The House of Shattered Wings

by Aliette de Bodard

  Philippe and Emmanuelle walked Isabelle back to her room—then Emmanuelle left, and Isabelle smiled. “You’re not going to sneak away like a thief, are you?”

  Philippe shook his head. He was tired, and the shadows slid across the back of his mind like woken snakes—demons take propriety and ritual, he couldn’t decently refuse her.

  He found himself cradling a cup of tea while Isabelle hunted for biscuits through the drawers of her huge desk. One would expect her room to be cold, devoid of ornaments; but in reality it was like Madeleine’s laboratory: a mess of papers on every available surface, pictures at angles on the walls, covering one another in their eagerness to decorate the room—everything from pictures of Notre-Dame before the war, to a more modern print she must have got from Javier’s photographic darkroom (which must have taken a fair amount of seduction, because supplies were rare and expensive, and Javier didn’t give his photographs to just anyone).

  “You didn’t need to walk me back,” Isabelle said.

  Shadows. Darkness. Morningstar’s burning gaze in the facets of crystal glasses. “I did.”

  “I’m not a child!”

  But she was—and thank Heaven for that. She was everything the House couldn’t corrupt, gangly and ill at ease, as impulsive and disorganized as Madeleine—perhaps not quite the same as she’d been when they first arrived there, but close enough that he could remember a time before Silverspires, before the imprisonment that chafed at him. Speaking of which . . . “It’s been over three days, and you haven’t spoken to Selene.”

  Her eyes were bright, feverish in her shadowed face. “I will. Believe me. When the conclave is over and she can listen to other things than the intrigues of Houses. What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I told you. Looking for a way out.” Philippe shivered. It was going nowhere: their conversation the same as it had been before, in the library. “Can we leave it at that? You disapprove, and I don’t. There is nothing to be gained here.” He shivered. And, because he couldn’t quite ignore his conscience, he added, “You should be careful. There are . . . things in the darkness here.”

  Things that wanted them dead, or maimed—opened up like Oris, a smear of bloodied entrails on the pavement of the cathedral. Something was going to happen. Tonight. Where did that utter certainty come from? The shadow within him, the one that had leaped from the mirror? Was he part of it, too?

  No. He was still his own self. In spite of the visions, in spite of Morningstar’s enticements—in spite of Selene’s chains—he still knew what he needed to do, and he still knew enough to be scared of the shadows.

  Isabelle shrugged. “There are always things. Old Houses cast shadows, that’s all. You’re worrying over nothing.”

  But he knew he wasn’t. “Isabelle?”

  “Yes?” She had risen—dismissing him and his worries, her cup forgotten on the table.

  “Stay in your room tonight, please.”

  Her gaze hardened. “Because you’re planning something you’d rather I didn’t see, like your meeting with Samariel at the market?”

  “No! I swear it, Isabelle. I don’t mean you harm, or Silverspires. Not tonight.”

  “Not tonight. Well, that’s something to live by, isn’t it? What will you swear on? The City? You don’t believe in it.” Her voice was angry, sarcastic—with shades of the unthinking arrogance of House Fallen, of their unshakable belief in their own superiority.

  The old oath was on his lips before he could stop himself, its music familiar, as comforting as a poem learned by rote. “I swear by the flesh of the father who sired me, by the blood of the mother who bore me. By the Immortals in the mountains, and Quan Am, who listens to our ten thousand cries for salvation. . . .”

  Isabelle’s face twisted, in what might have been a sneer, in what might have been a peal of laughter—his fists clenched then, ready to meet contempt with equal contempt. But then she grew grave again. “I was going to say that nobody talks like this, anymore, but . . . it means something to you, doesn’t it? Or used to.”

  Her gaze rested on him; he met it, steadily, feeling himself grow light-headed—the world slowly heightened into swaths of yellow light, as if he’d been meditating again, on the knife’s edge of hunger and thirst. “Back when I was mortal . . . it was an unbreakable oath.”

  “Back when you were mortal.” Her voice was quiet. “Don’t you ever miss it?”

  So many of her questions were about what he’d had; what he missed—not, he knew, out of a desire to hurt him, but because she was afraid—deathly so—of losing what she did have. She sought . . . reassurance that she could survive beyond that loss.

  “Do I miss mortality?” He’d never thought about it. It had been so long; centuries ago in another land. “Not so much, no. You forget, when you’re Immortal. I remember my body getting old, my fear of death, but it’s like they happened to someone else.”

  “So your kind are cruel, too.”

  “What do you mean?” He hadn’t expected that remark, either.

  “Your kind doesn’t remember what it is, to be fragile and lost.” Isabelle rose to fill her cup again; the harsh, earthy smell of tea filled the room, so unlike the delicate fragrance he remembered. “And neither do Fallen.”

  “Or House-bound,” Philippe said, finally. “When you’ve never been hungry, or naked; or never had to run for your life, you think that warmth, and safety, and power, are due to you. That anyone who doesn’t have them doesn’t deserve them.” That was how Houses ruled; the source of their ease, their arrogance. “It’s different in Annam—the Court of the Jade Emperor doesn’t mingle with mortals. They don’t seek to rule over them.” He knew what she would say: that it might well be true, but that they still thought themselves better than mortals; and he wasn’t sure what he’d answer her.

  But she didn’t say anything. She drained her cup, and stared at it for a while. “I don’t have a choice. As Madeleine said—it’s either this, or be taken apart in the streets. Even my power won’t protect me.” There was a hunger in her eyes he found disquieting; a hint she would seize anything that would help her.

  “It’s not all about power,” Philippe said.

  Her gaze rested on him; dark and expressionless. “Isn’t it?”

  She couldn’t know—she couldn’t know what he’d promised Samariel, to break free of the House’s hold on him; to be his own man again. She said she’d warn Selene, but she really had no idea what was going on. She couldn’t—no matter how strong their shared link was within her.

  “I need to go,” he said, rising, gulping down the rest of his tea—the strong, bitter taste making his stomach heave as he all but ran away from her. “Stay in your room, please.” And, when she didn’t answer, “There is something in the House. I think it’s what killed Oris. Please. I just want you to be safe. This is the truth. Make of it what you want.”

  In his room, he tried to read, but the words in his book kept blurring, frustratingly out of reach—becoming Isabelle’s sharp gaze, the growing seriousness of her expression. “You mean it, don’t you? Every word of it.”

  Of course he’d meant it. And of course it changed nothing. She was free, and he wasn’t. She was going to remain inside her room, sleeping the sleep of the innocent, and he . . .

  He had an assignation—that might as well be an order—from Samariel.

  He couldn’t focus. He hadn’t learned anything since his first interview with Samariel—drafted into moving tables, washing cloths, preparing dishes in the kitchens. All he knew was that one of Morningstar’s apprentices had left a curse on the House; that he had somehow become part of it, carrying memories that might be crucial to understanding it. But that wasn’t something he could tell Samariel; there was no hold over Silverspires, no way to understand what was going on, when and under what rules it would strike—if it would strike at all, since so far its only effect look
ed to be the taking over of his memory.

  He ought to stay in: to follow his own advice to Isabelle, and his own growing sense that something was wrong. He had been right: it wasn’t a night to be out. He should make his excuses to Samariel, and walk the safe path.

  But he couldn’t.

  He got up and wrapped himself in one of the heavy woolen cloaks Emmanuelle had given him—not only because the House was freezing at night, but also because it might prevent someone from recognizing him.

  At this hour, the corridors in his wing of the House were deserted; though, as he came nearer to the apartments for the other Houses, he heard muffled conversations behind closed doorways: this part of the House, at least, didn’t sleep.

  But, as he walked through the corridors, the shadow rose again—questing, sniffing the air for its prey. He quickened his pace, throwing glances left and right, hoping to catch it; but darkness slid across the walls, spreading wings; and the air became unbearably clammy and moist, tightening in his lungs until he could hardly breathe. He started running then; though of course there was no outpacing it.

  * * *

  MADELEINE couldn’t sleep. She’d spent most of the reception behind one of the room’s pillars, talking to Aragon and praying that Asmodeus would not turn his head her way; and had only blurred memories of the dinner. She’d seen him and Elphon from afar; had seen Elphon, sitting by his master’s side, in the place of a favored bodyguard; had seen him laugh at some jest of Asmodeus’s, as though nothing was wrong.

  How could he?

  It wasn’t hard, to get down from her bedroom; not hard, to let her hands roam into the drawers she kept locked; not hard to inhale angel essence and feel its fire expand into the hollow of her belly.

  She closed her eyes, and let the power wash over her: the tingling sensation in her fingers; the sharp taste on her tongue; the sensation that she could cast any spell, pay any price demanded by magic; that the world lay at her feet, hers for the taking.

  Was this what it felt like, to be Fallen? To know that anything you did or said was saturated with that magic—magic that would kill a man, reduce him to the bloated husks she’d seen in Claire’s morgue—the harbingers of her own fate, when her lungs finally gave out. Not that she cared. All that mattered was feeling safe, now, forever.

  Safe. That was what Morningstar had said, when she first met him, bowing low to her, unfailingly courteous even though she was just a minor dependent of Hawthorn. “I hope you enjoy what you see here.” And when she remained silent, too awestruck by his presence to speak, he’d smiled. “This is the first and greatest of Houses, Lady Madeleine. The safest place in Paris.”

  At the time, she’d thought it courtesy, nothing more; had doubted whether he would even remember her name. But, nevertheless, for some reason she couldn’t quite place, the words had stuck with her; to be remembered when, shuddering, struggling to breathe through the pain of shattered ribs, she’d dragged herself out of Hawthorn, and into the deserted streets—toward Silverspires and the impossible hope of salvation. Wounded, bleeding, she had crawled rather than walked—every gesture sending a fresh wave of agony in her chest—and she had known, even then, that she wouldn’t make it; even before the world began to waver and fold itself into darkness. She had known that death was the only possible end of the journey.

  She’d heard the footsteps, then; slow and measured; had felt the presence that seemed to distort everything with its warmth; had felt him bend down, picking her up in his arms, and starting to walk. Then all was darkness, until she’d woken up in the Hôtel-Dieu with Aragon’s face looming over her; and started the long, painful apprenticeship that saw her rise from mediocre kitchenhand to apprentice alchemist, and later mistress of the laboratory.

  That night, that lambent, bloody night, was the last time anyone had seen Morningstar; and she herself the last person he had met. After he had left her on the hospital’s doorstep, unseen, he had taken his sword and his wings, and walked out of the House he had founded; and never come back. He was dead; had to be, and Selene had to know more than she let on—why else would she rule Silverspires in her own name?

  A knock at the door made her look up. Startled, she got up, feeling the pain of her old wounds.

  “Madeleine, Madeleine!”

  Isabelle was on the doorstep, staring at her with familiar fear in her eyes. “There’s something out there, Madeleine. Something bad. And Philippe isn’t in his room . . . I think—I think it’s what killed Oris and the others.”

  Once, she’d have gone out with a lamp, speaking reassuring words until Isabelle went back to sleep. But now she knew the darkness had never really vanished, that, like a snake in high grasses, it bided its time until it struck. “Come in,” she said, and closed and locked the door.

  Madeleine cleared one of the chairs of the paraphernalia on it. “I wasn’t expecting anyone tonight,” she said.

  Isabelle shook her head. “Doesn’t matter.” She looked at the door, and back at Madeleine. “Can’t you feel it?”

  “I can’t,” Madeleine started to say, and then the words were crushed out of her. There was something—a growing pressure, a growing shadow, something that wouldn’t let itself be pinned down, that wouldn’t even hold still—something winged and fanged and clawed, seeking to destroy them utterly, to rend the flesh from their bones, to suck their skins dry until nothing was left but scattered remnants of what they had once been—bloated corpses in some morgue with eyes like dead fish . . .

  The door was locked. She knew the door was locked, but to even think about moving was an effort. It won’t find us. We’re safe. Safe, safe, safe . . .

  “Madeleine—”

  Isabelle’s face was white with fear. She’d backed away from the door, holding the chair as a shield—but she was sinking down with every passing moment, curling into the fetal position against the wall. “Please, please don’t come here,” she whispered with the intensity of a prayer. “Please, please, please.”

  The laboratory had been lit by a single lamp. Now that lamp cast dancing shadows upon the walls; and those shadows lengthened, moment by moment—there was nothing Madeleine could see, nothing that would come into focus—nothing but that awful sense that they were being followed, dissected—that any moment now, something would leap at them from the shadows. The door was still locked, but the wood was bending, bulging inward. It was standing on the threshold.

  Her ribs ached with the growing pressure. She was afraid to look down; if she did she might see blood on them again, might find herself crawling through the streets again.

  “Madeleine . . .”

  No. She wasn’t that powerless any longer. Fumbling, cursing, she forced herself to move, one agonizing centimeter at a time—where had she put her most powerful artifacts? The second drawer of the secretary desk, the third?

  The light of the lamp wavered. Out of the corner of her eye, Madeleine saw shadows flow across the dozens of small mirrors in the room—scattered pieces of the same reflection, something inhumanly huge, and it wasn’t even in the room yet—this was just what came ahead of it. There was a noise, a hiss like a hundred snakes—it was snakebites that had killed Oris and the others.

  Do not think. Do not fear. She couldn’t afford to waste time. Neither door nor lock would hold it for long.

  She opened the drawer by touch—the room had gone utterly dark—her fingers scrabbled for a hold on the objects within, trying to remember what it had felt like.

  Once, Elphon had given her a locket filled with his breath; but she’d used the last of the magic a few months ago—not even for something worthy, simply to remind herself, one last time, of what his presence had been like. How she wished she had it now, so she wouldn’t have to use something else.

  Found it.

  Isabelle’s soft whimpers in the darkness; and the creak of wood as the door bent yet farther; and the hiss li
ke a thousand snakes. They couldn’t let it in: its touch would be death. The thought of Isabelle—pale and lifeless, taken apart for scraps of magic—rose in her throat like bile. No. She wouldn’t let her new apprentice go the way of Oris.

  Her hands closed on cold metal, which flared into warmth at her touch; and then there was another presence in the room, something vast and terrible and infinitely more powerful than anything the darkness could conjure. The heat on her skin was searing now, but she didn’t care. She wove the strongest spell of banishing she could think of, and hurled it, half weeping, half screaming, at whatever was trying to come through the door.

  The door collapsed into a thousand splinters. Madeleine ducked behind a chair, but nothing touched her. On the threshold was . . . nothing, just a sound she couldn’t quite identify, growing farther and farther with every passing minute. Retreating.

  Then there was silence, broken only by the sound of Isabelle’s breath. “What”—she asked, struggling to speak—“what did you do?”

  Madeleine withdrew her hand from the drawer. The container she’d used came with it, now no longer fused to her skin, though it had left a perfect, circular scar on her palm. She felt . . . light-headed, giddy—as if she could do anything, and yet all she wanted to do was to lie down and empty her guts on the floor. Isabelle had almost died. And she—she had almost succumbed again to that gut-wrenching, sickening fear of Elphon’s last night, had almost lost herself. It wasn’t death that she feared, but that touch, that reminder of what it had felt like, crawling with blood sticking to her skin, to her hair, hardening so it could never be washed away—that inescapable knowledge that Elphon was dead, that she would soon be caught and brought back to Hawthorn, to hear Asmodeus’s mocking voice before she, too, died. . . .