A Star Shall Fall

He declined Irrith’s offer to accompany them on their tour of the Hall. What mischief she had in mind, he didn’t know, and didn’t want to discover. Instead he and Delphia walked alone—truly alone, without even Edward to attend them. “Your valet comes here with you?” she asked, surprised, and he explained about the man’s faerie father.

“It makes matters easier,” he said, as they approached the Hall of Figures, where the gems of the Onyx Hall’s statuary were kept. “I have chambers here in the palace, and often stay in them; if you’ve heard Cynthia complain of my absences, that is why. Having one valet who can attend me in both worlds is simpler than managing two. The servants who maintain my quarters are faeries, though.”

“Perhaps I—” Delphia began, then lost the rest of it in a gasp. They stood at the top of a half flight of stairs, which gave a splendid view of the long gallery, lined on both sides with statues. Some, in imitation of mortal habit, had been pillaged from Italy and Greece. Others were older and cruder, or simply stranger, taken from no land or time Galen knew of. He’d never liked this place; the frozen ranks of figures unnerved him too much. But Delphia, seeing them for the first time, was entranced.

Then he realised her eyes were fixed on the far end of the gallery, where stairs led up again to a dais and the far doors, and a single statue stood in glory.

They made their way toward it slowly, for there were other things in the chamber worth seeing. On this side, an enormous head, so lifelike it might have been taken from a noble-faced giant; across the way, a strange tangle of honey-veined marble, a figure half-emerging from the trunk of a tree. But mere stone was by comparison a weak thing, so before long they climbed the stairs and stood before the sculpture Galen liked least in all the Onyx Hall.

The flames spiraling around the central form gave off enough heat to prove their reality, not enough to drive the viewer back. They moved, though, writhing and twisting, and created the illusion that the figure trapped within them was moving, too. He towered above Galen’s and Delphia’s heads, hands clenched around semisolid flames, massive shoulders hunched as if to tear his enemy apart, and such was the skill of the artisan that it was impossible to tell which was winning, giant or flames.

Delphia held one hand up, fingers glowing against the ruddy light, and breathed, “What is this one?”

“A memorial.” Galen wrapped his arms around his body, though it was impossible to be cold while standing upon the dais. “This realm’s answer to the Monument to the Great Fire. Have you ever been there?”

She nodded. “The view from its gallery is splendid.”

“There are folk here who remember that fire—who saw it with their own eyes. Who fought it.” The curling flames, twining serpentlike around the statue, trapped his gaze and would not let him go. “I told you there were less pleasant things, ones Mrs. Vesey does not know about. This is one of them.”

Delphia turned away from her contemplation, hand dropping to her side. “What do you mean?”

He gestured at the statue. “That’s meant to represent a giant in battle with the Dragon. The Fire was more than flames, Delphia; it was a great beast, that tried to devour all of London—and succeeded in devouring a great deal of it. While the mortals fought the blaze, the fae battled its spirit. And in the end they imprisoned it.”

With the light behind her, Delphia’s expression was hard to read, but he thought he saw her brow furrow. “A grand and terrible bit of history… but you look as if it troubles you even now.”

“It troubles us all,” he whispered. “Because it’s coming back, Delphia. The comet everyone is waiting for—that is the Dragon’s prison. If I have been tired and distracted and absent these past months, it’s because the day is not far off when we will be back to this.” And he gestured at the statue, the faerie locked in combat with the beast.

She cast a glance over her shoulder, then back at him. “You mean—some kind of battle?”

“We hope not. But I fear—” He shivered, and pressed his elbows into his ribs, as if that would stop it. “I fear that all our clever plans will come to nothing, and it will be this. Battle against an immortal beast, in order to save London. And people will die. Fae, and perhaps mortals, too.”

Perhaps myself. The thought terrified him, and yet he clung to it, as if familiarity could wear down the sharp edges, rendering the fear incapable of wounding him. Galen did not want to die, but he wanted even less to live a coward. If it came to battle…

Here in the Onyx Hall, he could not speak God’s name, but he could cry out in his thoughts. Please, O Lord, give me the courage to face that prospect like a man.