle to watch as behind them, the ghosts began to fade away. Their mighty host, a thick veil of white, thinned and fluttered apart, voices whispering their last.
He’ll regret. Remember me. My child . . .

Then the thirteen fae and their mounts were alone in the night sky, with Teyrngar loping a circle around them, and it was All Saints’ Day.

“What would you choose, Irrith?” The Queen patted her mount’s neck with her crippled hand, and he turned homeward. “I doubt He would permit us into Heaven, but if you had a choice between the torments of Hell, or nothing whatsoever.”

Irrith didn’t even have to think about it. “Hell. Anything’s more interesting than just
stopping
.”

Lune’s smile shone briefly in the night. “I am not surprised. Well, fate willing, you will not face that choice soon.”

The Onyx Hall, London: November 3, 1758

Despite the press of time, Galen hesitated to tell anyone what Abd ar-Rashid had said. He had James Cole, the mortal keeper of the Onyx Court’s library, dig out what old alchemical manuscripts they possessed, and lost himself in a welter of incomprehensible symbolism: green lions and dragon’s teeth, playing children and mating dogs, severed heads and homunculi and strange hermaphrodites. He could make little sense of it, but the genie was right on one count; the image of the moon queen appeared again and again.

In the end, there was nothing he could do but tell Lune. She listened in silence, and when he was done, merely said, “We should discuss this with Dr. Andrews.”

Summoning him would invite an audience of courtiers, or else avid whispers when Lune sent them away; instead, the Queen and Prince went to his laboratory. Since their conversation a few weeks before, the doctor had set up an entire table full of pendulums, whose purpose Galen could not begin to guess.

Andrews himself looked like a corpse that had not slept in a week, but febrile vitality shone in his eyes as he came forward to greet them. “You’ve come at a happy time—I have something to show you.”

Heedless of Galen’s half-voiced protest, the doctor hurried over to the table. “I’ve weighted these bobs differently, with different substances,” Andrews said, “and timed them against that clock.” He nodded at a regulator positioned on the wall behind. “It’s a repetition of an experiment Newton performed in the early 1680s, which caused him to discard his notion of aether. Let me show you—”

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?”