The House of Shattered Wings

“No. Philippe hated Houses, but as part of a system. And Silverspires a little more, because we imprisoned him.” Emmanuelle’s voice was clinical, detached. “I don’t think it’s a House doing this, Selene. Or if it is, it’s someone with a grudge against us. A personal one.”


“That doesn’t really narrow the field, does it?” Selene asked. “We have many enemies.” The House did what it had to do, and not always compassionately, or fairly. “I’m sure Claire and Asmodeus are part of it. They’re too well informed.”

“But they don’t hate Silverspires.”

She was right: they only saw the House as an obstacle to be removed; heedless of the chaos that would happen in Paris’s fragile magical balance, if Silverspires should fall. “They could be in league with the summoner.”

“I think they are,” Emmanuelle said. “I—” She thought for a while. “Philippe came to me, back when he was still new to the House. He wanted to know about the history of the House. I think he was looking for something.”

“A weakness,” Selene said. She didn’t blame him. No, that wasn’t quite true. She understood him, because in his position she’d have done the same; but he was the reason they were in this mess, and if he hadn’t been dead she might well have strangled him herself.

“I—I’m not sure,” Emmanuelle said. “He sounded worried.”

“Do you remember what you gave him?”

“Yes, of course. I can look at the books, but it won’t tell me what drew his attention. He knew some of what was going on.”

“And he’s no longer in a position to tell us.” Good riddance.

“He was the catalyst,” Emmanuelle said, at last. “But no longer. The game has changed, Selene. We must find out who really is behind that spell.” She lay back against her pillows, breathing heavily.

“You’ll exhaust yourself. Get back to sleep; and you can ask Aragon for those books tomorrow, if you want.”

“Don’t baby me, Selene. You’ve got much better things to do.”

Entirely too many, Selene thought, but didn’t say it: there was no point in worrying Emmanuelle. She’d save all the worries for herself, and chew on them until she choked.





SEVENTEEN


GRAVE MATTERS

THEY came up in the mortal world near the Pont de l’Archevêché, where Philippe had first seen Ngoc Bich. It was night again, with the low, diffuse glow of pollution over the city, the glistening of oil on the waves that lapped at their feet.

“We weren’t gone that long,” Madeleine said, shocked.

Isabelle’s voice was distant. “Time passes differently there.”

It wasn’t only time. Philippe could feel the tug of the House again now, could feel the roiling anger within him. Morningstar stood on top of the flight of stairs, limned in his terrible light—hefting, in one hand, the large sword that he always carried. Was he defending the House against them? Of course not, he was simply a vision, a memory.

He hadn’t told Madeleine or Isabelle about the vision he’d had while Asmodeus had tortured him; not because it seemed like a fancy of his sick mind, but because he had no intention of helping Silverspires beyond healing Emmanuelle and ridding himself of the curse.

“We’ll go around the cathedral,” Madeleine said, biting her lips. “There’s a maze of disused corridors there.”

A maze where he’d lost himself; where he’d found himself. The world seemed raw to his senses, the light too harsh, the sounds jangling in his ears; even the touch of Isabelle’s hand on his shoulder scraped like a blade across his flesh. He longed for the dark and quiet of the dragon kingdom already, even knowing that it was but a mirage.

You could have stayed, Ngoc Bich’s voice whispered in his ear, and he didn’t know what answer to give her.

They crossed the small garden behind Notre-Dame: corrugated benches, skeletal trees in the midst of scorched earth; and walked toward one of the side doors of the House, a postern that gave access to the East Wing.

You could have stayed. Would it have been so bad, to be her consort? She was smart and fierce and beautiful, and doing honor to her devastated kingdom; but then again, what wasn’t devastated, in this day, in this place? He would have ruled with her, renewed and rejuvenated daily by the khi currents. He would have found a manner of peace; and, with Annam unattainable, it was probably the closest thing to coming home.

He didn’t deserve it. He was nothing but a disgraced Immortal, his offense so old and so papered over, it barely stung.

The Court of the Jade Emperor was beyond him; and, as Ngoc Bich had known, there would be no return to Annam; not even if the way magically opened, not with this curse within him. Aragon was right, he ought to make a home here in Paris, in this city of murderers who sucked the resources of Annam like so much lifeblood. He ought to . . .

And then the shadows shifted across the burned-out trunks of the trees, like blacker dapples on birches—vanishing every time he focused on them, but quite unmistakably flowing toward them.