“It is in France. Here.”
“Here?” Thanh Phan’s hand rose, showed the faience pillars, the table with its two broken-off dragons, the colored rafters of the ceiling, a strange and diminished alienness that was at once disconcerting and repelling. “This isn’t France. This isn’t a House. This isn’t Hawthorn.”
“If you would ally with Hawthorn, you would do well to show us respect,” Clothilde said.
It was going to turn ugly, and fast. Madeleine laid a hand on Clothilde’s arm before she could stop herself. “I thought we were going to negotiate terms?”
Clothilde looked at her—that sharpness, that sense of threat, turning her way—and then she exhaled, noisily. “Fine,” she said. “My apologies for questioning your customs.”
“Accepted,” Thanh Phan said, as if it were a challenge.
Madeleine fought the urge to yell at them. Acting like spoiled children wasn’t going to help anything or anyone.
“Thanh Phan,” Ngoc Bich said. Her voice was gentle, but every word was wrapped in steel. “You know the stakes.”
Thanh Phan inclined her head. “Your Highness. Of course.”
“We all know them,” Clothilde said, drily. “I was told you had settled the question of the bridegroom.”
Ngoc Bich inclined her head. “With Envoy Ghislaine? It was agreed Prince Rong Minh Phuong Dinh would be satisfactory. If you would like to review—”
“I would like to meet him at some point, yes,” Clothilde said. She didn’t sound surprised that he wasn’t in the room. And yes, it was a diplomatic alliance; yes, it was rather unlikely either of them was marrying for love, but . . . Madeleine hoped that Prince Rong, whoever he was, was fully aware of what he was getting into.
“I’ll let him know. We will introduce him to you tomorrow,” Ngoc Bich said. “Now, with Envoy Ghislaine we had discussed . . .”
The conversation became technical, dwelling on concessions and terms Ghislaine had negotiated on behalf of the House. Madeleine let her mind drift, trying to ignore the link to Hawthorn in her head, and the growing emptiness within her, the craving gnawing away at her stomach and lungs.
Noises came from outside. Then voices, raised in an argument in Annamite. Some kind of commotion?
Madeleine rose, heedless of the debate going on between Clothilde and the officials, and found herself face-to-face with one of the most forbidding dragons she’d ever seen. She had long hair that had almost twisted into a mane, and the lower half of her face lengthened into a snout, with glistening fangs. One of them was broken off, but it didn’t make much difference. She had a pearl under her chin, like Ngoc Bich, but this one shone with fire, and the same fire was in the dragon’s gaze as she looked at Madeleine. “Fallen,” she spat. “Get out of my way.”
“I’m not—,” Madeleine started, but the dragon had already walked past her.
Outside, in the courtyard, the officials had gone, and the guards were clustering in unfamiliar patterns that nevertheless spoke to Madeleine. Wariness. Fear. What was going on in this palace?
The dragon was speaking to Ngoc Bich in a low, urgent voice. Thanh Phan had bent to overhear the words, her harsh face frozen in something akin to panic.
“My apologies,” Ngoc Bich said, rising. “A matter of urgency has occurred. Thanh Phan will take you back to your rooms.”
“We want to see Ghislaine’s rooms first,” Clothilde said.
“Of course,” Ngoc Bich said. “We will arrange for it.”
“Now.” Clothilde looked as though she were going to breathe fire. She had a mirror in her hand, and the Fallen magic she’d inhaled from it filled her, made her skin shine like a sun or a bonfire, her eyes as white as the heart of stars—a faint outline behind her, lines so fine they were almost invisible, like spider’s silk glistening in interrupted tracery: wings framing the dark shape of her head and making her seem taller than she was.
For a while, they faced each other: the dragon princess, with her broken antlers and her uncanny whitened face, and the eyes of snakes; and Clothilde, Fallen magic streaming out of her, looking Ngoc Bich straight in the face. Madeleine remembered something, vaguely, about never looking at a higher rank of Annamite in the eyes. Wasn’t it some kind of mortal offense, in the kingdom? Clothilde didn’t seem to care.
Ngoc Bich didn’t look away, but she nodded. “Escort them,” Ngoc Bich said, to Thanh Phan.
Thanh Phan didn’t look happy. “Your Highness,” she said. “As you wish.” It sounded like she’d swallowed something sour, and couldn’t wait to spit it out.
FIVE
Missing Dreams
THE courtyard outside the audience room was now empty. But as their escort led them through a series of small, suffocating corridors that seemed to belong to another palace altogether, the sounds of men running filtered through, and so did slow booms, like a heavy gong being struck.
Clothilde appeared intently focused on their destination, but Elphon fell in with Madeleine. “What would you say is happening?” he asked.
“I—I—,” Madeleine stuttered. “You’re asking me?” Someday she was going to get used to having him close. He hadn’t changed at all; he was a reminder of all she had left behind when Asmodeus took over Hawthorn; and she might know that he had been reborn, that he was now utterly faithful to Asmodeus, but in her mind she was still fifteen, and they were still racing each other to the bridge over the Seine.
“Obviously.” Elphon shook his head. “I don’t know what is going on between you and Lord Asmodeus. It’s none of my business. You’re with us because he thought you would be of use here.”
Yes, to recharge artifacts for Clothilde and the bodyguards. As Asmodeus had said, a basic need that did not require advanced alchemical skills. She was down here because she was expendable, because he wouldn’t lose anyone valuable if something did go wrong. And of course, she was also here because it was a test, to see how she handled herself, outside the House.
“I don’t know,” Madeleine said, at last. “They’re scared. And . . . they’ve lived for hundreds of years in isolation. They’ve defended themselves against the encroachment of Houses and Fallen magic. Something must have changed.” Asmodeus had said their time for secrecy had ended, but that wasn’t enough to make them vulnerable, was it? “You don’t strike an alliance with your worst enemy unless you’re desperate.”
“Or unless you have other ideas beyond the alliance,” Elphon said.
That would be us. Hawthorn. “I don’t think that’s what is happening,” Madeleine said, slowly. “They sound divided.”
“Yes.” Elphon looked at their guards, and then back at Clothilde. “I’m going to have a look around. Keep on walking, will you? Whatever happens, don’t look back.” He gave her a light squeeze on her shoulder. “And tell Clothilde I’ll be back this evening. Hopefully that shouldn’t make her too mad.”
“Elphon?” Madeleine asked, but he had already fallen behind.
He had sounded deathly serious. What was he thinking of?
Don’t look back.
Corridor after corridor, and the sound of booted feet behind them, and a rising smell, dust and blight, and patches of algae so thick on every surface they had hardened like mortar. The walls were no longer faience or wood, but what looked like lumps of coral, coaxed into forming pillars and roofs and whole buildings. Everything looking subtly wrong, until Madeleine realized it was because nothing had right angles, or perfect circles: every single shape slightly bent or twisted, a warped imitation of architecture done by someone who didn’t really know how buildings worked.
She caught up with Clothilde as they reached their destination: a small room by another courtyard. The walls were green and blue, with the slight white sheen of unhealthy trees. The smell of decay was so strong that Madeleine struggled to breathe. She needed essence, something, anything, to stop her stomach churning. Sh
e took one step into the room, and was back out, kneeling in the courtyard to puke her guts out before she’d even realized what was happening.
A hand on her shoulder, steadying her. When she stood up, Clothilde was by her side, holding out the infused mirror she’d used. “It’s almost empty, but that should help.”
It wasn’t essence, but Madeleine was past caring. She tipped the mirror open; found, by force of habit, the catch, and released the entire remaining contents into her nostrils. Something filled her mouth and her throat and her stomach, a slow, steady warmth like embers in a quiescent fireplace. It wasn’t fire; wasn’t that giddy feeling she could do anything, could defeat anyone, that her fears were only an illusion dispelled by the sun’s scorching radiance. But it was enough that she could breathe again.
And enough so that, looking around, she could see that though their escort had positioned themselves across the courtyard, watching them both with incurious eyes, Elphon was now nowhere to be seen.
Clothilde frowned. “Where—,” she started.
“Elphon said he wanted to have a look around,” Madeleine said. “He thought you’d be mad.”
Clothilde’s expression was grimly amused. “You mean because when whatever spell he’s used wears off, I’m going to be the one to explain to those guards why they’ve lost one of the people they were supposed to be protecting? ‘Mad’ is certainly an accurate description.” She sighed. “Let’s examine the room. I’ll sort things out, somehow.”
It was a small room, and it was clear that it had been, until recently, occupied. The smell—the stench—wasn’t only rot; it was rot mingled with the remnants of incense and perfume. Small hermit crabs scuttled out of sight as they entered, making for the shadows under the furniture, and shoals of small fish turned tail and fled, a silvery, skeletal stream that passed right by Madeleine’s face, too fast to be grasped.
Thanh Phan was waiting for them by the bed alcove, frowning. When they both entered, she said to Clothilde, “Weren’t there more of you?”
Clothilde frowned. “Wears off fast,” she said to herself. “Elphon is on a mission of his own. Without, I might add, my permission.”
Thanh Phan looked as though she was going to have an apoplexy. “Left? Now, of all times?”
Ah well. When in doubt, be blunt. Madeleine asked, “Why? What’s happening?”
“None of your concern,” Thanh Phan said. “But we would advise you not to wander around unescorted.”
“Because it’s dangerous?” Madeleine asked.
“I don’t know. Fallen magic.” Thanh Phan snorted, and released a flow of little bubbles, a disturbing effect that reminded Madeleine they were still underwater. “We were doing fine for thousands of years, and within the span of a few decades you destroy everything. The princess is right. It’s a cancer.”
It was also the thing keeping Madeleine warm and upright, and clothed and fed and protected from the grimy, apocalyptic misery of the streets. “Easy for you to say.”
“Look around you,” Thanh Phan said, but it was spent and tired, as if she’d had this argument too many times. “It’s not safe out there,” she said. “No matter what fancy your companion may get into his head. And I don’t want to have to tell House Hawthorn that we lost yet another envoy.” She walked past them, calling out instructions to the guards in Annamite.
When she was gone, Clothilde poked at a burner left by the bed alcove, still filled with ashes. “Cinnamon and sandalwood,” she said, curtly. “Might have been some use, before they burned themselves out.”
Two large chests were piled one atop the other, each inscribed with a Chinese character. Madeleine wasn’t sure why, as the Annamites used an alphabet, but either way she wouldn’t have been able to decipher these. She opened the trunks, and found them full of clothes, from dresses to jackets to loose trousers. “She didn’t pack much of anything.” At the bottom was an empty container that gave a small, familiar jolt as Madeleine touched it. Angel magic, probably a severed finger or some fragment of skin. Ghislaine wouldn’t have gone down into the dragon kingdom without resources.
“No,” Clothilde said. She ran a hand on the small table in the center of the room, raised it to her face. “There were papers on that table, and they’re gone.”
“The room has been searched by the kingdom’s soldiers, already.”
“Yes,” Clothilde said. “And God only knows what they thought worth taking.”
“We took nothing,” Thanh Phan said, from the doorway. “We’re not thieves.” She sounded offended.
Not, of course, that they had any way to check.
While Clothilde made her way to the clothes chest, Madeleine knelt by the bed. It was in a recessed alcove, with a low ceiling and a small size that must have made Ghislaine feel claustrophobic. Underneath the grime and the algae was a raised contour, with a faint whitish trace. She ran her fingers over it until something snagged, and pushed and pulled and prodded until the entire piece of furniture felt like it was coming apart in her hands.
It must not have been a hidden drawer at conception, but the layers and layers of hardened algae had turned it into one. Inside were a handful of badly disintegrated papers, and . . .
The smell was faint, and even fainter under the stench of the room, but she would have known it anywhere. The small container in front of her, lined with faded parchment, had once held angel essence.
Now there was nothing left but traces, but even traces would do, if they could assuage the emptiness within her. If they could . . . Her hands were shaking. She looked up: Clothilde was in an animated discussion with Thanh Phan, and was keeping only cursory attention on her.
She wasn’t going to relapse. He would kill her if she did, would take her apart, smiling all the while, but she needed safety. Comfort. The promise of something she could go to when things became unbearable. She needed this.
Slowly, smoothly, she lifted the parchment from the container, and folded it as tight as she could, before sliding it into the pocket of her trousers. Clothilde would see her—Clothilde would know—but when she looked up, her heartbeat so loud she could hear it resonate through her entire body, Clothilde’s gaze was still distracted and distant.
“Here,” she said, forcing herself to speak in a slow, steady voice. “There was something.” In fact, by the container was the imprint of a second container, as faint and as whitish as the opening to the drawer had been. “Angel essence.”
Clothilde was by her side almost faster than she could draw breath, bending over the drawer with entirely too much concern. It didn’t matter. She couldn’t guess that Madeleine had already taken the parchment that lined it. “Mmm,” Clothilde said. “Are you sure?”
“I’d recognize the smell anywhere.” And that was easy, because it wasn’t a lie.
Thanh Phan’s face was frozen, in what Madeleine was coming to think of as the “inscrutable” expression, the dragons’ variant of a poker face.
“And there was a second container, too,” Madeleine said. “If they didn’t take it—” She didn’t dare look at Thanh Phan’s expression, because she could guess.
“—Ghislaine did,” Clothilde said. “So, in so much of a hurry that she didn’t pack her clothes, but she did take angel essence. And used a fair bit of it beforehand.” She lifted the container to the level of her eyes. “I assume this was full.”
Madeleine shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. But you wouldn’t take two containers if one of them wasn’t full.” Her manic heartbeat was slowly coming down to normal, and she was breathing easily again. Natural. She had to act natural. That was the only way she was going to get away with what she had done. Because if Clothilde, at any point, suspected . . .
No no no. Don’t think about this. Think about the essence, the feel of it in your hands, in your throat, the light that banishes the darkness, the fire that makes everything right.
; “Fleeing,” Madeleine said, before she could stop herself. “Frightened of something. Of someone here. Or elsewhere.”
Clothilde was watching her, head cocked in a way that was all too reminiscent of Asmodeus. “Mmm. You assume everyone is afraid, don’t you?”
Because she was. Because—damn him—Asmodeus was right, and fear filled her, night and day: the nightmares of Asmodeus’s coup that she couldn’t banish, the memories of crawling out of the House with broken ribs, every movement an agony, feeling blood draining out of her every time she managed to drag herself just a bit farther; that awful, rising certainty that she was going to die, right there, or worse, be taken back inside the House.
And it didn’t change anything that her nightmare had come true. It made it all the worse.
She didn’t answer. She couldn’t.
At length, Clothilde shook her head, and moved back to the drawer. “She’s left papers, too.” She took them, gingerly, and folded them in half. “I can’t make out what was on them, but I’ll work on them this evening. Right after I’ve given Elphon an earful for his little stunt.”
Except that, come evening, Elphon still hadn’t turned up.
* * *
EVENING in the dragon kingdom was odd. The sun—which had been this rippling, inaccessible ball of light that looked nothing like the sun over Paris—vanished within the space of a few heartbeats, and darkness descended across the underwater kingdom as if someone had pulled a black veil over the entire landscape. Faint lights appeared from globes encased in the walls and lanterns spread on the pillars, but nothing like the wealth of radiance from chandeliers and lamps that filled House Silverspires or Hawthorn at night.
Dinner was subdued: Thanh Phan and Véronique, and the terrifying dragon official who had interrupted their audience, whose name was Anh Le, and a handful of others whose names Madeleine didn’t catch or didn’t remember. Conversation was a blur of subjects skillfully managed by Clothilde, while Madeleine stared obstinately at food. In deference to them, the table was laid in the Western manner, with plates and forks and knives, but the food was still unfamiliar, with a faint aftertaste of fish to everything that made Madeleine’s stomach protest.
The House of Binding Thorns Page 6