The House of Shattered Wings

At one point, halfway through the work, he raised his head, sniffing the air like a hound scenting blood; and bent back with a white-toothed smile, intent on his spell. He whispered words, as the letters filled the empty space on the floor: a litany that seemed to be at once a mourning chant and a prayer.

When he was done, he lifted his hands. For a moment, there was nothing: silence, filling the room as the last echo of his words faded into nothingness, and every letter going dark. Then a pure, single note rang, like a plucked harp string. Asmodeus smiled, and got up.

His attendant, Elphon, was waiting for him at the entrance to the room. He handed Asmodeus his shirt and jacket, which Asmodeus slipped into effortlessly. As he buttoned up his shirt, Elphon spoke up. “My lord, if I may?”

Asmodeus didn’t say anything. Elphon went on. “This is a circle of rebirth, isn’t it? I’m not sure I understand why—”

Asmodeus smiled, white and sharp, like a tiger prowling the woods. “You mean, because Silverspires is my enemy?”

Elphon blushed, obviously bracing himself for further rebuke. “Yes.”

“You think this is going to benefit them? Oh, Elphon,” Asmodeus said, shaking his head. “I had a bargain with someone else for . . . a ritual. For a weakness in Silverspires’ wards, at a key point in time—which required us to be here, in the House, in order to undermine it from within. This isn’t a gift I’m making them. Quite the contrary. This, my friend, is their downfall.”

And with that, he turned away, leaving that single note behind him. Unlike the words, it didn’t fade away into silence, but gradually was joined by others, until a faint but clear chorus of voices echoed under the vault.

In the room, in the center of the circle, light danced on motes of dust; and then the light died down, and the dust settled, slowly accreting itself into the shadowy shape of a human being.

And something else, too: on the edges of Asmodeus’s circle, tendrils of leaves and wood started to grow—plunging so deep into the floor that the stone itself began to crack.





NINETEEN


THE ONCOMING STORM

MADELEINE woke up, and wished she hadn’t.

She was lying in an infirmary bed. She would have known that peeled, faded painted ceiling and its flower-shaped moldings anywhere. When she tried to move, every joint in her body seemed to protest at the same time, with a particular mention to a crick in her neck that seemed to have become permanently stuck. What— There had been the strangeness of the dragon kingdom—the flight to the cathedral—

“Oh, you’re awake. Good.” Emmanuelle’s face hovered into view. She looked better, but distinctly worried.

“What did I miss?” Madeleine said, or tried to. Her tongue was as unresponsive as a lump of wood—her mouth felt full of grit and ashes, and her words came out garbled. She tried again, felt something shift and tear. “What—?”

“Aragon said you needed to rest,” Emmanuelle said.

“You’re—you’re fine,” Madeleine said. “You’re healed.”

Emmanuelle nodded.

“I’m glad,” Madeleine breathed. At least they had succeeded in that. At least . . . “Philippe—”

“He left. Isabelle went after him,” Emmanuelle said. “She has some foolish notion that she can change his mind.” Her eyes—her eyes had changed somehow. They were . . . older, as if something had made her age in the space of a few hours. What had happened? Had Philippe healed her? She was standing, and didn’t seem to be in any pain other than extreme weariness. Surely that meant they had succeeded; but then, why did she seem so distant? Something . . .

The House, she realized, and felt as though something was squeezing her heart. Something was wrong with the House. She could feel it, even through the tenuous link she had with it.

The House’s magic was coming apart.

A commotion: Aragon’s raised voice, and then steps, getting closer to her. “I know she’s awake,” Selene said. “You should have notified me before.”

If Emmanuelle looked ill at ease, Selene looked unchanged. She was dressed in her usual men’s swallowtail and trousers, regal, apparently unaffected by whatever seemed to have oppressed the atmosphere. “Madeleine.” Her voice was cold, cutting. “Will you leave us?” she asked Emmanuelle.

Emmanuelle winced. She cast a hesitant glance at Madeleine, but withdrew; her mouth shaped around words she never did get to pronounce. An apology? But what for?

“You’re going to chastise me for lacking to do my duty,” Madeleine said. “We were trying to help Emmanuelle.”

Selene said nothing.