The House of Shattered Wings (8 page)

They were all uncannily silent as they walked through the rest of the market; even though Oris, who hadn't said anything in Claire's presence, attempted to maintain a one-sided patter, oblivious to the yawning maw of heavy silence that his words fell into. Isabelle was the only one seemingly unaffected by it, staring wide-eyed at the bead necklaces and crystal bracelets on the stalls they walked by.

What had Claire wanted? Information? She'd sounded as though she believed Selene would have information on the dead humans—but surely that was a trivial affair, some madman in a mad city; unfortunate, but surely not worth mentioning?

Except that Claire seldom mentioned things just for the pleasure of it; and she certainly wouldn't have bothered to lean so much on it if she'd thought it insignificant. Madeleine would have to find someone in Lazarus; perhaps Aragon had contacts there who'd know what was going on.

Lost in her thoughts, she almost bumped into Philippe—who had come to a dead stop at an intersection on the edge of the market, mere meters from the ruined entrance of Notre-Dame. “What—” she asked; and then saw the procession.

It was coming up Pont-au-Double, the small cast-iron bridge that stopped at the edge of the parvis. There were a good twenty people with the gray-and-silver uniform of House Hawthorn, the same one Madeleine had once worn. They walked slowly, leisurely, as though they had all the time in the world, as though they weren't standing close to the river, close enough for a spinning arm of water to snatch them over the parapet, or for a toothy creature to rise and attack them. Few people in Paris were mad enough to linger near the Seine, nowadays; only God knew what kind of power the accretion of war magic had released in the blackened waters.

Madeleine's gaze, sweeping over the procession, caught a glimpse of familiar faces: Sare the alchemist; Samariel, ever as achingly young and innocent; Pierre-François, older and grayer but still every bit the consummate bodyguard—she remembered that night, when the noise had erupted, and he had simply reached for a knife and a gun, and rushed out of the room without any further words.

And, at their head . . .

He hadn't changed, not one bit; but of course Fallen seldom did. He was tall and thin, with horn-rimmed, rectangular glasses—his particular affectation, since all Fallen had perfect eyesight—his hair dark, save for a touch of gray at the temples; his hands with the thin, long fingers of a pianist, even though the instruments he played on did not make music—unless one counted cries of pain and ecstasy as music, as Madeleine knew he did.

“Who is he?” Isabelle asked in a whisper, and it was Oris who answered her, with the barest hint of pity in his voice.

“Asmodeus. Head of House Hawthorn.”

He hadn't changed. He still leaned on the same ivory cane with the ease of a gentleman who had no need for it; still had the same sharp, pointed smile of predators, the one he'd worn in the House—how could Uphir not see it, not feel the naked ambition burning that would one day depose him? How could Elphon not have seen it—not suspected anything, until the thugs' swords slid home into his chest and blood spouted over her—a split second before they sent Madeleine to her knees, struggling to breathe through the pain of shattered ribs?

Asmodeus's entourage had almost cleared the bridge: they had finished negotiating with the guards at the booth that guarded Pont-au-Double. He saw her then, bowed gravely, without a trace of irony, and turned right into the heart of the food market. Madeleine was surprised to realize her fingers had clenched into fists.

Breathe. She had to breathe. He had seen her, and turned away. She had nothing to fear from him: it was just her memories of that time that wouldn't be banished. He had no interest in her, no grudge: she had been among the lowliest of the low in Hawthorn, and he must have been barely aware that she existed. And then, with a feeling of dread that pulled her bowels into knots, she remembered that he did know who she was. Else why would he have bowed to her?

Surely he—

Her gaze, roaming through the market—somewhere, anywhere she wouldn't have to look at him again—fell on the rear of the procession, where three of the escort had stopped for a moment while one of them readjusted the straps on a large basket; which, judging from the movements from inside, probably contained some large, live animal. The first two were the kind of pale, faded women Asmodeus enjoyed having around; the third one, head bent over the basket, was a brown-haired man. . . .

No.

There was something—something in the tilt of his head, something in the bearing of his body . . .

And, having finished with his work, he raised his head, and she saw.

He, too, hadn't changed much: he was perhaps younger, less hardened, with the particular mix of innocence and agelessness of newly manifested Fallen. But the face—she would have known that anywhere.

Elphon.
Oh God, Elphon.

It was impossible. Elphon was dead. She had seen him die; had felt his heart stutter and stop, seen the radiance fade from his translucent skin until there was nothing left but dead meat. Then, weeping, she had started the long crawl that would lead her to Silverspires and Morningstar's arms.

Surely it was another Fallen; surely . . .

He rose, precariously balancing the basket against his waist, and smiled at his two companions, in a way that was engraved into her memory.

No. That wasn't possible. The dead did not walk the earth again; not even dead Fallen.

“Wait here,” she said to the others, and elbowed her way through the crowd of Pont-au-Double, struggling to reach the little group before they moved away from her. By the time she caught up with them in front of a fowler's stall, her ruined lungs were protesting; and, at the worst possible moment—when she stood in front of them—a bout of coughing racked her body and left her, wrung, to stand in their path.

“Excuse me,” she said.

They looked at her, puzzled. The older woman pinched her lips as if noting the unkempt state of Madeleine's dress, or her hoarse voice, or both. “You're the alchemist for Silverspires?” the woman said at last. “What can we do for you?”

“Can I speak to your friend?” Madeleine asked, pointing to the Fallen who looked like Elphon.

The woman shrugged. “If you want. Elphon?”

Madeleine's heart skipped a beat; seemed to remain suspended in her chest in an agony of stillness. But when Elphon looked up, there was nothing but mild interest in his eyes. “Good morning,” Elphon said, looking at her with puzzlement. “What can I do for you?”

Show some hint of recognition. Something, anything that would explain why he was there—why he still bore the same name, still behaved the same, but he didn't recognize her. “How long have you been in Hawthorn?”

Elphon shrugged; and even that gesture was heartbreakingly familiar, a dim but treasured memory from the depths of the past. “A few months,” he said. “Lord Asmodeus found me near Les Halles.”

A few months? That was impossible. “Are you sure?”

“Of course.” Elphon's voice was mild, but it was clear he was wondering about her sanity. So was Madeleine. This conversation could in no way be described as sane. “Are you trying to recruit me to Silverspires? I assure you I'm already spoken for.”

“No, of course not,” Madeleine said, feeling the blush start somewhere in her cheeks and climb, burning, to her forehead. “I wouldn't dare. It's just . . . I knew someone very much like you, once.”

“Some Fallen look very much alike to mortals,” Elphon said, with a tight smile. He hefted his basket, and made to rejoin his companions. “Now, if you'll excuse me . . . Lord Asmodeus will be expecting us, and he has little patience for tardiness.”

“I have no doubt.” Asmodeus had little patience for anything. He'd chafed enough, in what he viewed as an inferior position in Hawthorn; had waited just long enough to be certain of his coup. “I'm sorry for disturbing you,” Madeleine said. “It seems I was mistaken.”

Elphon bowed—low, old-fashioned, the same bow he'd used to make to her, all those years ago, half in mockery, half in earnest. “There's no harm in it. Good-bye, my lady.”

She watched him retreat, the basket shifting with each movement of his body. Whatever he said, it
was
him. It had to be him; another Fallen, especially a young one, could have mimicked his appearance for a while, but not the gestures. Not the expressions.

But, if it was him, if he had somehow been resurrected by some mystery she could not comprehend—then why did he not remember her? Was it something Asmodeus had done? Surely he had to know that the “young” Fallen he had rescued was one of the loyalists who'd opposed his coup twenty years ago?

Surely—

Lost as she was in her thoughts, it was a while before she realized that, in the place where she'd left the others, there was no trace of them whatsoever.

At first, she wasn't unduly worried; they were adults, and the market was as safe a place as there could be in Paris. She looked for them, desultorily, amid the brightly colored stalls, sure that she would meet them at the House if she couldn't find them.

A scream—terror and agony, rising through her mind—no, not hers, someone bound to House Silverspires was in mortal danger.

She ran, but she knew even before she started to run that she would be too late.

THE HOUSE OF HAWTHORN

PHILIPPE
had used Madeleine's departure to slip away from the group, mumbling something about looking at primed lacquered boxes. Oris had made a face, but Isabelle also expressed a desire to do some shopping of her own. So they split up, each going in a separate direction—after all, what could happen to them in the middle of the busy crowd, in a place where the old alliances still held?

It was after midday, and the crowds of the market were thinning away, leaving Philippe free to leisurely walk to his destination.

On the edge of the market, he ducked into the Old Wing, the barely used buildings that had once been the Police Préfecture and the Commerce Tribunal. There was a side street there, which widened into a makeshift courtyard between the two derelict buildings.

There was a man there, waiting for him, sitting under the wide arch of the entrance to the Préfecture.

Philippe recognized him as one of House Hawthorn's members, still wearing the gray-and-silver uniform with the ease of a soldier; and the eyes, too, were those of a soldier, wide and blue and naive, until one truly looked into them, and saw the darkness lurking within.

“Ah, Aragon's little friend,” the man said. He rose, impossibly lithe, scarecrow thin, dancing to music only he could hear: he was Fallen, though his face was as round and as smooth as a baby's, without any of the edge Philippe would expect from a former angel. But the eyes . . . the eyes gave him away. “My name is Samariel.”

“Philippe.” He felt awkward, gangly, out of place—even though he was quite probably older than Samariel. Arrogant bastard, like the rest of them.

“‘Lover of Horses,'” Samariel said, gravely. “Was that the name Lady Selene gave you?”

Philippe flushed. “That is the name I gave myself. I owe nothing to Selene.” Nothing except the chains she'd wrapped around him.

“I see.” Samariel's gaze was mocking. “Aragon tells me you need help. I assume he also told you—”

“That it would come at a price? I'm no fool.”

Samariel looked him up and down, as if weighing his options. “No,” he said. “Perhaps you're not.”

“What makes you think you can remove Selene's spell?”

Samariel smiled. “May I?” He reached out, and stroked Philippe's neck—a careless gesture that made Philippe shiver. His skin was cold to the touch, as cold as the high reaches of Heaven; but soon it grew warmer. Philippe saw the tangle of threads around his neck, plunging deep into the earth—linking him to the House, Aragon had said, shaking his head. Samariel reached out, thoughtfully plucking two of the brightest strands and raising them to his eyes. He pursed his lips and spread out his fingers like a conjurer doing his best trick; and, just like that, the threads were gone.

Illusion. It had to be. The casualness with which Samariel had acted, the frightful ease with which he'd undone a spell that had had Philippe stumped for weeks, that Aragon had said only Selene could raise . . .

“You can't—” Philippe started, but when he shifted he felt it; the slight yield in the bonds that tied him to Silverspires; the lessening of the weight around his neck; and it wasn't an illusion.

“A nasty piece of work,” Samariel said. His face was still impassive; his hand still casually rested on Philippe's neck, once more as cold as carved marble. He made no move to withdraw. “Untangling the entire thing, of course, would be another matter. Each thread is harder to smooth out than the previous ones.” He smiled—this close, Philippe could see the sharp, white teeth under the lips as red as blood, the smile of a predator in the instant before it struck. “I don't know what you did to Lady Selene, but she must value you very highly.”

Philippe had no desire to go there. Samariel was no fool; and if told about his little tricks in the Grands Magasins, he would no doubt wish to take Philippe for Hawthorn, just as Selene had taken him for Silverspires. “I did something foolish,” he said.

“Indeed?”

“I tasted a Fallen's blood.” He gambled that Selene's aversion to hurting Fallen would be a known thing; and that it was close enough to the truth to satisfy Samariel.

At length, Samariel nodded. “I see.” He withdrew his hand; but remained standing close, uncomfortably so. “You should have known better, but never mind.”

Philippe bristled, controlled the angry retort that came to him with an effort. “You said you could take it away, for a price. What's the price?”

“Tsk. Manners.” Samariel shook his head. “A few years in Silverspires would have corrected that, at least.” He smiled, waiting for Philippe to rise to the bait. Philippe said nothing, and thought back to the almost alien serenity that had once been his, as an Immortal—to the misty landscape of mountains stretching into infinity until the entire world seemed to blur away and dissolve; the boats scattered on the expanse of the river at dawn, and the hypnotic songs of the fishermen as they cast their nets into the liquid mirror of Heaven.

“Your price,” Philippe said, again, shaping his lips into the smile that Ninon called “inscrutable.”

Samariel's eyes drifted toward the clouds in the skies. “My price. Tempting as it is to charge nothing—I imagine it would be quite a setback for Selene to lose you—I still should not undervalue my time. We both agree on this, don't we?” He didn't wait for Philippe's answer, but went on. “You know that House Hawthorn and House Silverspires are . . . at odds.”

“To say the least.” Philippe didn't care much, one way or another. Let them destroy each other, and they'd have got nothing but their just deserts.

“At the moment, Silverspires is . . . strong.” Samariel made a grimace. “Morningstar's legacy is not to be trifled with.”

“So?” Philippe shook his head. “I have no hold over it.”

“That would be where you are wrong, my little friend,” Samariel said. “The greatest cracks in a building come from within—that's what I want from you. A way for Hawthorn to gain the ascendant.”

“I don't play House politics,” Philippe said. “And how would I know what you're looking for?”

“A weakness.” The sky had gone dark, and the few birds had fled. In the dim light, Samariel's teeth shone as white as bleached bones. “A hold on Silverspires. Bring me that, and Asmodeus will do the rest.”

Weaknesses. Aragon had feared the price Samariel would ask for. He had known, or had suspected. “You want to destroy the House.”

“Don't be a fool.” Samariel shook his head. “It's not the war anymore; just a game that we play among ourselves. Yes, we'll bloody Selene's nose, and humiliate her. Neither I nor Asmodeus have the least interest in destroying anything or anyone.”

A game. In a way, it would have felt cleaner, if Samariel had outright asked for destruction; but then, what had Philippe expected, from a House-bound? They were all the same; replete with the casual arrogance that had brought over Annamites and other colonials to fight their senseless war; the ones who had risen to power on rivers of blood; on deaths and suffering and the wreck of lives such as his.

He should have walked away. He'd meddled enough with Fallen, and it had cost him enough—he should have shaken his head and gone back to Silverspires, to his unbreakable captivity, to a future that he could no longer envision.

But there was a darkness, at the heart of the House, a curse within him, and that was Morningstar's legacy, not the House Selene was so proud of that she'd sacrifice anything, imprison anyone for it. It was nebulous and unclear; and not something he could give Samariel, not yet; but it was a start, all the same.

“A weakness. And when I bring you this, you'll lift Selene's spell?”

Samariel pursed his lips. “You don't trust me? Perhaps you're right. You should trust no one. But I'll swear it on the City, if that makes you feel better. Bring me a weakness of House Silverspires, and a way to exploit it; and I'll lift the spell that keeps you here.”

On the City. “That's binding,” Philippe said.

“Close enough. Will you do it, then?”

It was no light request; it was a risky one—it could be more damaging, more far-reaching than he thought, burning like embers kindled back to life. But . . . but, if he did this, he would be free. He would walk away from the House, from Selene and all her power games, and the uncertain future when she owned him and his powers; when he was, once more, pressed into servitude as a weapon.

Free.

He could—no, demons take Isabelle—for a moment he'd had this mad dream she'd given him, that he could, somehow, go back to Annam, make a life for himself again, away from the pomp and decorum of the Jade Emperor's court—again, that warm feeling in his belly, the beginnings of a hope he'd started to cling to but shouldn't afford; of a dream he should lose faith in.

Samariel lifted his head again, to stare at the sky—his nostrils flared, though not a muscle of his face moved. Something. He'd smelled something?

Philippe looked up. The air was tight, as heavy as before a storm; the few birds overhead moved sluggishly, dwarfed by the dark clouds that covered the horizon.

Something was wrong. “Yes,” he said. “I'll do it.”

“That's a bargain, then,” Samariel said. “Until we meet again.” He bowed, as dapper and as lithe as ever, and withdrew, but not before Philippe had caught a glimpse of his hands—and the slight tightening of his fingers that marked wariness, or anger, or both.

He was alone in the courtyard, staring at the storm clouds gathering in the sky; and there was a pounding against his head, a slow dimming of the light as if something large and winged had flown across the sun; but the sun was already hidden, so it couldn't be that.

With difficulty, he tore himself from the contemplation of the sky—and saw Isabelle, who stood at the entrance of the courtyard, a half smile on her lips.

“You—” How much had she seen? “Why are you here?”

“Because I felt what you were doing. Through the link.”

She smiled, her face smooth and innocent, and as deceptive as Samariel's. “You could have trusted me. We had a bargain.”

“I don't know what you mean.” The pounding was getting worse; that feeling of standing at the edge of an abyss.

“Liar,” Isabelle said. “I saw him leave. I caught some of what you were thinking.”

The link again—why was it much stronger in her—why could she read his mind sometimes, while he could only feel her in moments of calm and silence; or when they were physically close to each other?

“It's no business of yours,” Philippe forced through clenched lips. “And nothing that need concern you.” She was part of the House; but how loyal was she? How much would she report to Selene?

She was there at the back of his mind; angry, scared for the House—and scared for him.

He'd have been afraid, too; if he didn't feel so sick.

“Philippe? Is something wrong?”

But he wasn't with her anymore; he stood in the courtyard, and the buildings around him had the warm golden color of limestone. The courtyard was packed with people: with the old-fashioned clothing he'd seen pictures of in Indochinese schools—the top hats, the swallowtails, the voluminous dresses and corsets.

He knew, even without turning around, that Morningstar would be by his side. The other's presence had an intensity that seemed to distort the very air around him. He wore a top hat, too; and the wings were folded; though he still had the sword, which he leant on as if it were a gentleman's cane.

“Beautiful, isn't it? We stand at the pinnacle.” He smiled; and Philippe's entire being was suffused with warmth. “This,” Morningstar said, pointing to the crowds and the buildings and the blue sky above, “this will last forever.”

No, it won't,
Philippe tried to say, but the words were stuck against his palate.
You have a few decades, at the most, and then comes the war; and then comes the decline; and then you vanish, you become nothing, a figure in the history books. You become . . . lost.

And the darkness was within the blue sky, too—the flocks of white seagulls would soon drop dead from exhaustion, the storm clouds were gathering; the House itself was built on cracked foundations, on secrets and guilt and buried pain; the mirror was below the throne in the cathedral, and one day it would release its nightmares into the streets. . . .

“Philippe!”

Isabelle was shaking him. “What is wrong with you?”

Ash and blood on his lips: a memory of her blood, except it was dry and tasteless, and instead of giving him power it had drained him of all his strength. “I—” He struggled to breathe through parched lips. “We have to go.”

Isabelle did not question him as to why. “Where?” She pulled him upright with surprising strength in a body so slight. “Show me where.”

Philippe closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, the world was still whirling around him, and the darkness was still rising from within him—as if he were the mirror, cracking from end to end. But it wasn't a pall over everything—rather, it was intensely focused, as sharp and as heavy as a thrown spear.

“This way,” he said.

*   *   *

AFTER
Isabelle and Philippe had left to go shopping, Oris headed back, slowly, to Pont-au-Double. Isabelle and Philippe would be fine: it was a market, and the worst that could happen to them was getting fleeced by traders, or pickpocketed by children. Oris, meanwhile, wanted to catch Madeleine at Pont-au-Double when she was done with whatever mysterious errand had brought her back into the arms of House Hawthorn—he didn't know, not exactly, what the circumstances of her leaving had been, but he'd caught enough glimpses of her face darkening whenever Hawthorn was mentioned—and, of course, of the scars on her ribs and hip, which told their own story.