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A Star Shall Fall

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 realised: 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 realise 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 white. 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.