A Star Shall Fall

  She certainly did not look human as she regarded the kneeling Aspell. She let the silence grow, heartbeat by heartbeat, until Irrith herself wanted to say something just to break it; and then she said, “Tell me why I should not execute you.”

  There were many answers Aspell could have made. It wasn’t Lune’s customary way; it would anger the Sanists; he held some last weapon or offer that made it wiser—or at least more useful—to keep him alive.

  Instead he replied, “Because everything I have done, I have done for the good of the Onyx Hall.”

  Irrith couldn’t prevent herself from making a startled and disbelieving noise. Aspell’s courtesy was too good for him to lift his head; he remained kneeling, eyes on the cold black floor of his cell. Lune waited until the sound faded before saying, “If your crimes consisted only of my abduction and intended murder for Andrews’s scheme, I might believe you. If they extended no further than to what Dame Irrith has told me, your plan to sacrifice me to the Dragon, your current involvement with the Sanist conspiracy, I might still believe you. But your guilt is older than that, Aspell. You plotted with Carline even before the Hall began to fray.” She paused, then asked, “Do you deny it?”

  “No, your Grace. But I maintain my defense.”

  “Putting Carline on the throne would be good for the Onyx Hall?” The question burst out of Irrith before she could stop it. Lune made no attempt to stop her. “She would have been a terrible queen! And you know it!”

  Aspell hesitated. His calmness was no act, Irrith realized; this wasn’t some political game. He truly meant what he said. “Madam, with your permission, I would answer Dame Irrith’s accusation.”

  Lune only moved one hand, but Aspell must have seen it, for he went on. “Carline was . . . not ideal, it’s true. But she had this virtue over others who might have been more suitable: she could have been controlled. So long as she had her entertainments, she would have been willing to give me free rein in the Onyx Hall.”

  “And that was what you wanted, wasn’t it.”

  “Not at all—not if I could have the world according to my preferences. The power I have now—had—pleased me very well. But others who might have taken the throne would have been equally flawed, and far less biddable.”

  Irrith wanted to shove past Cerenel and strangle him. This is what I hate the most—forked tongues speaking treason and patriotism at the same time. All the twists, all the lies, until even the liar believes his own words. “Is that how you see your Queen? Unbiddable and flawed?”

  “Yes.” The word was cold and uncompromising. “Your Grace . . . you have been flawed since the iron knife first entered your shoulder.”

  Before the Dragon burnt her hand, before the first bit of the Onyx Hall began to crumble away. Before Irrith had ever met London’s Queen. Lune said, “And yet you served me, even though I was wounded, never to heal.”

  A ripple in Aspell’s shoulders, a serpentine shrug. “At first it didn’t seem to matter. This place is an exception to many rules of faerie-kind; you could have been another. But then Lady Feidelm warned us of the comet’s return, and I foresaw a second destruction. To speak bluntly, madam—for I think I have nothing to lose by doing so—had you done as you should, you would have sought out and prepared a successor, to give the Onyx Hall a monarch who is whole. Your continuing refusal to do so, and your failure to dispose of either of the threats that imperils this realm, convinced me there was no other choice.”

  “No other choice than regicide.” Irrith spat the word like the poison it was.

  He lifted his head to regard her. As he said, he had nothing to lose by the discourtesy. “When it offers the one plausible chance to save the Hall—yes. With regret. Time forced my hand, you see. Dr. Andrews’s plan struck me as far more likely to succeed than my own, but he hovered at the edge of his own grave; if it were to be done, it had to be done then, without time to persuade her Majesty into cooperation.” He sighed. “I threw the dice, and failed.”

  With a soul-deep chill, Irrith realized what lay beneath his calm. He has nothing to lose—not just because Lune may execute him, but because he believes this whole realm is now doomed.

  And what did the Queen believe? Only Lune herself knew; the silver eyes gave nothing away. Irrith couldn’t decide which was worse: naked ambition, or this double-knotted rhetoric, laying a road that led sanely and inevitably to horrifying treason.

  Aspell bowed his head once more, dismissing Irrith. “You asked, your Grace, why you should not execute me. That is the defense I offer. The preservation of the Onyx Hall requires your removal, and so I pursued it. I renounce nothing I have done, though I regret the clumsy and ineffective manner of its doing. I await your sentence.”

  Irrith would have killed him, without hesitation. Yes, fae bred rarely, and yes, killing Aspell would likely obliterate his spirit forever—she didn’t care. He was a traitor, and if lopping his head off angered the Sanists, so be it; they could handle the rebellion once they’d disposed of the Dragon.

  Unless it destroyed them all, in which case, no sense wasting effort on the Sanists now.

  But Irrith wasn’t Lune, with her responsibilities and knowledge of politics and, perhaps, queerly human notions. If she still had them.

  The Queen said, “You will face a formal trial, so that all my subjects may know that the Sanist conspiracy, in its extremity, resorted to attempted regicide. But the sentence will be mine to pronounce—and I will not kill you, Aspell.”

  His shoulders trembled. This might not be mercy; there were fates less pleasant than death.

  “Nor,” the Queen went on, “will I exile you, to foment trouble abroad. I think rather to return to an older way.

  “Niklas von das Ticken has failed to make a functional Dragon-cage, but he assures me he can imprison an ordinary faerie, in a manner more secure—but less cruel—than the iron we used upon that beast. You, Valentin Aspell, will sleep for one hundred years, in such manner as to ensure that no one can free you before your sentence is done.”

  Irrith realized the intention even as Lune said it. “By the time you wake,” the Queen said, “I expect we will have resolved this issue. Either the Onyx Hall will be whole once more, or I will no longer be its mistress. Either way, your concerns will be laid to rest.”

  Aspell said nothing. What reply could he make? Thanking her would have been absurd; anything else would have been an invitation to greater harshness. For her own part, Irrith thought it as good as any other path out of this situation, and better than some. Lune had passed far harsher sentences before.

  She followed the Queen out of Aspell’s cell, listening as the heavy bronze door clanged shut behind them, and shivered at the sound. Will there be an Onyx Hall waiting for him in a hundred years?

  Rose House, Islington: April 4, 1759

  Galen was surprised to receive a message at Sothings Park, summoning him to Islington. True, he hadn’t been to see the Goodemeades in quite some time, but it hardly seemed to matter. He’d been so occupied with the refinement of the alchemical plan that he’d had little time to spare for political lessons from the brownies.

  Could I have prevented Aspell’s treason, if I hadn’t been distracted? Instead of wasting his time on Andrews’s mad scheme. He would never know, and doubting did no one any good.

  At least he could take a carriage. The Northwoods kept one at Sothings Park, and it was his to use as he pleased. On a sudden inspiration, he sought out Delphia, who was deep in discussion with the housekeeper, and looked more than happy to be rescued. “I must go to Islington on business, and I thought you might like to accompany me, to visit with some friends.”

  He laid faint stress on that final word. It had almost become a code between them, a way of referring to the faerie court when others were around. Delphia had met the Goodemeades in the Onyx Hall, but never seen their home; she smiled at the suggestion. “Let me change into a dress suitable for visiting, and I shall.”

  Let the servants think him b
esotted with his new wife, eager to spend absurd amounts of time in her company. Galen didn’t care. Once Delphia knew the way into Rose House, she could visit on her own.

  He assisted her up into the carriage, waving the footman away, then followed her in. Delphia waited until they were rolling down the drive before she said, “The clouds are breaking up.”

  So she’d noticed him looking upward. An ordinary person would still call the days cloudy; Galen heard no end of complaints from family and friends about the relentlessly gray weather. But the clouds were bunching up now, rather than forming an unbroken ceiling; sometimes there was even a patch of clear blue. Galen said, “We might have another month left. If we’re lucky.” Lune was attempting to contact the Greeks again, but Galen doubted it would do much good. Sooner or later, the clouds would fail.

  Delphia fiddled with her gloves. She’d been in the Onyx Hall long enough for the fear to infect her, as it did all the rest of the court. “What will you do?”

  Galen stared out the window, trying not to pay attention to the sky. “Fight. It’s all we can do, now.”

  Country lanes brought them to Islington, and to the busy Angel Inn. Delphia made no comment, but only watched with interest, as Galen led her to the rosebush and spoke to it. He bowed her down the uncovered staircase, then followed her into the house below.

  “Lady Delphia!” The brownies were all smiles and curtsies and offers of refreshment; in return, his wife was all admiration of their comfortable home. Gertrude in particular warmed to the compliments, and soon offered to show her guest the other rooms, leaving Galen alone with Rosamund.

  The instant they were gone, the smile fell off the little hob’s face as if it had never been. “Quickly,” Rosamund said, “while Gertrude has her occupied. Oh, Galen—I fear this was not the time to bring her here.”

  She gestured, and the worn carpet obediently folded itself out of the way, revealing floorboards polished by centuries of feet. “I’m sorry,” Galen said, nonplussed. He could not imagine what Rosamund might be doing. “I—I merely thought to show her your home—”

  “On any other day, yes, of course. But the Queen needs to speak with you privately. Go on; I’ll find something to tell your lady wife.”

  As Rosamund spoke, the worn planks of the floor flexed aside much as the carpet had, disclosing a second staircase. Galen didn’t have long to wonder at it; the brownie gestured impatiently—not to say commandingly—and so he went down, into a small chamber whose existence he’d never suspected.

  The floorboards sealed above him so rapidly they almost knocked his hat off, and he heard the soft rustle of the carpet sliding back into place. A murmur of voices told him Gertrude and Delphia had returned, and then he had no thoughts for the people above, for he found others waiting below.

  Lune sat with her Lady Chamberlain in front of a small hearth. “We can speak,” she said, though she kept her voice low. “This room protects the secrets of those within it.”

  He followed the wave of her hand upward, and saw that a network of roots spread across the ceiling, except at the top of the staircase. Their rough surface was studded with tiny flowers—roses. The same yellow as those on the bush above. “Sub rosa,” Galen breathed, understanding. An ancient emblem of secrecy. No doubt among fae, it was more than a mere symbol.

  Why had Lune called him here?

  The question chilled him. They had talked of delicate matters before, and never needed any privacy greater than that afforded by the Onyx Hall and Lune’s guards. He doubted it was merely the shock of Aspell’s treason, either.

  What could she possibly have to say, that required such powerful security?

  It could only concern one matter. Galen made his bow out of habit, then stood gripping his hat in one hand. Lune indicated a chair left for him, but he ignored it. “We’ve lost, haven’t we. The clouds can’t be restored.”

  “No,” Lune admitted. “Irrith and Ktistes have sent Il Veloce out with his pipes; he’s trying to shepherd the clouds into position so they block sight of the comet, at least. That’s all we can do. But no, Galen: we haven’t lost.”

  Hope surged in his heart. The other face of the coin, which he hadn’t even let himself consider: the comet, yes, but good news instead of bad. “Then we have a plan?” Wrain and Lady Feidelm had emerged from the Calendar Room a few days before, but been closeted with the Queen ever since.

  Lune nodded, serene and unreadable as he’d ever seen her. It was Amadea who betrayed concern. The Lady Chamberlain clearly didn’t know what her Queen meant—but she just as clearly feared it would be nothing good. And seeing her apprehension, Galen feared it, too.

  Lune said, “It . . . is not a certain thing. Peregrin’s spear-knights will do what they can; it may be enough. But Wrain says, and I concur, that the Dragon’s spirit—and therefore its body—is too strong to be defeated in such fashion. Therefore we need some other position we may fall back on, should it come to pass that they fail.”

  The formal cadences of her speech wound his nerves tight. She spoke this way in two circumstances, Galen realized: when she held court, and when the burden of her thoughts was so heavy as to be shared only with reluctance.

  In other words, when she was afraid.

  She saw him realize it, too. Their eyes met, and she discarded formality for simple, horrifying bluntness. “If we cannot kill the Dragon, then I will give myself up to it.”

  “No!” Galen leapt forward, hat falling from his hand. “No, Lune, you cannot—”

  “Why not?”

  “Because that’s what Aspell wanted!”

  “And perhaps he was right.” She didn’t move from her chair, not even to stand; for once he towered over her, and it felt wrong. “A last resort. A choice between my own death, and the death of my realm—not just the Onyx Hall, but London as well. Thousands of mortals, hundreds of thousands, who for years now have dreaded a fiery death at the comet’s return, without ever knowing why. Should I stand living, when that disaster comes?”

  Galen’s hands ached. He’d clenched them into fists, without any target to use them on. “What if it fails, though? What if we lose you and the Hall both?”

  The peaceful acceptance in Lune’s eyes terrified him. “Then at least I will have done everything I can.”

  Even unto the sacrifice of her soul, obliterated by the Dragon. Galen felt too light, as if he would drift away; his breath was coming too fast. Had his shouts carried above, or had the watchful roses kept his cries from Delphia’s ears? He wondered if the Goodemeades knew of this. They were Lune’s friends, beyond the bond of subject to sovereign; surely they could not stand by while she proposed such madness!

  But they know her. Perhaps they know she won’t be dissuaded.

  He shoved that thought away with almost physical force. The Lady Chamberlain, when he looked to her for help, sat white-faced and staring. Lune laid one hand on hers. “You know why you’re here, Amadea. I won’t leave the Onyx Hall without a mistress. If it comes to this pass, I’ll renounce my claim, and you must take it in my place.”

  Her mouth says if; her mind says when. Amadea shook her head, little more than a tremble. Lune’s hand tightened. “You must. The court needs a Queen—a Queen, I think, and not a King, because it also needs a Prince of the Stone.” She transferred her attention to Galen once more. “She will need your help.”

  He backed up a step, then another. His own head was moving, back and forth, slow denial. “No.”

  “Galen, we have no choice.”

  “Yes. We do. Or at least I do.” He should have been rigid with tension, but he wasn’t. His body felt loose, supple. Ready to spring. “It would be an insult to the men who have gone before me if I let you die while I still lived.”

  “Galen—”

  He stopped her with one hand. “No. I swear by Oak and Ash and Thorn that I will give my life before I let you die.”

  An echo of his oaths, when he became Prince of the Stone. Lune’s face paled to pure wh
ite. Galen bowed to her, then went up the staircase, through the hidden opening, past the Goodemeades and Delphia, and out of Rose House, and he did not look back.

  The Onyx Hall, London: April 6, 1759

  “Begging your pardon, your Majesty—you’re an idiot.”

  Lune didn’t flinch at the accusation, much less protest. Irrith would have gone on even if the Onyx Guard were there with swords out to stop her. “You know what he’s like. You know he’s in love with you. And you thought he’d stand by while you put yourself in danger?”

  More than just danger, but neither of them would say it directly. Not here, inside the Onyx Hall. Irrith had heard it from the Goodemeades. If she could have gone to the cells beneath the Tower and dragged Aspell out of his hundred-year-sleep, she would have spit in his face. He’s still succeeded, even after being defeated.

  And Irrith herself was partly to blame. She was the real idiot. Not the Queen.

  Me and Galen. We’re both too stupid to be let out without keepers.

  They were alone in the chamber, with strict guard on the door outside. Lune sat with her head bowed, but in thought, not penitence. Her slender hands rested atop the pillar-and-claw table at her side, as if she were sitting for a portrait—probably some study in melancholy.

  “Do you love him?”

  The question rocked Irrith back on her heels. “Who? Galen?”

  The Queen nodded.

  “No. I don’t.”