A Star Shall Fall

by Marie Brennan

  A Star Shall Fall

  BY MARIE BRENNAN

  Midnight Never Come

  In Ashes Lie

  A Star Shall Fall

  Warrior

  Witch

  A Star Shall Fall

  MARIE BRENNAN

  A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK

  NEW YORK

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  TITLE

  COPYRIGHT

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  MAP

  PROLOGUE

  PART ONE: Congelatio

  PART TWO: Destillatio

  PART THREE: Fermentatio

  PART FOUR: Conjunctio

  PART FIVE: Separatio

  PART SIX: Dissolutio

  PART SEVEN: Calcinatio

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A STAR SHALL FALL

  Copyright © 2010 by Bryn Neuenschwander

  All rights reserved.

  A Tor Book

  Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

  175 Fifth Avenue

  New York, NY 10010

  www.tor-forge.com

  Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

  ISBN 978-0-7653-2536-5

  First Edition: September 2010

  Printed in the United States of America

  0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  MORTALS

  Those marked with an asterisk are attested in history.

  Galen St. Clair — a gentleman, and Prince of the Onyx Court

  Charles St. Clair — a gentleman of good name and poor fortune; Galen’s father

  Cynthia St. Clair — a young lady in need of a dowry; Galen’s sister

  Philadelphia Northwood — a young lady of great wealth

  Jonathan Hurst

  }

  Laurence Byrd

  }

  — friends to Galen St. Clair

  Peter Mayhew

  }

  Dr. Rufus Andrews — a physician and scholar; Fellow of the Royal Society

  *George Parker, Earl of Macclesfield — President of the Royal Society, and architect of the new calendar

  *Henry Cavendish — a brilliant young scholar; son of Lord Charles Cavendish

  *James Bradley — Astronomer Royal to King George II

  *Charles Messier — a French astronomer

  *John Flamsteed — the first Astronomer Royal, now deceased

  *Edmond Halley — a cometary astronomer and Fellow of the Royal Society, now deceased

  *Sir Isaac Newton — former President of the Royal Society, now deceased

  *Dr. Samuel Johnson — a learned gentleman of very strong opinions

  *Elizabeth Vesey

  }

  *Elizabeth Montagu

  }

  — ladies of the Bluestocking Circle

  *Elizabeth Carter

  }

  Edward Thorne — valet to Galen St. Clair

  *Kitty Fisher — a courtesan

  Sir Michael Deven

  }

  Dr. John Ellin

  }

  — former Princes of the Stone,

  Lord Joseph Winslow

  }

  now deceased

  Dr. Hamilton Birch

  }

  FAERIES

  Lune — Queen of the Onyx Court

  Valentin Aspell — Lord Keeper

  Amadea Shirrell — Lady Chamberlain

  Sir Peregrin Thorne — Captain of the Onyx Guard

  Sir Cerenel — Lieutenant of the Onyx Guard

  Dame Segraine — a lady knight of the Onyx Guard

  Dame Irrith — a sprite, and lady knight of the Vale of the White Horse

  Carline — an elf-lady, now fallen from grace

  Rosamund Goodemeade — a helpful brownie

  Gertrude Goodemeade — likewise a helpful brownie, and Rosamund’s sister

  Savennis — a courtier of scholarly inclinations

  Wrain — a sprite, likewise scholarly

  Magrat — a church grim

  Hafdean — keeper of the Crow’s Head

  Angrisla — a nightmare

  Podder — a hob, and servant to the Princes of the Stone

  Blacktooth Meg — hag of the River Fleet

  Ktistes — a centaur, grandson of Kheiron

  Wilhas von das Ticken — a good-tempered dwarf

  Niklas von das Ticken — an ill-tempered dwarf; Wilhas’ brother

  Lady Feidelm — an Irish sidhe, and former seer

  Abd ar-Rashid — a genie of Istanbul

  Il Veloce — a faun long resident in the Onyx Hall

  Wayland Smith — King of the Vale of the White Horse in Berkshire

  Invidiana — former Queen of the Onyx Court, now deceased

  A Star Shall Fall

  PROLOGUE

  Gresham College, London: June 20, 1705

  The room was a shabby one to contain the intellectual brilliance of England. Small and scant of windows, it was nearly unbearable in the warmth of an early summer day, and filled with gentlemen looking forward to the pleasanter air of their country estates, away from the stinks of London. Some listened with interest to the letters being read, an exchange between two of their fellows regarding the island of Formosa; others fanned themselves futilely with whatever papers came to hand, wishing they dared nod off. But the gimlet eye of their president was upon them, and though Sir Isaac Newton might be more than sixty years old, age had not slowed him in the least, nor dulled the sharp edge of his tongue.

  They gave an impression of agreeable uniformity in their somber-colored coats, so very different from the young gallants of London’s beau monde who took every opportunity to quarrel. Nothing could be further from the truth. Nullius in verba was their motto: on the words of no one. This was the temple of facts, of careful observation and even more careful reasoning; the men of the Royal Society of London, the premier scientific body of the Kingdom of England, were no respecters of ancient authority. They respected only Truth. And when they found themselves in disagreement as to what that Truth was, their arguments could grow very heated indeed.

  But there was little to argue in the second piece of that day’s business, presented by Oxford’s new Savilian Professor of Astronomy. In all honesty, hardly any men there had the capacity to debate it; the proof hinged on Newton’s Philosophiae Naturalis Principia Mathematica, which fewer of them understood than pretended to. Edmond Halley’s calculus therefore meant little to them. The fundamental point, however, was clear.

  The orbit of a comet was not a parabola, but an ellipsis. And that meant that a comet, having departed from view, would in the fullness of time return.

  A point that held rather a high degree of interest for two members of Halley’s audience.

  “The measurements made by Flamsteed at Greenwich in 1682 are exceptionally precise,” the professor said, with a nod that acknowledged the contributions of the absent Astronomer Royal. “They provide us with a basis for examining the less-precise accounts of cometary apparitions in the past—1607, 1531, 1456, and so on.”

  Back to the days of the Stuart kings, and the Tudors, and the Lancastrians. Many here today remembered the comet twenty-three years before, but a man’s beard would have to be gray indeed for him to have seen any of the others Halley named.

  The one member of his audience who could claim that distinction had no beard at all. He was a young gallant more often found haunting the halls of London’s fencing masters, and his friends would have been surprised to see him in such sober costume, attending with haw
klike intensity to the dull minutiae of astronomical mathematics.

  Though not half so surprised as they would have been, had they ever seen their friend’s true face.

  “A question, if you please,” the gallant said, interrupting Halley’s presentation of his Astronomiae cometicae synopsis, and drawing a swift frown from Newton. “Could anything divert the comet from its path?”

  The Savilian Professor’s well-rehearsed presentation faltered. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You say the comet travels far away from the sun, returning only every seventy-five years, or seventy-six. Could anything prevent that return, sending it out into space?”

  Halley’s mouth opened and shut several times without anything coming out. “I suppose,” he said at last, with bewildered uncertainty, “that a large mass might exert gravitational force upon the cometary body, perturbing its path such that the return would not occur as expected. But to make it depart entirely . . . why, sir, would you be concerned with such a thing?”

  Now all eyes in the room were upon the gallant—save for those belonging to Lord Joseph Winslow, who’d brought him there as a guest. Winslow had a most peculiar expression on his face, as if he wished dearly that his companion had not interrupted with such a bizarre question . . . but he also craved Halley’s answer.

  “It seems to me,” the young gallant said, “that the eccentric wanderings of such a body might pose a danger to us here.”

  A startled voice came from elsewhere in the audience. “If the orbits aligned unfavorably—could a comet strike the Earth?”

  “Nonsense.” Newton’s sharp reply cut them all off like a blade. “The Lord designed the heavens to His purpose; if it should come to pass that anything in them brings calamity to the Earth—as may have occurred at the Deluge—then it will likewise be the Lord’s will. We may conclude, therefore, that there is no need for diversion of a comet’s path.”

  The gallant was brave indeed, for he pressed his point, even in the face of Newton’s displeasure. “But what of smaller threats? Have not natural disasters been ascribed to the influence of comets? If one should—”

  “Enough of this.” The President of the Royal Society stood, glaring at Winslow’s guest. “Comets are mechanical bodies, obeying the laws of motion and universal gravitation; if they have any effect beyond that, it is beneficial, distributing vapors that fuel the processes of vegetation and putrefaction on Earth, and perhaps supplying the spiritous component of air. Your fears are foolish, and you will waste no more of our time with them.”

  Sir Isaac Newton had a piercing eye; but so, too, did the young gallant. He stood, not breaking his gaze from the great man’s, and made a curt bow before exiting the room. Winslow murmured his apologies and followed.

  Pacing at the base of the stairs outside, the gallant growled a string of curses. “It isn’t the will of his divine Master—it’s our doing, and our fault.”

  “I wouldn’t tell Sir Isaac that,” Winslow said, trying for a hint of humor. “He isn’t likely to believe you if you tell him there’s a Dragon on that comet, and a bunch of faeries put it there.”

  Dragon. A word not often spoken in the enlightened halls of Gresham College. Neither was the word faerie, and yet here she stood: Dame Segraine of the Onyx Court, lady knight to a faerie queen, come in masculine and mortal guise to confirm the warning they’d received.

  She put one hand on the corner post of the wall at her side. The architecture was old; this building hadn’t burnt in the Great Fire of 1666. It was one of the few that hadn’t. Flames had consumed four-fifths of the land within London’s walls, and some of the land without them, while the mortal inhabitants of the city fought to stop their progress.

  One of two battles that raged during those infernal days. The other was between the city’s faerie inhabitants, and the spirit of the Fire itself: a Dragon.

  Which, in 1682, they exiled to a star in the sky—not knowing that the star would return.

  Inside the chambers of the Royal Society, Edmond Halley was concluding his presentation, saying, “I advise posterity to watch for it most carefully in the year 1758, at which time may science be vindicated in its prophecy.”

  “We have fifty-three years,” Winslow said to Dame Segraine. “Thanks to your Irish seer, we’ve been alerted to Halley’s work, and its consequence for us. We have time to prepare.”

  And prepare they must—for without a doubt, their banished enemy had not forgotten them. Whether from a desire for vengeance or simple ravening hunger, it would seek out the meat it had before.

  London.

  Fifty-three years. As Winslow opened the door to the quadrangle of Gresham College, Dame Segraine murmured, “I hope that will be enough.”

  PART ONE

  Congelatio

  Autumn 1757

  Purged by the sword and beautified by fire,

  Then had we seen proud London’s hated walls.

  —Thomas Gray,

  “On Lord Holland’s Seat near M——e, Kent”

  The blackness is spangled with a million points of light. Stars, galaxies, nebulae: wonders of the heavens, moving through their eternal dance.

  Far in the distance—impossibly far—a bright spark burns. One sun among many, it calls the tune to which its subjects dance, in accordance with the immutable law of gravity. Planets and their follower moons, and the brief visitors men call comets.

  One such visitor draws near.

  The oblong is frozen harder than winter itself. The sun is yet distant, too distant to awaken it to life; the light barely even gilds the black substance facing it. The spirit that dwells within the comet sleeps, driven into torpor by the endless cold of space.

  It has slept for more than seventy years. The time will soon come, though, when that sleep will end, and when it does . . .

  The beast will seek its prey.

  Mayfair, Westminster: September 30, 1757

  The sedan chair left the City by way of Ludgate, weaving through the clamor of Fleet Street and the Strand before escaping into the quieter reaches of Westminster. A persistent drizzle had been falling all day, which the chair-men disregarded, except to choose their footing carefully in the ever-present slime of mud and less savory things. The curtains of the chair were drawn, blocking out the dismal sight, and the twilight falling earlier than usual.

  Inside, the blackness and rhythmic swaying were almost enough to put Galen to sleep. He stifled a yawn as if his father were watching: Up late carousing, no doubt, the old man would say, gambling your allowance away at Vauxhall. As if he had much of an allowance to wager, or any inclination to such pursuits. But that was the simplest explanation for Galen’s late nights and frequent absences, and so he let his father go on believing it.

  Regardless, he would do well to rouse himself. Galen had visited Clarges Street before, but this would be his first formal gathering there, and yawning in his fellow guests’ faces would not make a good impression.

  A muffled cry from one of the chair-men as they slowed. Then the conveyance tilted, rocking perilously up a set of stairs. Galen pulled the curtain aside just in time to see his chair pass through the front door of the house, into the entrance hall, and out of the rain.

  He stepped free carefully, ducking his head to avoid knocking his hat askew. A footman stood at the ready; Galen gave his name, and tried not to fidget as the servant departed. Waiting here, while the chair dripped onto the patterned marble, made him feel terribly self-conscious, as if he were a tradesman come to beg a favor, rather than an invited guest. Fortunately, the footman returned promptly and bowed. “You are very welcome, sir. If I may?”

  Galen paid the chair-men and surrendered his cloak, hat, and walking stick to the footman. Then, taking a deep breath, he followed the man to the sitting room.

  “Mr. St. Clair!” Elizabeth Vesey rose from her seat and crossed to him, extending one slender hand. He bowed over it with his best grace, lips brushing lightly. Just enough to make her blush prettily; it was a
game, of course, but one she never tired of, though she would not see forty again. “You are very welcome, sir. I feared this dreadful rain would keep you home.”

  “Not at all,” Galen said. “My journey here was warmed by the thought of your company, and I shall carry the memory of it home like a flame.”

  Mrs. Vesey laughed, a lilting sound that matched her Irish accent. “Oh, well done, Mr. St. Clair—well done indeed. Do you not agree, Lizzy?”

  That was addressed to a taller, more robust woman, one of at least a dozen scattered about the room. Elizabeth Montagu raised one eyebrow and said, “Well spoken, at least—but my dear, have you not instructed him in the proper dress for these occasions?”

  Galen flushed, faltering. Mrs. Vesey looked him over from his ribbon-bound wig to the polished buckles of his shoes, and tsked sadly. “Indeed, sir, we have a very strict code for our gatherings, as I have told you most clearly. Only blue stockings will do!”

  He looked down in startlement at his stockings of black silk, and tension gave way to a relieved laugh. “My humblest apologies, Mrs. Vesey, Mrs. Montagu. Blue worsted, as you instructed. I will endeavour to remember.”

  Linking her arm through his, Mrs. Vesey said, “See that you do! You are far too stiff, Mr. St. Clair, especially for one so young. You mustn’t take us too seriously, or our little Bluestocking Circle. We’re merely friends here, come together to share ideas and art. Dress as if for court, and you’ll put us all to shame!”

  There was some truth to her words. Not that he was dressed for court; no, his gray velvet was far too somber for any occasion so fine, though he was very pleased with the new waistcoat Cynthia had given him. But it was true that few of the people present showed anything like such elegance, and in fact one of the two gentlemen present might have been a tradesman, dressed for a day of work.