The House of Shattered Wings

Everything was . . . charged, saturated with that curious energy of the embankment steps: something that wasn’t magic, that had no business healing or reviving, but that still soothed her hollowed lungs; that still sought to dig its way into her thoughts. The place set her on edge; or rather, it should have, but again there was that relaxing, soothing atmosphere about it that kept dampening down her fear.

At the bottom of the steps, Isabelle was arguing with two guards. As Madeleine walked closer, it became clearer neither of them was human. They had the same dull and dead fish scales on their cheeks, and thin, curved mustaches like catfish, though they shared Philippe’s dark complexion. Their eyes, as they turned to take her in, were like nothing she’d seen: pearly white, gleaming in all colors like bubbles of soap.

“And who is this?” the taller of the guards asked. Madeleine had expected him to speak Annamite; but he spoke French, without a trace of an accent. That odd magic that wasn’t magic again, translating for her benefit? Or, like Philippe, enough years spent in France or in its colonies to speak fluently?

“She’s with me,” Isabelle said. “Now will you listen to me?”

The guard said nothing. He was watching her, holding a spear with a curved blade at the top—afraid, Madeleine thought. Afraid of what she could do, in this kingdom that was no longer young, or powerful, or undamaged.

“We don’t have a policy of welcoming strangers,” the guard said.

“I found the door,” Isabelle said.

“A party trick,” the second guard said, frowning. “Do you have the gifts?”

“What gifts? I already told you—”

“Fallen magic isn’t welcome here,” the taller guard said. He hefted his spear; his grip on it was white. “Play your power games above the surface, but don’t bring them here. There has been enough destruction, my lady.”

“I told you,” Isabelle said, “I’m just here to find a friend, and then I’ll leave.”

“Your friend enjoys the hospitality of the king.” The guard smiled at that, a not entirely pleasant expression, as if he’d remembered a joke at their expense.

“So he is here,” Madeleine said, aloud.

“Of course,” the guard said. “It’s hardly a secret.”

Isabelle was obviously getting nowhere; not that Madeleine was more gifted in diplomatic matters, but by comparison . . . “Who rules here? The king?”

The two guards looked at each other, and then back at her. The pearls under their chins pulsed, faintly, to the rhythm of Isabelle’s light. “The king is . . . indisposed.”

“Then his son,” Madeleine said. “Or his daughter.” She tried to remember the little she knew about Annamite society, but her thoughts slid away from her. Damn this place—she could barely focus here. “A prince? A princess? Take us to them.” She bent toward the guard, letting the magic trapped within her roil to the surface. “Or do you want us to bring the devastation of the surface world your way?” It was a lie, of course; judging by the rank darkness of the waters, and the unhealthy look of the guards, the surface had already intruded. The pollution of the Seine had spread to the underwater kingdom.

The guards looked at each other again, and then back at Isabelle—who waited with arms crossed on her chest, the water around her getting warmer with every passing moment. The taller one swallowed, a sound that rang like a gunshot underwater; resonating for far longer than it would have on land. “We’ll take you to Princess Ngoc Bich.”

The palace turned out to be a maze of courtyards with small buildings. Everything was open and airy, the roofs resting on lacquered pillars, and the gardens filled with water lily pools, and a distant music like drums or gongs, moving to the same slow, stately rhythms as the touch on Madeleine’s thoughts. At last, they reached a squatter, larger building; its windows slit faience, drawing elegant characters in a long-forgotten script. They entered it, and found themselves in darkness. Gradually, as they walked forward, Madeleine’s eyes became used to the dim light, and she was able to make out the room.

It was huge and cavernous; in a palace made of coral and mother-of-pearl, something that seemed to hearken to a more primitive time, its walls carved of black rock, its floor skittering sand instead of square tiles.

At the center of the room was a throne, raised on steps covered with ceramic tiles: a riot of blue and yellow and other vivid colors, painted in exquisite, alien detail, under a delicate canopy of glass, though there, too, rot clung to the tiles, and unhealthy-looking algae had crept over the painted characters and landscapes. On the throne, a golden statue of a man, seated, dressed in ample robes and looking straight at them. Like the guards, he had a pearl at his throat, and a thin mustache, and a scattering of scales on his cheeks.

“The Dragon King,” Isabelle whispered.