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 had 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.
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?”
The lady knight shook her head almost imperceptibly. “Fewer every time. Some are still in the city, but drawing back; others have gone entirely.”
As Carline had predicted they would. And the comet hadn’t even been sighted yet.
Lune called forward Sir Peregrin, the Captain of the Onyx Guard. Four knights followed him, carrying a long, narrow box, which they placed on the floor when they knelt. The captain said, “Your Majesty, the yarthkin Hempry has hafted a piece of the jotun ice to length of ash.” He gestured, and the knights uncovered the box, revealing an enormously long pike, its end glinting with the same near-invisible material Irrith had seen them wrestling with a year ago. “I have selected these four to be your spear-knights: Sir Adenant, Sir Thrandin, Sir Emaus, and my lieutenant Sir Cerenel. They will stand ready to do battle with the Dragon, and to stab it through its fiery heart, for the defence of the Onyx Hall.”