He—he needed to keep moving, to find Emmanuelle or Selene or someone who would have some idea of what was going on; to warn them about Nightingale. He needed to— But for the longest time, he simply stood rooted to the spot, watching the darkened skies above him blur; like rain running down a glass pane until the entire world seemed to have vanished into a maw of grief.
* * *
SELENE sat in the center of the market’s square, listening to Javier report on the evacuation of the House. Everyone appeared to have made it out, which was a relief.
“So he went in.”
Emmanuelle grimaced. “Yes. That worked, it seems.”
“Yes.” They both knew what that meant; and she had no regrets. “And the rest—”
“I don’t know.”
The House’s magic was flickering and weak in Selene’s mind. Earlier, she had heard the cracks as the roots tightened around the walls, and felt the magic slowly squeezing out. Like a pressed lime: it would have been an incongruous comparison, if only it hadn’t been her walls; if she hadn’t seen, in her mind’s eye, the familiar corridors bend out of shape, the furniture in her office crack into a thousand pieces, the beds in the hospital heaving and shattering . . .
Aragon would have been angry; but then, Aragon, not bound to the House, had left them. She couldn’t blame him; though part of her wished he had stayed. She certainly could have used his help.
Even if it did work—even if they could banish the curse—the House would still be as it was: all but destroyed, its magic gone, channeled into the roots of that huge tree, into all the damage the curse had wrought.
Some leader she was.
“You look gloomy,” Emmanuelle said.
Selene forced a smile. “Of course not,” she said, because Javier was listening. “Come on, let’s go and see everyone.”
People had settled where they could on the market square. Some bright enterprising soul, probably Ilhame, had rigged up a huge tent from metal poles and a few sheets. Selene spoke with those she saw, dispensing reassurance where she could, forcing a smile she didn’t feel, mouthing platitudes about the future of the House. She reassured them that the protections still stood; barely, but they were still within the wards, and the House was, if not a building, still a shield that kept them safe from the others.
Not that anyone, save scavengers, would be interested in Silverspires now.
She found Choérine minding the children, who were possibly the only ones finding the evacuation fun: half of them were playing tag in the shadow of the East Wing, and the other half, toddlers still, chasing a ball. She forced a smile when Selene arrived. “It’s been a trying time. I have half the parents out of their minds with worry, and the children feel it. It’s difficult to distract them.”
“I know,” Selene said. “Believe me, I know.”
She kept a wary eye on Emmanuelle, who had found Caroline and a group of other children—the little girl had pelted straight for her, dragging Emmanuelle back to the circle where she and her friends had piled a dozen books—all they must have been able to grab in the evacuation, and even then it must have been a heavy load—God only knew how Caroline had managed to talk them into them. Caroline was proudly waving a book at Emmanuelle, and saying it would be all right, that they had managed to save some of the books and the library would be fine. Selene looked away then, not willing to see Emmanuelle’s face.
“At least we’re all alive,” Choérine said. She didn’t sound happy about it, or cheerful.
“We’ll rebuild,” Selene said; and paused then, seeing the crowd part ahead for something she couldn’t quite see: not what she had expected, because whatever it was came from the side of the island opposite the cathedral. “Excuse me a moment, will you?”
As it turned out, she didn’t have to wait for long, because he was making straight for her.
“Well,” she said, staring at Philippe.
He looked as though he’d been through Hell and back, his clothes black with soot and torn in places, his eyes ringed with deep, dark circles; but he still stood in front of her with the bearing of a king, utterly unapologetic—he had destroyed them, and he didn’t care; he had never cared. “You dare come back here.”
Philippe shook his head. “That’s not important. Listen, Selene—”
“Not important?” Her hand moved, encompassed the wreck around her. “This is what we are now, what we are reduced to. All your fault.”
His gaze was steady. “I meant no harm.”
“You did it regardless.”
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake,” Philippe said. “We can argue about responsibility later, Selene. Listen.” His words came fast now, one after another with hardly a breath, his voice expressionless. “Isabelle is dead. The banyan is a tree of rebirth—it took the magic of the House and used it—”
“Isabelle?” Selene asked, her heart sinking, just as Emmanuelle asked, “Rebirth?”
“Yes. You have to—”
But in that moment, the cathedral exploded.
A huge noise deafened Selene; she dived, reflexively, even as bits and pieces of the tree were sent into the air. She barely had time to see Emmanuelle put up wards around herself; she reached out, raised her own in a wider circle, hoping there wouldn’t be too many people in their path; and then the world was a welter of dust and flying things, and she couldn’t see anything, anymore.
She rose, slowly; reached for the mirror at her belt, inhaling the stored breath until magic coursed through her veins again. Then she turned toward the cathedral.
Notre-Dame’s doors were gaping holes, surrounded by dying roots. And in their center . . .
Selene recognized her immediately, though it had been many decades. She had barely changed, in the sense that her physical features were the same: that same harsh cast to her face, those same huge, driven eyes that gave the impression of seeing straight into your soul. But other things had changed: her skin now held trapped light, as though she were a Fallen; and she moved with fluid, inhuman grace as she walked to the edge of the parvis, surveying the devastation she had wrought.
Her gaze met Selene’s, and she smiled. “Hello, Selene.”
Selene walked, slowly, toward her, the world reduced to nothing but the hammering of her heart, like a hummingbird’s wings straining against a cage of ribs. “Hello, Nightingale.”
TWENTY-FOUR
HEAD OF THE HOUSE
THE huge explosion had deafened Madeleine, but it had turned out to be nothing more than the doors blasting open. Dust had risen thick around her, a cloud that racked her lungs. Now it was subsiding, leaving her barely enough light to guess at the shape of Isabelle’s corpse.
Isabelle.
She had gotten Madeleine out of Hawthorn; even if it was only for a moment, even if it was only a loan. She had known about the angel essence; about the addiction; and had still come back. Had still believed in Madeleine’s skills as an alchemist; in her as a teacher and as a mentor, and as a friend.
And in return, what had Madeleine done for her?
Nothing.
If only she’d had more time . . .
But it was a lie. One made do with the time one had; and this—from the beginnings in Hôtel-Dieu to this unbearably warm jungle—was all they had been given.
She had failed Oris. She had failed Isabelle. And—she had failed Silverspires, too, in the end; had given the House nothing but her slow dying.
Morningstar might not have saved her, but Silverspires had been her refuge and her sickbed for all of twenty years.
Light streamed from the hole Nightingale had opened in the tree’s roots, too bright for her to guess at more than silhouettes. Light, like the bright and terrible and unforgiving light from the City—she knew what it was now, what Fallen carried in their hearts, the unbearable knowledge that there was no absolution that would wash away
the taint of what they had done; nothing that would reopen the pathways to Heaven and let them immerse themselves in the glory of God.
She closed Isabelle’s eyes, mouthing a prayer that the Fallen would find her way home, and rose. Her eyes were dry; her lungs and whole being wrung out, as if she had run for an entire night. She might as well return to Hawthorn: there was nothing left for her here, nothing in the whole world that held meaning for her.
No. That wasn’t quite true.
She reached out, and found, by touch more than by eye, the mirror that Emmanuelle had handed to Isabelle. It burned her hand as she touched it, the trapped malice within it almost palpable. If that was only a fraction of what Philippe had unleashed . . .
“Destroy it,” Emmanuelle had said, “in the hollow of the tree.”
She didn’t know if it would make a difference, but she had to try.
* * *
ON the steps of the cathedral, Selene faced Nightingale. “It’s been a long time,” Nightingale said, with a wide, insincere smile.
“Indeed.” Selene kept her voice low. “And what will you do now, Nightingale?”
“Do?” Nightingale raised an eyebrow. “I have nothing left to do, have I? I’ve won. Your House lies in tatters.”
“No, not quite,” Selene said.
Nightingale’s gaze raked the market square; the mass of people that looked like a refugee camp. “You’re right,” she said. “But it won’t matter, will it? You’ll be easy pickings, Selene. I could destroy you all; but it will be more satisfying to see others do it for me. Then everything Morningstar fought for will be gone.”
“Did you hate him so much?” Selene asked; and Nightingale’s face darkened.
“You’re not the one he betrayed,” she said.
“I know.” Selene thought of Morningstar; now lying dead and cold somewhere in the bowels of Silverspires. “But he did it for the good of the House.”
“And that excuses anything?” Nightingale turned. Light streamed out of her, making her a living beacon against the churning of the darkened skies. “Shall I tell you what they did to me in Hawthorn, Selene? Every cut of the knife, every broken bone, every wound that wouldn’t close . . .”
“No more than what Morningstar did,” Selene said. The cells had gone dusty in her time; because she wasn’t Morningstar. Because she wasn’t hard enough, and look where it had got them. “I grieve for what happened to you, Nightingale, but it doesn’t give you the right to destroy us.”
“Of course it does. The House is based on lies, Selene, on selling its own dependents to further its own interests. Do you truly believe you deserve to survive?”
Justice. Blood. Revenge. Had she been so naive, once? “All the Houses are the same.”
“Then perhaps no House deserves to survive.” It was Philippe’s argument; and Philippe’s face, closed and arrogant; and the same desire she’d felt then, to smash his high-mindedness into wounding shards.
“And that would be your mission?”
Nightingale’s face was serene. “Who knows? I don’t owe you anything, Selene. Least of all accounts.”
“No,” Selene said. “But I owe you something, Nightingale. Excuses.”
“You made them. I have accepted them, but they change nothing. You’re not Morningstar; of course you’re not. No one can be, Selene. No one can loom as large as he did; no one can hold an entire room to attention by merely stepping into it.” Her face was soft then; some of the intensity smoothed away, as if she recalled happier times—as if they had ever existed. Morningstar hadn’t been a kind master. “And you certainly couldn’t hold the House he built together.”
Selene bristled. “I am head of the House.” Within her, almost nothing; the magic sunken down into cold ashes, the protections almost stripped away. The House was dead, or dying; and she had presided over its demise; had failed to see the danger until it was too late.
“Oh, don’t blame yourself.” Nightingale shrugged. “He took us all, didn’t he? Saw something in us and tried to remake us into more than we were. Some of us broke; and all of us failed. All disappointments.”
She was his heir. The head of the House. But of course she had always known that it was solely because there was no one else; because he was gone and she was the latest apprentice. There had been no designation, no transfer of power; merely everyone looking to her as the nearest thing they still had to a leader.
And what a leader she’d been: truly unworthy of anything he had left her, a child playing with adult tools and burning herself.
“Of course it wasn’t you. It was him and his standards no one could live up to. He was firstborn, Selene; the oldest among you, the first Fallen. What made you think you were worthy to even follow in his footsteps? I forged my own path; so should you.”
“A path of revenge and madness,” Selene said. “Look where it got you.”
“Indeed. Look where it got me.” Nightingale turned, slowly, taking in the ruined cathedral drowned in a mass of tangled roots and branches; scattering leaves from her white shift over the cracked stone of the parvis; ending her rotation so that she was once more facing the scattered remnants of the House in the square. Selene could see figures moving, picking themselves up from the devastation: Emmanuelle helping a limping Philippe, Javier rallying the guards—but they would be too late. It was here; it was now; just her and Nightingale, the last two surviving students of Morningstar facing each other.
And of course Nightingale was right. Of course she was a failure; of course her fears had always been right. She was a small candle to Morningstar’s bright star; a drop of water to the churning ocean; a fallen leaf to an oak tree—a pale reflection of the Fallen who had taught her, unable to even hold the House safe; to hold it together against all dangers; and, when the time came, finding her own ruthlessness too late, much too late.
Of course.
* * *
WITHIN the hollow of the tree, everything lay in shadow—none of the radiant light from outside, simply a strong smell of churned earth; and a heaviness in the air, as if before a storm. If Madeleine raised her eyes, she could see the stars through the top of the column: the trunk itself was merged roots with a thin coating of thinner bark between them, a wall peppered with holes where the bark hadn’t quite closed.
Just enough light to go by.
Madeleine headed to the ruined throne, circling the gaping hole of the entrance to the crypt. Then she sat by the side of the throne, thoughtfully staring at the mirror.
Emmanuelle hadn’t been very precise in her instructions, because she hadn’t known how—because she’d guessed some things about the spell, but not enough to understand its true workings. But Madeleine remembered something else—the dance of Ngoc Bich’s fingers on the rim, back in the dragon kingdom, a pattern that held the key to opening this.
A sealed artifact, Ngoc Bich had said. Madeleine ran her hands over the surface of the mirror. There was that familiar spike of malice, but also something else: a rising warmth, a feeling she knew all too well. The imprint of trapped Fallen breath. Whoever had helped Nightingale lay this in the cathedral had contributed to the spell that had cursed the House.
A sealed mirror—an artifact infused with Fallen breath and Fallen magic, the same as the ones Madeleine had handled for decades.
She didn’t need to destroy it: merely to open it, and empty it of all its magic until it was once more inert and harmless, the curse defanged and spent into nothingness.
It was sealed, of course—Nightingale would not have made this so easy. Sealed and locked, and Madeleine hadn’t been able to open it, back when Isabelle had handed it to her. Ngoc Bich had said they shouldn’t try; that it would avail them nothing. But Madeleine was there, in the birthplace of the curse, in its only point of weakness. This might, of course, not work at all; but what choice did she have?
Madeleine’
s fingers moved on the rim in slow, half-remembered gestures—as Ngoc Bich’s fingers had once done, the first steps in unlocking it—seeking the place that kept it all together.
* * *
“GIVE it up, Selene. No one will ever be Morningstar. You know it.”
Yes, she did know it. No one would build the House from nothing; or the city, if legend had it right; no one would ever loom as large as he had done, before he died.
From where she was, Selene could see Emmanuelle, could guess at what she was thinking. You’re not giving up now, are you?
Nightingale smiled. “See, Selene? I will leave you to your ruins. Unless you want to fight? Your dependent did, and it brought her nothing.” She turned away, and started going down the stairs; planning, no doubt, to leave the island and strand them all in the middle of nowhere.
Isabelle. She knew more than Isabelle; but in the end, it would probably avail her nothing. Nightingale had the power of the entire House behind her now; the magic that had enabled her to defeat Isabelle and Morningstar. Because she had asked them to go; because she had known, all along, that this was where it ended.
She ought to have grieved; but there was no space in her heart anymore—nothing but a growing, roiling anger. The storm is coming, the Furies had whispered in the crypt.
Yes, it was.
A tree of rebirth, Philippe had said: gathering the magic of the House to allow Nightingale to walk once more upon the earth, the House’s destruction the price of her resurrection. Selene could not hope to stand against such magic—except for one small thing.
No one could be Morningstar.
But she was head of Silverspires, and it mattered. Here, now, she was all they had; and that was all the worth she needed. She was their head because there was no one else, and that wasn’t a badge of dishonor.
She did what she had to. Always.
And she knew exactly what needed to be done.
“Wait.”
Nightingale turned, a half-mocking smile on her face; saw Selene standing, surrounded by magic. “Yes? You will fight? I expected better of you.”
The House of Shattered Wings Page 40
