A Star Shall Fall

Bewildered, Galen likewise rose from his chair. “What land is that, madam?”

He heard an echo of his bewilderment in Lune’s answer. “Araby.”

* * *

Galen couldn’t help but wonder whether Lune, like him, drew some strength from elegance of dress, and for that reason had ordered a delay while they both changed into more suitable clothing. Whether she did or not, he was grateful for the deep-cuffed coat and powdered wig Edward put him into; they helped him stand proud as the massive bronze doors of the greater presence chamber swung open to admit the traveller.

The chamber itself was such a wondrous space that Galen might have thought any additional wonder would seem at home. Soaring black pillars served as a frame for panels of silver filigree and faceted crystal, bestowing a degree of lightness on what otherwise would have been a grim and ominous space. The figure who entered, though, brought with him a different kind of wonder entirely.

It wasn’t that his countenance was especially grotesque. His bearded face was darker skinned than Galen expected of an Arab, more like a Negro, with a powerfully hooked nose, but beyond that he looked almost human. His dress was moderately odd, being a long, straight robe confined at the hips with a broad sash, and of course his head was wrapped in a neatly folded turban; that was not the cause, either. In the years Galen had been among the English fae, their alien natures had become almost familiar—but this fellow awoke that frisson again, the awareness that there was always more strangeness beyond his ken.

The lords and ladies assembled for this audience rustled and murmured amongst themselves, watching him approach. When the visitor reached a courteous distance from the dais upon which Lune and Galen sat, he sank gracefully to both knees, bowing his head just shy of touching the floor. “Assalamu alaykum, O fair Queen, O wise Prince. Peace be unto you. I am called Abd ar-Rashid, Al-Musafir, At-Talib ul-’ilm, of the land known to you as Araby.”

“Welcome to the Onyx Court, Lord Abd ar-Rashid,” Lune said, smoothly enough that Galen suspected she had practiced the foreign name while dressing. “Never before has our realm been visited by one of your land. Do you come to us as an ambassador?”

“I do not, O Queen.” The stranger had risen from the lowest part of his bow, but remained on his knees. The stone of the presence chamber carried his voice to them, clear despite the distinct and oddly French-tinged accent. “I an individual only, travelling the faerie Europe courts these many years.”

Galen, content to let Lune manage the niceties of welcome, had been studying that hook-nosed face, chasing a wisp of memory. It was the French letter of introduction that did it; his tutor had given him several books for practicing the language, years ago, and one of them had mentioned something like this creature. Galen’s mother had confiscated the volume in horror once she saw the title—too late to protect him from the scandalous bits—but he’d read enough to remember the word. “If you will pardon me for asking, sir—are you a genie?”

Abd ar-Rashid’s white teeth flashed a startling contrast against his dark skin. Smiling, he said, “A genie indeed, O Prince. Read you the Thousand and One Nights?”

Floundering for useful memories beyond the bare word—and succeeding only in recalling more and more of the scandalous bits—Galen caught sight of Lune, out of the corner of his eye. Without ever so much as uttering a word or changing the serene pleasantry of her expression, she somehow communicated her intentions to him. You know more than I do of this stranger. Deal with him as you will.

God help him. Galen had stood at Lune’s side on various state occasions, fulfilling his duties as her mortal consort, but never before had he been the chief voice in such a matter. And now to hand him an Arabic faerie, sent to them by some French lady he’d never even met…

Well, it could not hurt to be polite. He hoped. “What brings you to England, Lord ar-Rashid?”

The smile flickered out of existence a heartbeat before the genie bowed again. “I beg your kindness, O Prince. I am not Ar-Rashid, The One Who Knows, being his servant only. I am called Abd ar-Rashid, meaning this: I serve the Most Merciful, the Most Compassionate.”

Apparently his attempt at politeness could hurt. Galen had no choice but to forge ahead. “No, the apology should be mine; I did not realise.” Then, belatedly, he took note of the way the faeries had whispered amongst themselves at his words. The Merciful and Compassionate—does he mean God?

Did this faerie just claim to be a servant of God?