Aliette de Bodard - The House of Shattered Wings

The body was Morningstar’s. Even though she hadn’t seen him since he came back to life, there was no mistaking the fair hair, or the serrated wings that the other person was busy removing from him.

In front of her, Isabelle’s light grew harsh. “Stop!”

The other rose, taking the wings with her; dropped them, as if they were fundamentally distasteful. “You fool,” she whispered, and her voice carried under the vault. “Did you really think they would serve you, in the end?”

Then she turned, and looked at Isabelle.

She was small, and thin; her hair a dull, mousy brown; her eyes wide in the delicate oval of her face, with the same familiar harshness to her features that Madeleine had seen in Isabelle and Selene. She wore a simple white shift, reminiscent of the robe of altar boys; leaves were still caught around the collar, and scattered twigs clung to the hem above her bare feet.

“That is unexpected,” she said. She walked downstairs, leaving Morningstar behind her. Her gaze raked Isabelle and her from top to bottom, leaving Madeleine with the distinct impression they’d been found wanting. “Is this what the House sends to defend itself? You’re too late.”

“Nightingale,” Madeleine whispered, and the woman smiled.

“I’d thought it would be someone I would remember.”

I don’t, Madeleine thought. I wasn’t even there when you died. I — damn it, can’t the dead remain where they are, safely away from us?

“You have no right.” Isabelle walked toward her; stopped, in a perfect triangle with her, Morningstar’s body and Nightingale.

Nightingale’s gaze swung toward her. “Right? You do know what he did, don’t you? I would hate to think his House produced someone so naive.”

Isabelle drew herself to her full height. “It’s not his House any longer.”

“It’s Selene’s.” Nightingale’s gaze moved, rested on Madeleine. “Don’t look so surprised. I don’t come into this world like a blameless fool. I’m no Fallen.”

No, that she patently was not. How much did she know? Was it through the Furies, through Philippe, or something else entirely? She had been born of the House’s magic: their own sword, turned against them; Morningstar’s own sins, brought back full circle; and she would not be stopped.

Except… Behind her, to the right, lay the discarded wings; and Isabelle had claimed her right to inherit Morningstar’s mantle. If anyone could stop her…

Madeleine took a step forward, her heart hammering against her chest. Before she could think on what she was doing, she raised the box to her face; and, opening it in one swift movement, inhaled its entire contents.

It was like inhaling liquid fire: an irrepressible feeling of suffocation that rose in her, sending her to her knees, struggling to breathe — even as warmth exploded in her chest, spread to her arms and legs — and climbed upward, a stab like a spike driven into her brain, whiting out her vision for a bare moment.

When she opened her eyes again, Nightingale had moved; was standing almost over her. Madeleine pushed herself upward, stood. Nightingale watched her, unmoving. “So you set yourself to fight me, then?”

No, no, no. She wasn’t that much of a fool. Isabelle had to understand, had to get the message. “Someone has to stand against you. I wish it wasn’t me, but there is no one else.” Each word she spoke hurt, lodged against her tongue and palate like serrated blades, like flame butterflies. If she moved too fast, or spoke too soon, she was going to burst; so much power within her, so much raw potential. Once, she would have felt safe, away from Asmodeus, but now she had Hawthorn at the back of her thoughts; and she stood in the destroyed heart of Silverspires, facing a dead woman come back to life. There was no safety left to her.

There had been no safety for such, such a long time.

“I see,” Nightingale said, and reached out, power blossoming within her. Madeleine stepped aside, instinctively raising wards that the power tore to shreds. She wasn’t made for this: she wasn’t Isabelle; she wasn’t Selene or any other Fallen. She was an alchemist , not a fighter!

She tried to see Isabelle, but Nightingale blocked her field of vision, smiling. “You’re not much of a challenge.”

She had to — Madeleine reached within her, felt something shift; and magic flowed through the floor, raising little bumps like a hundred fingertips poking through the stones. Nightingale stepped aside, but not in time: she stumbled, mouthing a curse, and leaves scattered from her shift.

Her response was a cold wind, flowing through the trees. Madeleine dived behind one of the fluted trunks, but the wind tore through it: her fingers were locked into place, and everything was frozen within her.

Where was Isabelle — she couldn’t keep this up for long; she’d never been trained…

Nothing. Silence.

She bent around the trunk; and saw, like a response to her prayers, that Nightingale’s attention had shifted to Isabelle; who was straightening from her crouch, with Morningstar’s wings spreading wide behind her.

She was bright, and terrible: light streaming from her skin, her presence so palpable, so vivid, a pressure in the air that made Madeleine want to prostrate herself; for what else could she do, before Morningstar’s heir? Behind her, the wings fanned out, as sharp as sword blades, and she had picked up a knife from the wreckage: Morningstar’s knife, or perhaps the one Emmanuelle had given her in Selene’s office?

Nightingale was watching her, a mocking smile on her face. “Commendable,” she said. “But not, I think, enough, in the end.”

She flung her arms outward; Isabelle moved faster than Madeleine had thought possible and was almost upon her, the wings scraping against the trunks, leaving deep gouges as they did so. Nightingale dodged, and sent a trail of fire streaking through the air, which Isabelle caught in her hands and flung away….

Madeleine, watching them, was reminded of nothing quite so much as dancers, moving with inhuman fluidity, as if to a rhythm only they could hear, some slow and ponderous music played on a now defunct organ.

She crawled, instead, to Morningstar; fearing, with each jolt, that the magic within her would tear her apart. It would fade, eventually, the sense of coiled fire within her sinking down to dull embers; leaving her once more craving its touch, once more staring at the aimlessness of her life. It would go away. All she had to do was wait.

Neither Isabelle nor Nightingale paid her any attention, too engrossed in their fight. Nightingale’s fingers were moving fast, as if playing on piano keys, and Isabelle was leaning on a tree trunk, breathing hard, eyes closed, while frost coalesced around her fingers….

Madeleine had seen Morningstar in life, a long time ago. In death he looked almost ordinary, his hair the color of freshly cut corn, his hands long-fingered, with nails that curved almost like claws; his skin with a faint glow, not like Oris, whose corpse had lost its luster…

No. Wait. Fumbling, Madeleine looked for the heartbeat in the wrist and in the chest — then gave up and called on the magic within her. It rose, wringing her lungs out like a cast-off floor cloth: a jolt that traveled from her heart to her fingers; and, as she touched Morningstar’s wrist, she felt the magic earth itself; felt the slow, regular heartbeat under her fingers. Alive, then. Barely so, if it took magic to hear it.

There were healing spells; and ways to keep him farther away from death’s door. She knew none of them; only Aragon’s gloomy warnings that one did not meddle with human or Fallen biology. Anything she did risked making matters worse. But — she raised her eyes. Nightingale and Isabelle were fighting a little farther away from her, throwing magic at each other with abandon. Isabelle’s face was flecked with sweat; Nightingale’s hadn’t changed as she flung trails of fire at Isabelle.