Aliette de Bodard: The House of Shattered Wings

“You are here because I was curious. Don’t mistake it for mercy on my part. I know exactly what you were doing.” Blood and flesh and severed fingers; no better than the gang thugs in the streets, a handsome face covering the mind of a savage.

Philippe gazed back at her, quite unfazed. “So, if not mercy… what can I expect of you?”

A sharp eye on him, for a start. An education, if it was not too late to bring him back to decency; to unravel who and what he was, and how he had come to be in Paris. And ultimately, how he could be of use to the House, to guard it against its rivals and make it flourish in the lean, famished times after the war. “From this House? A chance to mend your ways, I should say.”

Something was in his eyes: amusement, anger? He was oddly hard to read, closed off like no human or Fallen she’d ever met. “And why should I take up this offer?”

What pointless arrogance. “I think you misunderstand,” Selene said, and let a fraction of power brush against him; a cold touch to remind him of who he was facing. “You don’t have a choice. But if you did have one, I would point out that living in a House is much better than scavenging in the streets.”

“Being fed and fattened while you seek to untangle my deepest secrets?”

“You could always save me time and tell me what you are,” Selene said.

He shook his head. “As you said, your curiosity is all that’s keeping me alive at the moment, and I’m not foolish enough to sate it.”

She wanted to open him like a nut: here, in her House, at the center of her power, she could burst through his thoughts, drain every drop of blood from his body if she had to. Except, of course, that he was probably more than capable of defending himself against her. With difficulty, she controlled herself. What was it about the young man that made it so hard to keep her temper in check? “Have it your way, then. I’ll certainly have mine in the end.”

“Perhaps.” Philippe’s voice was shaking, and this time the anger was unmistakable. “So I am to be your prisoner?”

Selene had little use for his anger; and no pity for the riffraff of the streets. “For what you did — for the fingers you severed from her — the punishment would be death. You should count yourself lucky.”

Philippe’s lips quirked in what might have been amusement; but then his gaze turned to the young Fallen by his side; and much to Selene’s surprise he said, gravely, “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend things to turn out this way, but that doesn’t excuse me.”

It didn’t, Selene wanted to say; but she wasn’t the one with the grievance. The young Fallen gazed back at Philippe levelly, her hands in her lap, the left hand with its two missing fingers quite visible in the sunlight. She said nothing, until at length Philippe lowered his gaze, and fell silent.

Good. She might be innocent, but she was not altogether defenseless.

Selene said, a fraction calmer now, “I have set a spell on you that will prevent you from… wandering too far away from the House. I’d advise you not to tinker with it, or you’ll regret it.”

He looked as though he might laugh, then; and then shook his head, casting a glance in the Fallen’s direction. “Security and a bed; and a golden cage. I guess it will have to do, for the moment.”

She was no fool. Of course he would not submit, and would attempt to escape the moment her back was turned. But it was the best she could do. Her spell had taken long to set in: as with the binding to the House, it was as if something within him was resisting the very notion of magic. But with luck, she’d hold him long enough.

“Wait outside, will you?” she asked; and watched him leave, casual and at ease. One certainly wouldn’t think he was the prisoner here, and she the jailer.

She turned to the young Fallen, who stood, watching her warily, and said, in a much kinder voice, “None of this applies to you.”

“Then why am I here?” The young Fallen was quite recovered now, the unearthly light of her first hours gone. She appeared almost human, almost whole, except for the two fingers missing on her left hand. Her face in repose would never be called beautiful, but an innocence hung about her, a guilelessness that made Selene’s heart ache. She had been like this once, but such things never lasted for long; not in Paris.

“Because you’re one of us,” Selene said; and before the Fallen could voice a question, she added, “What do you remember?”

The Fallen’s face shifted then, became for a moment wreathed with soft light. “The City,” she whispered, and looked up into Selene’s eyes. “You remember, too.”

It was not a question. “Not as much as I once did,” Selene said. All she had were grainy, fuzzy images like old photographs; faces and voices that all seemed to merge together. “You have to be young to remember.”

Young, and innocent, and brimming with raw power. She envied that child, in that moment; who did not yet know bitterness, or how much the abandonment of God lay heavy on one’s shoulders.

What had her sin been, the one that had cast her out of the City? She’d wondered over the years — at what could be so grave that a God of forgiveness and love would condemn them all to this slow, agonizing path on Earth, with the wound of His absence lancing like salted knives — and known, in the darkness of her own room, that there would never be any answer.

“I Fell,” the girl said. And, bringing both hands up to stare at them: “I don’t remember why.”

“We never do,” Selene said, which wasn’t quite true. Morningstar had remembered; but Morningstar had been the first to Fall, the ringleader of the revolt in Heaven. “You’ll find out much of what you need to know over the coming months. We all do. You’ll—” She took a deep breath. “You’ll have to work out your own answers to what it means, to be Fallen. We have a priest here, Father Javier, if you think religion would help. And a library where you can find histories and books.” Emmanuelle would be glad to take her in hand, to show her everything that she needed to see. “As for me… there are three things I can give you, if you will have them. The first is help to come into your powers. The second is the protection of this House. Paris, as you will have gathered, is a dangerous place to be.”

The girl swallowed. “Madeleine told me… that I didn’t have that protection.”

“Not all of it,” Selene said, mildly. If the binding had taken, any attempt to put her in danger would have sent alarms rippling through the House; would have been as loud as a clarion call to anyone bound to Silverspires; but it hadn’t happened. Which meant they would need to keep an eye on her. “Be careful, will you? And we’ll find out why.” At least, she dearly hoped so, because she’d lose patience with Philippe very soon; and she doubted anyone in the House, save perhaps Aragon, had the forbearance to deal with him.

“You said three things,” the girl said, her large eyes on Selene’s face. “What’s the third one?”

Selene rose, feeling the weight of the earth against her bones: that odd, awful sensation that everything should have been lighter, easier on her. “Angels but touch the earth,” Morningstar had said, but his smile had been bitter as he said it — he who had felt the weight of age and loss more keenly than most, who had watched so many centuries pass by, patiently gathering his kin to him — as Paris grew from a small town to the bloated capital of an empire; and from this arrogant, conceited city to the devastated wreck huddled around the dark waters of the Seine. At least he’d disappeared before he could see how far the damage ran; how far the House he’d founded had tumbled.