The House of Shattered Wings

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.