“Sit here,” Aragon said, pointing to an examination table covered with a white sheet. “I will come in a moment.”
Emmanuelle pulled her chair away into the farthest corner, staring at the images of human bodies on the wall — there was a cross section of lungs, accompanied by information on magical rot and on the nonexistent ways to prevent it; a detailed anatomy of a Fallen, compared point by point to a human, with peculiar emphasis on the muscles of the back — paying particular attention to the muscle pairs that had been used for lifting and pulling down wings; and a detailed map of Paris, charting the points of greatest magical pollution.
After a while, Aragon closed the file. “So,” he said. “A complete exam. Selene seems to think I have time to waste.”
“You certainly took your time humoring her,” Emmanuelle said, with a tight smile. “It’s been weeks.”
“I had other things to do,” Aragon said, stiffly.
Emmanuelle shrugged. “I’d be careful, if I were you.”
Aragon didn’t deign to answer.
“She doesn’t like insolence. Or mysteries.”
That last was clearly directed at Philippe. Mysteries. As if he were a thing, to be prodded and analyzed; and then he realized that, to Selene, he might well be.
The arrogance of her…
No. No anger. He couldn’t afford that. Not here, not now. He had been in a House army once; had kept his face a blank through the orders that sent him into the fray to buy a plot of land with blood and death. He could do it again here; it wasn’t so hard.
The Jade Emperor had said it was vital to maintain dignity in all things; what advice would he have had, if he’d seen Philippe in Silverspires, imprisoned by Fallen magic? Perhaps he would have been glad; after all, he was ruler of Heaven; he had exiled Philippe from the company of Immortals — so he could learn humility and decorum. He’d probably never dreamed that foreigners would sweep in with Fallen magic, seizing Philippe when he was still weakened from his exile; sending him to a land where his status meant almost nothing. Perhaps he’d have viewed it as a fitting punishment.
Humility and decorum. What a joke.
Aragon unhooked his stethoscope from the wall, and came closer to Philippe. “Open your mouth, please.”
After a while, Philippe found it easier to tune out and let his body take over the simple exercises — Heaven knew what Aragon had been asked, or how he’d chosen to interpret it, but he was performing a simple medical exam.
The khi currents in the room — as elsewhere in the House — were slow and lazy, as if everything had been severely depleted. Water was the strongest one, because of the proximity of the Seine and the general stagnation of the place; wood was the weakest one, because nothing had grown fast and vigorous in the House for years now. They swirled around Aragon’s feet — metal, for harvest, for collecting — around Emmanuelle’s still face — water, for stillness, for withdrawal into one’s self — but of course all of it had deeper meanings, insights he couldn’t read or draw on anymore.
And there was darkness, too; but there always was — ever since he had touched the mirror. It lay like a shadow across everything he looked at; and sometimes in his dreams he would meet Morningstar’s pale gaze, and stand transfixed, like a deer before a hound or a hunter — and he’d wake up drenched in sweat, both terribly afraid and terribly awed. There was… something infinitely seductive about Morningstar, the promise that he’d be welcomed as a Fallen, reshaped until he was part of Silverspires — tied to the House in ten thousand ways, each stronger and more durable than the ties of families — until he finally became worthy of Morningstar’s regard…
But Morningstar was dead; or gone; or beyond communication. Surely that was just an illusion; a side effect of whatever curse had been laid on the House — of the summoning that he’d felt when touching the mirror, but could no longer trace?
All you hold dear will be shattered; all that you built will fall into dust; all that you gathered will be borne away by the storm…
“Does the House have enemies?” he asked; and was startled to see Emmanuelle’s pleasant expression darken.
“Anything powerful and old always has enemies,” Emmanuelle said — her eyes on the posters on the walls. “And Silverspires is oldest of the Houses. Much diminished, to be sure; but that is when the wolves and carrion birds see their opportunity.”
“I see,” Philippe said.
“You’ll want to know what you’ve gotten into,” Emmanuelle said, not unkindly. “The other Houses are our enemies, mostly. The gang lords are numerous and weak; and the Houses make sure they stay that way.”
“I know,” Philippe said, curtly, as Aragon fussed around him with a stethoscope. “I was a gang member.” He was surprised how easily the past tense came to him; but truly there had been no future for him with the Red Mambas. “What about the Houses?”
Emmanuelle shrugged. “Lazarus is our ally for the time being. Harrier is… neutral.” She rattled off, effortlessly, a dozen other names that meant less to Philippe; presumably on the other end of the city, where he’d never set foot. “And, of course, there’s Hawthorn.”
“Hawthorn?” The word meant nothing to him, but the way Emmanuelle said it…
“In the southwest,” Emmanuelle said, pursing her lips. “Surely you’ve heard of them? If Silverspires is on the wane, they’re on the rise.” There was almost… venom in her voice, which, coming from the quiet and good-natured archivist, was as disturbing as being savaged by a fawn. “They protect their own, and have no scruples beyond that — they grow rich on selling angel essence, and angel breath, and God knows what else they can get their hands on.”
And Silverspires was no doubt a model of morality — he held on to the thought, did not voice it, because he knew that it would not please his captors — because Emmanuelle was on Selene’s side, in the end, and it would do him good not to forget.
“I see,” he said. But none of those enemies, surely, could have reached that deep inside the cathedral and planted the curse? “And the House is… united?” he asked.
Emmanuelle’s face closed. “Of course it is. We’re not Hawthorn, as I said. Selene rules as Morningstar’s heir, and there is neither question of her legitimacy, nor attempts to unseat her.”
He felt more than saw Aragon wince in the middle of prodding at his shoulder blades. There was more to it than that; but the time to ask was not now.
“And now,” Aragon said, “let us see some magic.”
“No,” Philippe said, recoiling instinctively from the suggestion. Magic was not cheap, to be thrown around like fireworks; or wasted on pointless demonstrations of might; or, worse, shown to Selene, whose sentence of death was only held in abeyance until she understood everything that made and moved him.
“You will find,” Aragon said, with a tight smile, “that you have no choice in the matter.” His face was as severe as ever, but he raised his gaze; and Philippe saw the hint of a smile in the dark eyes. Aragon was right: he might breathe fire, summon dragons from the depths of the Seine, transport himself to the other end of Paris — and still, neither Emmanuelle nor Selene would even begin to understand what he was and what he drew on — because his magic was as alien to them as his customs; because he was far from home, an exile in the midst of this broken, decadent city; a foreigner even among his own people, trapped in the ruins of a wrecked city.
No anger. No sorrow. He couldn’t afford them.
He’d already observed where the khi currents in the room were; it was but a simple matter to call up fire, even as diminished and as weak as it was, here in Silverspires; to cradle the living flame in the palm of his hand, feeling the warmth of it travel through his veins — through his shoulder and straight into his heart.