The House of Binding Thorns

by Aliette de Bodard

  Françoise stared straight ahead, and didn’t speak. She and Berith had had a long, agitated conversation before she left, and she had come out of it looking neither reassured nor happy.

  Philippe thought of Isabelle, of that elusive, blissful feeling he’d had, that he knew how to resurrect her, that each word he spoke would be one more thread, spun tight against the previous ones, until there was a rope, an anchor she could follow back to the world of the living.

  He thought of her surprised, delighted smile; of the way it would transfigure her, from Fallen to young, impulsive teenager.

  Soon.

  They walked the last part of the way, to the great wrought-iron gates of Hawthorn’s entrance. Behind the gates was a garden: given the state of the rest of Paris, it might have been small and run-down and stilled by the cold winter, but it still looked like a luxuriant jungle. On the lawn on the left of the path, a group of four people in Hawthorn’s dark gray and silver uniform seemed to be practicing military maneuvers, casting spells at a shriveled tree that looked as though it couldn’t take much extra abuse. It brought back unpleasant memories of the training Philippe had undergone in House Draken during the Great War, when he’d been dragged from Annam and conscripted in their army, when all he’d focused on was the desperate need to survive. He looked away, at the gates.

  Vines twined around the hinges: the leaves a deep green color, except that close up they were speckled with small, pale traces of mold; and the iron of the gates was corrugated. A welcome reminder: the House hadn’t come out of the Great Houses War unscathed, either.

  Still, even standing at the boundary, Philippe could feel Hawthorn’s presence: not that of Silverspires, the last House he had been in, not a genteel, quiet, decaying thing, but a brash statement of power.

  His fingers ached. He flexed them, trying to forget what he’d felt as they’d broken, one by one, but he could still remember crawling in agony under the light of unfamiliar stars. He had Berith’s power within him, a rising, searing wave, but it brought him no comfort.

  Hawthorn. Asmodeus.

  For you, he whispered to Isabelle’s unseen ghost, not expecting any answer.

  * * *

  THEIR guide, a teenager of Maghrebi origin with a face serious beyond her years, left them in a wide, airy antechamber with two sofas upholstered with faded tapestry, and a single tree bearing bloodred oranges. Their scent filled the air until Philippe thought he would choke.

  He looked upward, saw the faint traces of mold on the ornate ceiling. There had been buildings in the gardens that looked abandoned altogether, the glass panes of their windows opaque with dust and traces of rain; and outright charred ruins on the gravel strewn with debris. The House might look grand and magnificent, but it was like the rest of the city: barely hanging on to normality, struggling to maintain itself against decay.

  He had to believe that. Had to remember that, else he would run away screaming, and never come back.

  They barely had time to get settled when the door to the main chamber opened. Françoise looked at Philippe, and in her eyes he saw some of the same fear he felt squeezing his innards. “It’ll be fine,” he mouthed, against all evidence. And walked in, slowly, to face the master of Hawthorn.

  The room was brightly lit, with a wallpaper of colorful birds perched on a variety of trees in flower. The carpet under their feet was Persian, lush and thick, interlocking patterns of red and brown flowers and intertwined branches, the frayed threads barely visible at its edges. On the right side were a low rattan glass table and matching chairs, in the colonial style that had been all the rage before the war.

  Asmodeus was sitting behind a large mahogany desk, reading a book. The desk itself was empty, with no papers or anything that made it look as though it was in daily use. He looked up when they entered, his gaze behind the horn-rimmed glasses ironic and amused, until he saw Philippe, and something swirled in those gray-green eyes, like a prelude to a storm. He said nothing, though, until Françoise came to stand before him; her whole body quivering, as though what she really meant to do was flee. For which Philippe couldn’t blame her, really.

  “Le Thi Anh Tuyet.” His Viet was atrocious, but then, few Fallen could speak it properly. “Honored to make your acquaintance. Do forgive the disarray. I have other pressing obligations to attend to, shortly. Your companion can wait outside.” The look he flashed Philippe was not friendly.

  Asmodeus does keep his word, usually.

  A pity he’d also sworn to make Philippe pay for the death of his lover Samariel.

  Something was rising, within the room, a sharp, unpleasant magic that pressed against Philippe’s skin like the prickling touch of ten thousand knives. Françoise’s face was distorted by a rictus, and her hands had clenched into fists, light seeping from beneath her fingernails. She felt it, too.

  It met the roiling edge of Berith’s magic within Philippe and shattered, leaving the air in the room taut and not one bit less threatening. Asmodeus raised an eyebrow, but made no comment.

  The only khi currents within the room were water, because of the presence of the Seine nearby. Philippe pulled on them, slowly, gathered them close to him, ready to cast a spell if need be.

  “I’d rather my companion stayed,” Françoise said. She’d unclenched her fists, was standing watching him, her gaze clear and steady.

  “As you wish.” It didn’t seem to faze Asmodeus, but Philippe doubted that would be the end of it.

  There was a single chair in front of the desk, high-backed and without any padding. Françoise pulled it out, and sat down, hands on her knees. “I won’t be long.”

  A short, sharp smile. “I’m sure you won’t. I didn’t know you were pregnant.”

  “It’s hardly relevant.”

  “Mmm.” Asmodeus closed the book, and leaned back in his own armchair. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. You’re aware, aren’t you, that I remain linked to Bereus, or whatever else he calls himself, these days?”

  “Berith.” Françoise’s voice shook, but she steadied it. “She. She calls herself Berith now.” She reached inside her dress, and withdrew an envelope: cream parchment paper with a red wax seal. From where he was, Philippe couldn’t see what it depicted. She laid it on the desk, carefully. “And this is from her, to you.”

  “Berith.” Asmodeus rolled the two syllables on his tongue, as if they were cuts of juicy meat. “Sister mine.” He picked up the envelope, and slit it open with a fingernail as sharp as a claw. He barely glanced at its contents. “Trite matters. I already know you’re her partner and lover.”

  “And that I come in her stead?” Françoise asked. “You have it in writing.”

  Asmodeus shrugged. “I don’t need to. As I said—once linked, always linked. Not much, to be sure. The dying embers of a fire, one might say, if indulging in poetic excesses.”

  “I don’t see what you’re driving at.”

  “You don’t?” Again that sharp, unpleasant smile of a predator. Philippe found his hands clenched into fists. “If Berith truly, deeply desires to see me . . . I don’t need a letter, or a safe-conduct, or any of the rigmarole we’re currently indulging in.”

  “You—” Françoise took in a deep, shaking breath. She rubbed her belly as if for reassurance. “You can feel her dying.”

  The eyes behind the horn-rimmed glasses rested on her. Something seemed to pass between them. Silence stretched, slow, thick, unbearable. “Always.” Asmodeus’s voice was light, toneless.

  Françoise said nothing. She had her hands crossed on the mound of her belly, and was watching him, gaze for gaze, refusing to be cowed. This was madness. Or something Philippe couldn’t properly name.

  He glanced at the rattan chairs. Sure enough, there were two cushions on each of them. He turned and walked toward them—something, anything rather than endure that silence. The cushions were silk, smooth and sliding under his
touch, reassuringly solid and mundane. As he walked back, Françoise said, “Then you know.” She took a breath, slow, deep, noisy. “Please. She asks if you’ll come to the flat. To talk.”

  “Because she won’t leave her pitiful dominion?” Asmodeus’s smile was wide, mocking.

  “Please. She’s your Fall-sister.” Françoise’s voice was shaking. “And she’ll be gone forever soon. You—” Another, softer magic in the room, a touch that lingered on the skin, insistently probing for weaknesses. With Berith’s magic, Philippe could see it: a thin network of luminous threads, slowly converging toward Françoise, hardening into unbreakable bonds that would pin her to the chair.

  Philippe dropped the cushions, and drew on khi water to fashion twin blades. He flicked his wrists, slicing at the threads of Asmodeus’s magic—again and again, until nothing but faint scraps remained. He knelt then, picked up the cushions again, but not before he’d seen the anger in Asmodeus’s eyes.

  “Enough. He—” Asmodeus stopped, shook his head. “She sent you to me. To make a point.”

  “No,” Françoise said. “To plead with you.”

  As if that would ever work.

  “The child,” Asmodeus said, slowly, “isn’t hers. Fallen are sterile.”

  Françoise shrugged. “There’s more to parenthood than blood and seed.” Philippe reached the chair, and handed Françoise the cushion. She took it and slid it behind the lower half of her back, with a curt nod, but didn’t break eye contact with Asmodeus.

  “And more to love?” Asmodeus shook his head. “I see.” He folded the letter, held it in his hands, utterly steady. “I’ll give you my answer, then, though she already knows it. Berith may visit at her convenience. As for you . . .” Françoise tensed then. Philippe saw her force herself to remain still. “I will offer the protection of the House, to you and your unborn child.”

  “I don’t need the protection of the House.” Françoise’s voice was calm, but it must have cost her.

  Philippe thought Asmodeus would get angry, but his face didn’t move, not even the slightest sign of surprise. “Do you not? You may find it’s no easy thing, to raise the child with a Fallen.” He shifted, and the letter in his hands burst into blue, thin flames; he held it, unmoving, heedless of the way the fire licked at his fingers, until all that remained was a small, charred thing that he dropped on the desk.

  “My child isn’t your toy, or your property.”

  “How adorable. You’re not the first to whom I would say this—but in this world, we’re all owned by something or someone. The best you can hope for is to choose your own masters.”

  “Then consider my choices made.” Françoise rose, slowly, ponderously. “I don’t owe you or anyone else anything.”

  “Of course not. The offer remains open. I would urge you to think on it. Leila will see you back to the gates of the House.”

  Philippe fell in behind Françoise, walking toward the open doors, toward the brightly lit antechamber where their guide would be waiting for them. Almost there, almost out of the House, his promises all kept, his bargain fulfilled . . .

  “Philippe.” Asmodeus’s voice was the lash of a whip. “Stay a moment.”

  Ahead of him, Françoise was the one who turned, her eyes bright and feverish, still riding the high of her confrontation. “You said we’d both be safe if we came into Hawthorn.”

  “Did I?”

  Philippe stood rooted to the floor, remembering that light, ironic voice; the bonds tying him to the chair; the sharp, unbearable, unending pain as bone after bone cracked. Within him, what remained of Berith’s magic twisted and pushed, trying to fashion wards, protection, anything that would get him out of here in one piece. . . .

  At length, after what seemed like an eternity, Asmodeus laughed. “Have no fear. I keep my word. You’ll get him back, at some point.”

  “Whole and unharmed,” Françoise said, stubbornly. “And not ‘at some point.’ After this interview.”

  “That can be arranged.” Asmodeus gave him a look—light glinting on the frame of his glasses, the fires of the Christian Hell dancing in his gray-green eyes—the memory that still woke Philippe up, sweating, on particularly bad nights. . . . “Come. What do you think I can do in a quarter of an hour?”

  “Enough, I would say.” Françoise’s gaze was on Philippe. He opened his mouth to say something reassuring, something flippant, nonchalant, platitudes, but the House seemed to have shriveled his tongue against his palate.

  “I’ll—” He shuddered, struggling. “I’ll be fine. Honestly.”

  She threw him a sharp glance that wasn’t entirely hers. There was something of Berith’s steel in her gaze. “I’ll be outside. Call, if you need me,” she said; and turned, and waddled out, leaving Philippe alone with Asmodeus.

  He didn’t want to move. But if he didn’t, Asmodeus was going to win this round. So, centimeter by painful centimeter, he forced himself to turn, and found himself face-to-face with the Fallen, who had left his desk and was standing by his side.

  He wore dark gray and silver, a perfectly cut, elegant swallowtail suit, with blue brocade at his throat, and the smell of orange blossom and bergamot wafted in the air, hanging like a miasma. “Of all the places I didn’t expect you would dare to walk into . . .” His voice wasn’t light or amused anymore.

  “People will do anything, for the right price.”

  “Will they? Mind you, I am surprised to find you still alive.”

  “Through no effort of yours.” It welled up out of him like blood out of a wound.

  “Of course not.” The eyes behind the horn-rimmed glasses were jewel hard. “You know that Samariel died.”

  He knew that nothing could have survived what Samariel had endured—the curse Philippe had unwittingly unleashed within House Silverspires, which had turned muscles to jelly and collapsed lungs and bones like melted candle wax. “Yes,” Philippe said. He could have said he was sorry, but he wouldn’t have meant it. It wasn’t that he had wanted Samariel to die in agony, but he had had no particular affection for either him or Asmodeus, and to apologize would be to admit guilt—which, in this time, in this place, was about the most suicidal thing he could have done.

  “For the right price.” Asmodeus didn’t move. He was standing close, entirely too close for comfort; the smell of him was suffocating. “I wonder what kind of price would entice a man like you to walk into such risk.”

  When he didn’t speak, Asmodeus moved back a fraction, though it didn’t make anything easier. Defiance, then, because he couldn’t see anything else to do.

  “If you’re going to do something to me, just go ahead. It’s not like I can prevent it.” Not quite true, that. He still had some of Berith’s magic, and the twin blades of khi water that he’d wielded in his hands, though they were both diminished by his sparring with Asmodeus. . . .

  A hand with long, elegant fingernails tousled his hair. Berith’s magic sent a spike of power upward, a jolt through Philippe’s entire body. Asmodeus didn’t even flinch. “I am merely curious. But of course I already know the answer. Berith always had a knack for making people dance to her tune.”

  “As opposed to torturing people to death to get what you want?” He was flippant, and insolent; bad idea, but he couldn’t stop himself.

  “Because of you, Samariel died. I wouldn’t be so keen to offend here if I were you.” Asmodeus withdrew his hand, and said nothing for a while. Then, at length, “I did give my word,” he said, slowly. “So, for what it’s worth, this is a warning.”

  “You’re warning me? Whatever for?”

  “Be silent.” Asmodeus raised a hand, and the air in the room tightened around Philippe’s throat. Philippe struggled to break the hold, but couldn’t. Berith’s magic was spent now, and the khi water in the room had sunk to almost nothing. “You’ll know that Berith and I fell out, a long time ago. Or if
you don’t, I highly suggest you do some basic research, before you go meddling in affairs you don’t understand.” He paused, but the noose around Philippe’s neck didn’t loosen, didn’t allow him to speak. “I wanted to safeguard what was mine. Berith wanted to help others.”

  It hardly sounded like a warning, unless you thought like a House-bound, and saw plots and intrigue everywhere. Asmodeus said, simply, “She’s Fallen. She distorts whatever she touches—like a child, even though she doesn’t mean to. Sometimes it’s benign; sometimes it’s not.” He smiled, again. “Ask her what happened to those she helped. It should be entertaining.”

  The noose withdrew. Philippe massaged his bruised throat, and said, “You’re not warning me. You’re merely toying with me.”

  Asmodeus smiled. “Did you think I would grant you favors? By all means ask.”

  As if he could trust anything Asmodeus said. “I see,” Philippe said. “Was that all?”

  “For the time being.” Asmodeus smiled, again. “If you don’t pull away from Berith’s orbit, I should hope to see you very soon, Philippe. And you might actually be thankful for that.”

  No. Never.

  * * *

  FRANÇOISE was waiting for him outside. She took one look at his face, and gestured toward the exit to the antechamber. “Let’s go.”

  Philippe nodded, numbly.

  Ask her what happened, to those she helped.

  Western mythology was replete with tales of bargains with demons: a concept that had once been alien to him, for one didn’t negotiate with the messengers of the King of Hell. But now that he had been in Paris for long enough . . .

  He shivered, and pulled the shawl tighter around his body.

  As they followed Leila out of the House, Philippe caught a glimpse of something in one of the empty, decaying rooms: the ghost of Isabelle, standing with her back to him, leaning on a pale green conversation chair. She wore a white tunic—the color of death, of mourning—and she didn’t turn as he passed. Beside her, as translucent as she was, was Morningstar’s ghost, also with his back to Philippe, exposing only the sharp, serrated wings. He held his large sword in one hand. The other was on her shoulder, holding her close as a father might hold a beloved daughter.