Grimdark Magazine Issue #5 ePub

by Edited by Adrian Collins

  Against The Encroaching Darkness

  A Dominion of the Fallen Story

  Aliette de Bodard

  Eugénie lay in state in the small, pathetic chapel that they'd never had time to finish, her eyes towards the blank, unpainted ceiling. From time to time, the distant echo of a magical conflagration shook the room, and dust fell on her chest, covering her clothes in a fine, white layer that slowly and irretrievably obscured the insignia of House Lazarus.

  Victoire would not cry. She'd done so earlier in the privacy of her room, but now it wasn't about love or grief; merely what would carry them forward, what would ensure the newly founded House would survive the death of her founder. Most Houses, she knew, didn't. And Lazarus, that bastard child of Eugénie's ideals—her place of refuge, her small band of dependents patiently gathered through the years—was no exception.

  Footsteps behind her, noiseless and graceful: Amaranth, coming to stand by the side of the coffin, her smooth, ageless face creased in thought. The Fallen watched Victoire, not the body in the coffin. Disapproving? Amaranth had always been hard to read, even in the days when she'd been Eugénie's right hand. ‘She would have died before seeing the House go weak,’ Amaranth said.

  Victoire shivered. ‘Except that her death made the House go weak, didn't it?’ House Lazarus was small and leaderless. In ordinary times that would have been cause for concern, but now that House was fighting House in the streets of Paris, now that Draken and Hell's Toll had been defeated and taken apart ...

  ‘They're assembling outside,’ Amaranth said.

  Of course. Of course they would. It had been her orders, hadn't it? ‘You should have been head of the House,’ Victoire said slowly, carefully.

  Amaranth shook her head. She wore cream—a flowing dress with lace and ruffles that looked almost out of place at a time of war. ‘She chose you.’

  ‘You—’ Victoire struggled. ‘You loved her.’

  Amaranth cocked her head. ‘Didn't you?’

  There were no words, really. Eugénie had always been there, reaching out to the grimy girl picking her pockets in the street, not blasting her with a spell, not leaving her lifeless on the pavement, but simply asking her what she wanted; talking Victoire, step after step, into coming with her, into joining her House—into finally trusting her.

  Victoire ... Victoire had dared to hope; when she'd known hope cost so much, when it was finally shattered. The lessons of the streets—she'd forgotten them so fast. ‘She made me what I am,’ Victoire said finally. ‘And I will keep this House together because I have to.’ Because it was the only thing Eugénie had left behind, the legacy that would endure—past the war, past the city tearing itself apart. It sounded ... grandiloquent and foolish, a child's boast in the face of a storm.

  Amaranth looked at her, and then back at Eugénie's corpse in the coffin. She said nothing for a while, her brown eyes mild. ‘I don't approve. But I will stand by you, regardless.’

  Of course she wouldn't approve. But there was no other way.

  * * *

  They'd all come to offer their condolences, of course. The war might have been tearing Paris apart, but the Houses still held to old proprieties, old prerogatives—a never-ending stream of House representatives in swallow-tails and top-hats, in dresses with tapered waists and mutton sleeves, all bowing gravely to her, wishing her the best in these trying times; dropping a few hints here and there, about her youth, her lack of experience, her fundamental weakness—though they were kind enough to never voice the word aloud.

  All, save two.

  The first Victoire knew of Morningstar's presence was when the air in the room became impossibly light, impossibly tight—until even breathing seemed to hurt, and the air in her lungs burnt with the force of a firestorm. Then she turned, struggling to compose herself, and watched, shock-still, as he crossed the room to where she stood, the crowd of well-wishers parting in his wake like a flock of scared birds. ‘My lady,’ he said, bowing to her.

  He had blue eyes, impossibly clear, the colour of summer skies in a season long gone. Now the city lay under a pall of black clouds, dust and ashes blown from the incessant battles in the streets, and summer followed winter with hardly a pause or a difference. Unlike all other Fallen, he wore wings—a metal armature of sharp, cutting edges that moved as he moved, cutting the air to pieces around him, a living weapon, a living fount of power in a city where magic was scarce.

  ‘My lord,’ Victoire bowed, though her every instinct screamed at her to abase herself flat on the floor—he was firstborn among Fallen, most powerful; he could undo her with a glance or a word. ‘I didn't expect you here.’

  The major Houses—Harrier, Aiguillon, Hawthorn—had sent not their heads but their diplomats, just enough to keep up appearances. And here was the head of House Silverspires, the unstated leader of them all, standing in her ballroom with all her other guests, grave and courteous and speaking to her as an equal. Morningstar smiled, an expression that seemed to illuminate the room. ‘I thought I ought to come myself. To apologise.’

  ‘To—’

  Morningstar shrugged; the wings at his back moved, slicing the air with a sound like the lament of dying souls. ‘We didn't mean to kill her. I have ... no grudge against House Lazarus.’

  He had nothing against them. House Lazarus wasn't even big enough for him to be aware of it: just Eugénie's lost souls, a collection of the weak and desperate she'd sworn to keep safe. ‘I—’ Victoire struggled for words against the presence that seemed to wrap the room around itself.

  Morningstar continued as if she had not spoken. ‘It was a skirmish that went badly. I assume Harrier will offer their excuses, as well.’

  They had, but not in the same way. They were not standing there—not speaking in that voice that turned her innards to jelly, that made her measure, irretrievably, the distance that separated her from Silverspires—from Fallen, to whom magic and charisma came effortlessly. ‘A word of advice,’ Morningstar said finally. He raised a hand, as if to forestall any objections, but Victoire was still struggling to find her voice from where it had fled. ‘You're young and weak, like infant Fallen, except without any magic of your own. If you don't show the other Houses that you're strong—if you don't seize your opportunity to do something loud and ruthless—then you'll vanish.’

  ‘We won't,’ Victoire said, every word a struggle to articulate. ‘We—’

  Morningstar smiled, brief and wounding, like a knife stroke across her throat. ‘I've seen it happen. You're not the first House to lose a founder. You might be the first to do so ... in such peculiar circumstances.’

  The war—it was always there. The battles hadn't stopped, not even for a mourning reception—people tearing each other in the streets, the slow toll of the wounded and the dead Amaranth and Gérard reported to her every week, the dependents of House Lazarus caught in the crossfires. ‘We're not fighting,’ Victoire said at last.

  ‘Of course. Eugénie had ... ideals. Commendable of her.’ He said it in a way that implied she'd been young and foolish, and of course she had been. She was mortal, forty years old; whereas Morningstar had been in Paris for centuries. ‘Albeit impractical. Only the strongest, or the dead, can afford neutrality.’

  Victoire opened her mouth to say that they were strong—to lie, as Amaranth had advised her to—and then met his gaze and found the words shrivelling in her throat.

  ‘Remember. A show of strength,’ Morningstar said, and his smile seemed to fill the entire world, teeth as sharp as a predator’s—and she ached to lean forward, to let him take her, consume her utterly; it wouldn't even hurt much—she wouldn't feel anything more than the grief and worry that was already tearing her apart ...

  And then he eased away, and the effect faded. He was still smiling; he knew what she'd almost done, could read the tension in her calf muscles, the way she'd started leaning forward, as if for a kiss, as if for an offering. He was looking not at her but at Nerea a
nd Thau, who stood nervously by the buffet, unsure of who to talk to or what they ought to do.

  ‘Such youth,’ Morningstar whispered.

  It was a dash of cold water down her spine. Amaranth was the only adult Fallen in Lazarus. Nerea and Thau were young, a few years from their Fall, that dangerous age when they fancied themselves adults but still couldn't fathom enough of people's motivations to sidestep traps before they closed. She moved, hardly aware that she did so, setting herself between Morningstar and the children. ‘My dependents,’ she said. It was ... easier, almost, to oppose him for the sake of the House, to forget the pressure against her chest as his attention turned her way again, as his gaze transfixed her like a spear.

  ‘Of course I wouldn't dream of stealing another House's dependents.’ Morningstar smiled again, and Victoire fought to remain standing, relaxing her every muscle, bowing her head towards the floor. ‘One might say, however, that by being at such a reception they are quite free to socialise with whomever they wish.’

  Victoire moved then, nodding at what he said to keep up the illusion of politeness, and came to stand by Nerea and Thau. ‘Victoire?’ Thau asked, smiling. ‘Have you seen those dresses?’

  ‘They're so wonderful,’ Nerea said, her broad face dreamily creased.

  ‘Out,’ Victoire said—Morningstar was moving slowly, carefully, amused by her as one would be by an insect. ‘I need you out.’

  ‘We were having fun,’ Thau protested.

  ‘Just ...’ Victoire shook her head and saw Amaranth appear as if in answer to her prayers, materialising by her side with a glass of red wine in her hand.

  ‘Trouble?’ Amaranth asked, and then her gaze met Morningstar's and she froze. ‘Oh.’ She shook her head, moved slowly—agonisingly slowly—to stand in his path, bowing to him with the stiff formality of her youth, a century or more in her past. ‘Pleased to meet you, my Lord.’

  Victoire tore her gaze from Morningstar and focused it on the two Fallen.

  ‘We're not leaving.’ Thau's voice was petulant. The light below his skin, his innate magic, flickered in and out of focus with every word he spoke. ‘Gérard said we could come.’

  Gérard probably hadn't expected Morningstar.

  ‘Victoire? Is something wrong?’ Nerea asked.

  She could send them back to their rooms like disobedient children, but they were past that, weren't they? She wanted only the best for them, and that included giving them the space to grow up. ‘Be careful,’ Victoire said at last. ‘You've heard about Morningstar. He ... he is not your friend.’ He was free with advice and charm, but he wasn't on their side, would never be. ‘House Silverspires isn't your friend.’

  Thau was watching Morningstar, engrossed; Nerea was equally engrossed but not as convinced. ‘He's very powerful,’ Nerea said grudgingly.

  ‘And very handsome,’ Thau said.

  Nerea's lips pinched, halfway between disapproval and fascination. ‘No doubt,’ she said wryly. ‘Come on. There's other stuff to look at.’

  Thau threw a regretful glance at Morningstar, who was still deep in conversation with Amaranth. Amaranth's face was fear-frozen, awestruck. Had Victoire's looked that way, too? Probably, and all too obvious to anyone with eyes.

  ‘I guess so,’ Thau said. He let Nerea drag him to another corner of the room to stare at the stiff countenances of the Hawthorn and Solferino delegates.

  It wouldn't stop Morningstar, of course; he would approach them again if he hadn't grown bored by then. She hadn't had the feeling he was here for more than harmless fun—harmless by his definition, since he cared little what devastation he left in his wake. Breathing hard, Victoire helped herself to a glass of wine from the buffet and took a look at the room. Everyone else was clustered in talks—Gérard, Quentin, and Marie, and the laboratory staff, keeping a wary eye on the other Houses, the more adventurous among her dependents venturing to talk to delegates. No danger there—they would merely make polite talk and not venture much information.

  She would need to go rescue Amaranth at some point, or have someone else do it. She—

  There was someone else, at her elbow.

  * * *

  Victoire dressed as if for battle—after all, wasn't this a battle, too, fought on a field without guns, without spells? Eugénie, perhaps, would have understood, if she hadn't turned away from her in disgust.

  Over a brown shirt with delicate embroideries, she slipped a green silk jacket—green and brown, the colours of the House—and a scarf, folded across the diagonal so that its pattern of interlinked trees and stags devolved to a jumble of vivid colours. Her skirt was black, spread around her like a pool of darkness, with a wide train that should have required an attendant. Victoire didn't care much for that; she merely gathered the folds in her hand and walked out.

  Amaranth and Gérard were waiting for her at the door, dressed equally formally: Amaranth in the same cream dress she'd worn in the chapel, Gérard in swallow's tail and pressed trousers, elegant and severe—the picture of effortless strength.

  If only it hadn't been a lie.

  The sounds of battle were muted now, almost inaudible—the fighting moving away from them in that endless, maddeningly cryptic ebb and flow of war that followed no rhyme or reason and took and took without surcease. The other fight—the war of influence, fought in drawing rooms and receptions—was not gone either, not as long as a head of House drew breath, not as long as they still could dream of being crowned the winner.

  On and on, through deserted corridors; past doors open a fraction with only a glimmer of faces beyond them, a hint of clustered bodies pressed against the wooden panels. She'd ordered the children, the mortal ones, to stay indoors, and the other dependents of the House would not dare to come out—afraid, and why shouldn't they be?

  ‘Victoire!’

  Thau had been running, out of breath, his own suit askew on his thin frame, his olive skin flushed, glistening with sweat. ‘Victoire!’

  She said nothing for a moment, stared into his eyes and then looked away because of the raw fear she saw in them.

  ‘I wanted—’ he stopped; then he said, ‘I don't want to go. Please—’

  He'd come to her once when he'd broken one of the House's crystal glasses, bringing her the pieces and looking up to her, bracing himself for a rebuke. Victoire had smiled and said that it didn't matter, that they had plenty of other glasses.

  Today, she had no such words. She could ... but, no, she couldn't afford to show him favour. She couldn't afford to lie—if she was found out, the price would be even more terrible than the one she was already paying.

  ‘You should be with the others,’ Victoire said gently.

  His face darkened slowly, as if a door within him was closing forever. ‘Victoire—’

  ‘I'm sorry,’ she said, and it was a lie because she couldn't say what she felt, couldn't put the tearing within her into words. ‘Please go.’

  As he ran away from her—in utter silence, broken only by the rapid sound of his breathing, as if he were struggling not to cry—as the world around her seemed to bend and waver, seemed to become unbearably sharp, she heard Amaranth speak. ‘Was this how you wanted to be remembered?’

  Victoire shook her head. ‘I don't expect anything.’ She'd woken up at night—staring at the dark skies above her with a prayer on her lips, with a cry for guidance, and no answer but the growing certainty within her like a shard of broken glass. ‘Forgiveness, perhaps, but it's not necessary.’ And not hers to give—never hers to give.

  Amaranth's lips pursed, but she said nothing. She didn't need to.

  * * *

  ‘You're the head of the House. My condolences.’ For a moment Victoire thought the speaker was mortal, but then she saw the slight sheen to the skin, the slight cast to the cheekbones, and the way the body rested lightly on the floor, as if yearning for unattainable flight. ‘I'm Calyce,’ the Fallen said, her face creased in a smile. She wore a yellow-a
nd-white uniform with no insignia. ‘Head of House Shellac.’

  They were a minor House near the southeast of Paris, beleaguered and stretched thin; Calyce's weary condolences sounded sincere in a way that Victoire hadn't heard since the beginning of the reception. ‘Thank you,’ Victoire said. She was still watching Amaranth talk to Morningstar and the way those closest to their conversation would stop and turn to stare at Morningstar.

  ‘He's the centre of attention, isn't he?’ Calyce sounded mildly amused. ‘As usual. Did he speak to you?’

  ‘For a while,’ Victoire said warily.

  If you don't show the other Houses that you're strong—if you don't seize your opportunity to do something loud and ruthless—then you'll vanish.

  Calyce smiled again. She reached for a canapé from the buffet, staring at the pâté spread on rye bread as if she knew every coin this had cost, every hour of trying to disguise the paltry food reserves in the kitchen. ‘He means well—he genuinely doesn't care whether you rise or fall. But he's forgotten what it means to be powerless.’

  ‘Forgotten?’

  ‘Fair point.’ Calyce swallowed her canapé in one gulp. ‘He's never known.’

  ‘And you do?’ In spite of herself, Victoire was amused. ‘Are you queuing to give me advice, as well?’

  Calyce shrugged. ‘I know what it is to be at the bottom of the heap, to be small and disregarded. But no, I won't give you advice, if that's not what you want.’ She stared again at the walls around them—the paint barely dry, the candles thin, placed so it wouldn't be obvious they could only afford a few. ‘Just company, for the evening.’