A Star Shall Fall (12 page)

Galen wondered at her coolness. Cuddy had accused Irrith of being a Sanist, but he doubted it; the sprite had been gone from the Onyx Hall since before that problem began. There was no reason to think she’d been swayed by them in the few short months since her return. He doubted Irrith even read a newspaper.

Those shifting green eyes held an echo of old hurt. “Madam . . . nobody sent me. I really was just curious. And I suppose it was foolish of me, but I—I’ve learned my lesson. I know better than to tell anyone anything I’ve seen.”

The weary bitterness of it took him aback. It didn’t fit with the Irrith he’d seen before. She and the Queen were clearly having a conversation of their own, separate from the four who watched them; and glancing around, he saw that Cuddy and the dwarves understood no more than he did.

A division that only sharpened when Lune waved one hand in dismissal. “That doesn’t matter anymore, Irrith. It’s been moved. This, however, is a different matter.”

Whatever “it” was, the revelation of its movement was enough to make Irrith’s eyes nearly start from her head. Then the rest of the Queen’s reply sank in, and the sprite twisted enough to glance over her shoulder, at the dwarves’ workshop behind her. The sundial door hung slightly ajar, but gave her no glimpse within. “I’ve hardly seen anything—but of course that doesn’t matter, does it, your Grace? I know there’s
something
here. Though . . .” She curled her fingers halfway in, as if stopping short of fists, then said, “I won’t be the last to come down here. Those defenses didn’t stop me, and you rule over a court of very curious fae, madam.”

She was right. It had worked so far—and, with any luck, would only need to work a little while longer—but the defenses were not remotely enough. Galen could hardly tell her why there weren’t more: the massive enchantment just a short distance away, behind the sundial door, made it unwise in the extreme to place many other charms nearby. If they tried, Ktistes feared this might become a broken part of the Onyx Hall in truth.

Very quietly, Irrith said, “I could give you my word.”

Galen happened to be looking directly at Lune when she said it; he therefore caught the minute narrowing of the Queen’s eyes, the tightening of her sculpted lips. Fae could not break their sworn words, which made Irrith’s offer the perfect solution. If she swore, she would be
incapable
of telling what she’d seen. Why did that prospect disturb Lune?

He didn’t know, any more than he knew what Irrith had almost told in the past. The one thing he
did
know was that this entire affair risked being magnified far beyond its merits. Finding Irrith here had clearly disturbed Lune, enough that her response might be too harsh.

Saying that, however, was more than a little difficult. “Madam,” Galen began diffidently, then choked on the rest.

Lune’s lips pressed together again, before she turned her attention to him. “Yes?”

Now he had to say
something
. Holding his hands out in placation, Galen went on, “I know that Dame Irrith, as a faerie, falls under your authority instead of mine. But if I may . . . offer a suggestion . . .”

The Queen gestured him onward, with a hint of impatience.

He felt like a very sharp stone had lodged in his throat. Around that obstruction, Galen said, “It may be that in this instance, there is more to be gained by revelation than by secrecy. Not just as concerns Dame Irrith, but the court as a whole.”

Cuddy failed to repress a snort, and Lune’s eyebrows rose into two doubtful arches. “What gain do you see?”

Galen spent little time among the fae outside of the Queen’s company, but Edward Thorne heard things, and passed them on to his master. “There’s a great deal of fear in your realm that time is running out. We have a year—perhaps less, if an astronomer makes an early discovery. If your subjects were to know there’s more time—”

He stopped because he could see Lune working through the complications and counterarguments. “It hasn’t harmed the Hall,” she murmured, almost inaudibly. “Though some, of course, will try to say that it has. But if we leave unspecified the details of its operation—to silence, or at least confuse, those who would demand to know why we haven’t disposed of the cometary threat already—”

“They’re asking that anyway,” Galen reminded her. Then he wished he’d found a more tactful phrasing. “But this, at least, is a concrete step, something they can point to when they ask themselves whether—”

The rest of that sentence was swallowed, courtesy of more belated tact, but Lune finished it for him. “Whether we’ve accomplished anything at all.”

Everyone else had stayed well out of this exchange. Irrith looked to be holding her breath. Galen said, “If the question of secrecy is removed, then Dame Irrith has nothing to betray, whether by accident or design.”

Lune smiled. The sun might have risen in that small portico, by the warmth it gave him. And Irrith, too, was beaming at him with undisguised gratitude.
This place keeps too many secrets,
Galen thought, heaving an inward sigh of relief.
I am glad to unveil at least one of them.

“I will draft an announcement,” Lune said. “In the meantime, Irrith, you might as well see what you came for. Galen, if you would be so kind as to show her the Calendar Room? I shall be in my chambers.” With a swirl of rich skirts, she was gone.

Irrith wasn’t entirely certain how pleased she was to see the pale figure of the Queen depart, leaving her with two crazy dwarves, one unfriendly-looking puck, and a very youthful Prince. But Galen stepped forward, all courtesy, to lift her to her feet, and though she didn’t physically need the aid, she accepted it gladly.

“This way,” the Prince said, and left the pillars for the broader space of the workshop beyond.

Remembering her previous experience, Irrith prodded the gap between the pillars with one finger. It encountered a familiar wall. “Er—Lord Galen—”

He turned, saw her still there, and flushed enchantingly. “Ah. Yes.” Galen came back and extended one hand, courteous as a dance. Irrith took it, and he led her into the chamber.

Peculiar equipment and half-finished projects crowded the space. Not just clocks and watches, either: she spotted the cousin of one of the objects Tom Toggin had brought to the Vale, that Galen had called an armillary sphere. This one, however, had far too many rings, set at cockeyed angles to one another, as if someone had tried to wrench the heavenly circuits they represented into a more useful configuration.

Perhaps they had. Like everything else that occupied the Queen’s attention nowadays, Irrith guessed this had to do with the return of the comet.

“What’s
that
?” she asked, pointing past the armillary sphere to something even more peculiar.

“An orrery.” The answer came from the blond-bearded dwarf, who appeared to have discarded all animosity once the Queen was done with Irrith. His red-bearded friend, unfortunately, seemed less easily won over.

Irrith peered at the object. It had gears like a clock, and thin arms that held balls of various sizes. “And an orrery is . . .”

“A model of the heavens. It is more useful than an an armillary sphere.” He came over to demonstrate, cranking the arms around so they circled the gold ball in the center. Irrith guessed that represented the sun, but that was where her comprehension ended.

The dwarf smiled when she looked at him, though it was hard to find behind the beard. “I am Wilhas von das Ticken. This is my brother Niklas.” Beard or no beard, it was easy to tell when the other dwarf scowled.

Well, if he didn’t like her, she might as well go directly to the question she
really
wanted answered. Pointing at the door with the sundial on it, Irrith said, “So what’s
that
?”

Galen cleared his throat and said, “Er, yes. Dame Irrith—I don’t know what news reaches you out in the Vale, but perhaps you recall the measures taken a few years ago, to correct the calendar?” Irrith nodded. Berkshire mortals were
still
confused by it, checking their almanacs to see which fairs and festivals were being held on the same date as before, and which ones on the same day, regardless of the calendar. “Parliament took great pains to make sure everyone understood that this was merely a change of style, to correct for the inaccuracies that had accumulated through the centuries, and that although September second, 1752, would be followed by September fourteenth, they would
not
lose any genuine time.”

Wilhas snickered quietly into his beard.

Grinning a little himself, Galen said, “That . . . wasn’t entirely true.”

Irrith’s eyes went to the heavy door, with the sundial nailed to its surface. “So that . . .”

“Is the Calendar Room,” the Prince said. “It contains within it the eleven days skipped over when the adjustment occurred.
All
of the eleven days: those lost by every man, woman, and child in the whole of Great Britain.”

The sprite hadn’t the faintest clue how many mortals dwelt in the kingdom, but even her most inadequate guess was staggering. “How much time is
in
there?”

“The von das Tickens could tell you,” Galen said. “I don’t bother to keep count. More than the Onyx Court is ever likely to use, even given the way the room operates. Once the door is closed, it won’t open again until eleven days later—from the perspective of one standing outside. Within the chamber, however, it’s a different matter. If you spend one day inside, you will come out eleven days later. If you spend fourteen years inside, you will
still
come out eleven days later.”

When Irrith stared at him, he shrugged, with an embarrassed grin. “No, I can’t tell you how it works. This was made before I came to the Onyx Hall. You can ask Wilhas if you like, but I fear the explanation would make your head spin.”

The dwarf answered with his own cheerful shrug. “Ve could go inside and shut the door. I am sure that vith enough time, I could make her understand.”

By the time Irrith realized she was moving, she’d already drifted several paces toward the door. “May—may I see?”

Galen bowed and swung the door open. One half-eager, half-reluctant step at a time, Irrith rounded the obstacle of his body and looked into the room.

And saw the clock.

Movement and stillness: somehow both at once. Irrith knew without question that the pendulum was swinging in a broad arc across the floor, though its motion was so slow as to be imperceptible. She stared at it, unblinking,
incapable
of blinking, because the stone describing that arc was too large to look away from, inescapable, oppressive in its weight, as if she faced a rough-hewn chunk of Time itself—

Then something else filled her vision, because Galen had taken her by the shoulders and wrenched her around, putting the clock behind her. His face was so
young
—his whole life less than an eyeblink in the great duration of the universe, less than the
thought
of an eyeblink. Mortal. Ephemeral. That was how
Irrith
felt, and if she was ephemeral, then what did that make him?

The Prince was talking. Words. She focused on them. “—strikes most people like that, at first,” he was saying. “You become accustomed, eventually. As much as anyone can. I cannot say
I
have. Not entirely.”

Words. Tongue, and lips, and air. “That weight—”

“Twenty-five tons, or so they tell me. But it isn’t the physical burden you feel. The clock ticks once a day, and when it does . . . it’s like hearing the heartbeat of the Earth itself.”

She’d heard it, when they opened the door and the puck came out. Irrith might be a faerie, and immortal, but the Earth was far older than she. No wonder that sight, that sound, made her feel like a mayfly.

“Now you understand one of the limitations of the room,” Galen said ruefully. “Even faeries don’t find it comfortable. Mortals . . .” His eyes darkened with something deeper than fear. “But it gives us more time, and so we use it.”

His hands were still on her shoulders. Irrith suspected Galen was, in the ordinary way of things, a gentleman much concerned with propriety, but he seemed to have forgotten such things in the urgency of distracting her from the clock. The two points of warmth, seeping through her coat and shirt, were comforting against the chill that had sunk into her bones.

It would be easy to stay turned away, to go out through the pillars and never look back. But that would mean letting her fear win. And if this boy of a Prince could face the clock, then so could she.

Irrith disengaged gently, squared her shoulders, and turned back to the doorway.

This time she was prepared; this time, it wasn’t so bad. She was able to drag her attention away from the terrible inexorability of that pendulum and up to the clock face above it. Flawless gold gleamed in a disc the height of a giant, its face marked with twenty-four hours. Behind it lay an incomprehensible mass of gears, ruled over by a device like an inverted
V,
and a sharp-toothed wheel.
Actually
toothed, so it seemed to Irrith—or were those claws? The mechanism was much too high up for her to be sure.

And then there was the pulley, a massive cylinder wrapped with a cable unlike any she’d ever seen. From it hung an absurdly little ball. “As it falls, it helps drive the clock,” he said over her shoulder. “Once a year, they pull it up to the top again.”

Against her will, she turned back to the pendulum. It hung, not from a cable, but from a softly glowing pillar of light, that vanished into the darkness above. “And where does that go?”

“To the moon.” Galen spread his hands when she eyed him suspiciously. “If it’s a lie, Dame Irrith, then they’ve lied to me, too. It has to do with the mechanics of the clock. They had to hang the pendulum from something very far distant, and so they drew down a beam from the moon.”

Irrith shivered and turned elsewhere. The rest of the room was ordinary by comparison: tables, shelves, every flat surface crammed with books and paper and bottles of ink and flocks of quill pens. She tried to imagine staying here for days, let alone years, and shuddered again.