Aliette de Bodard: The House of Shattered Wings

Isabelle, obviously weary of the spells exchanged, lunged at Nightingale: once, twice, the wings following her every movement. Nightingale dodged two moves that should have slashed her from shoulder to hip, smiling. “Is this all you have?” she asked.

“You have no idea.” Isabelle shook her head. “This is my House. The place that took me in, that gave me space to grow and learn and be safe. I — will — not — lose — it.” Her knife sliced; Nightingale leaped away again, and the knife scraped against the edge of a ward she’d put up. She was smiling, not even out of breath.

“You forget. It was my House, too.” She extended both hands; looked at Isabelle, her gaze intent, her eyes two huge black holes in the oval of her face. “Just as it was yours.” Her hands shot forward; the air seemed to crumple in front of her; and she drove them, effortlessly, into Isabelle’s chest.

Isabelle froze. She stared at Nightingale, her eyes widening, slowly glazing over. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.

No, no, no.

Slowly, gracefully, Isabelle fell back; and a spray of blood fell forward, onto the stones of the cathedral.

No.

Madeleine rose, and ran, screaming, the magic streaming out of her, uncontrollable — fully expecting to have to fight Nightingale, too; and to fail as Isabelle had failed, to fall as Isabelle had fallen….

But when she reached the body, Nightingale was already gone, walking away without a backward glance toward the entrance of the cathedral; the roots opening in front of her in an obscene parody of the sea parting before Moses’s staff. Madeleine knelt, shaking, pouring all the magic she had left into Isabelle’s body, trying to find a way, any way, to heal her.

Nothing happened. A glance should have told her — as she looked up, weak, trembling — that it was useless, that no one recovered from two bloody holes of that size in the chest. Isabelle’s eyes were wide-open, vitreous; her breath inaudible; her skin already losing its luster, becoming gray and fragile and mortal.

No, no, no.

Fallen outlived mortals. Apprentices outlived teachers, not the other way around; and Madeleine had lost so much already, so many people in her care. She… It wasn’t fair.

The last of the magic left her; now it was just her and her meager skills, trying to shake some life into a corpse. Trying to make Isabelle move, to make her say something, anything. Please, please, please, let there be a miracle .

Useless, all of it. As it had always been.

Madeleine knelt on the cold, hard floor between the fluted trunks, and wept.

* * *

PHILIPPEwas halfway across Ile de la Cité when he felt it. He was crossing a deserted avenue, heading in the vague direction of the Hôtel-Dieu or the parvis — hard to tell, at night — when Isabelle’s presence in his mind flickered and weakened, and went out like a snuffed candle.

He stopped, then. The bond between them was strong, sealed in Fallen blood, and nothing should have been able to remove it.

Nothing, save one.

No. That wasn’t possible. He took in a slow, trembling breath; and heard only silence in his mind. Gone. She was gone; back to the City she’d had so few memories of, or to whichever destination awaited Fallen, after their time on Earth was done. He hoped she got the answers she’d craved for in life; or the rest that had been denied to her.

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.

* * *

SELENEsat 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.”