The House of Shattered Wings

No. No anger. He couldn’t afford that. Not here, not now. He had been in a House army once; had kept his face a blank through the orders that sent him into the fray to buy a plot of land with blood and death. He could do it again here; it wasn’t so hard.

The Jade Emperor had said it was vital to maintain dignity in all things; what advice would he have had, if he’d seen Philippe in Silverspires, imprisoned by Fallen magic? Perhaps he would have been glad; after all, he was ruler of Heaven; he had exiled Philippe from the company of Immortals—so he could learn humility and decorum. He’d probably never dreamed that foreigners would sweep in with Fallen magic, seizing Philippe when he was still weakened from his exile; sending him to a land where his status meant almost nothing. Perhaps he’d have viewed it as a fitting punishment.

Humility and decorum. What a joke.

Aragon unhooked his stethoscope from the wall, and came closer to Philippe. “Open your mouth, please.”

After a while, Philippe found it easier to tune out and let his body take over the simple exercises—Heaven knew what Aragon had been asked, or how he’d chosen to interpret it, but he was performing a simple medical exam.

The khi currents in the room—as elsewhere in the House—were slow and lazy, as if everything had been severely depleted. Water was the strongest one, because of the proximity of the Seine and the general stagnation of the place; wood was the weakest one, because nothing had grown fast and vigorous in the House for years now. They swirled around Aragon’s feet—metal, for harvest, for collecting—around Emmanuelle’s still face—water, for stillness, for withdrawal into one’s self—but of course all of it had deeper meanings, insights he couldn’t read or draw on anymore.

And there was darkness, too; but there always was—ever since he had touched the mirror. It lay like a shadow across everything he looked at; and sometimes in his dreams he would meet Morningstar’s pale gaze, and stand transfixed, like a deer before a hound or a hunter—and he’d wake up drenched in sweat, both terribly afraid and terribly awed. There was . . . something infinitely seductive about Morningstar, the promise that he’d be welcomed as a Fallen, reshaped until he was part of Silverspires—tied to the House in ten thousand ways, each stronger and more durable than the ties of families—until he finally became worthy of Morningstar’s regard . . .

But Morningstar was dead; or gone; or beyond communication. Surely that was just an illusion; a side effect of whatever curse had been laid on the House—of the summoning that he’d felt when touching the mirror, but could no longer trace?

All you hold dear will be shattered; all that you built will fall into dust; all that you gathered will be borne away by the storm . . .

“Does the House have enemies?” he asked; and was startled to see Emmanuelle’s pleasant expression darken.

“Anything powerful and old always has enemies,” Emmanuelle said—her eyes on the posters on the walls. “And Silverspires is oldest of the Houses. Much diminished, to be sure; but that is when the wolves and carrion birds see their opportunity.”

“I see,” Philippe said.

“You’ll want to know what you’ve gotten into,” Emmanuelle said, not unkindly. “The other Houses are our enemies, mostly. The gang lords are numerous and weak; and the Houses make sure they stay that way.”

“I know,” Philippe said, curtly, as Aragon fussed around him with a stethoscope. “I was a gang member.” He was surprised how easily the past tense came to him; but truly there had been no future for him with the Red Mambas. “What about the Houses?”

Emmanuelle shrugged. “Lazarus is our ally for the time being. Harrier is . . . neutral.” She rattled off, effortlessly, a dozen other names that meant less to Philippe; presumably on the other end of the city, where he’d never set foot. “And, of course, there’s Hawthorn.”

“Hawthorn?” The word meant nothing to him, but the way Emmanuelle said it . . .

“In the southwest,” Emmanuelle said, pursing her lips. “Surely you’ve heard of them? If Silverspires is on the wane, they’re on the rise.” There was almost . . . venom in her voice, which, coming from the quiet and good-natured archivist, was as disturbing as being savaged by a fawn. “They protect their own, and have no scruples beyond that—they grow rich on selling angel essence, and angel breath, and God knows what else they can get their hands on.”

And Silverspires was no doubt a model of morality—he held on to the thought, did not voice it, because he knew that it would not please his captors—because Emmanuelle was on Selene’s side, in the end, and it would do him good not to forget.

“I see,” he said. But none of those enemies, surely, could have reached that deep inside the cathedral and planted the curse? “And the House is . . . united?” he asked.