“You—”
Her face was hard; almost alien in its bleakness. “I saw you and Samariel together at the banquet. You will tell me everything that happened from that moment onward.”
* * *
LATER, after she was gone, Philippe lay back against the wall, winded. He wasn’t sure whether his highly censored version of what had happened had passed muster with her: the tale he’d woven, of Samariel’s being intrigued by him, had been barely plausible. In her normal state she probably wouldn’t have swallowed a word of it. But she was preoccupied, and so was he. The only thing she’d been interested in was the shadows; she’d made him describe them several times; and bit her lips thoughtfully, as if comparing them with something else. An eyewitness to Oris’s death? He had obliged, because it seemed to be his only chance to get out of the cell.
He’d mentioned he suspected Claire; though he wouldn’t very well explain the vision he’d had of her with the mirror without explaining what the mirror was — and of course he hadn’t mentioned the curse or the memories: he wasn’t crazy enough to admit to that.
Whatever Selene had said, he wasn’t one of her dependents. She’d never give up one of Silverspires’ men or Fallen, even to save the House; but he was the alien, the one who’d tasted Isabelle’s blood; the convenient sacrifice that would buy her way out of the diplomatic tangle she was stuck in. He recognized the signs of it all too well. If push came to shove…
She hadn’t renewed the spell, either. He’d thought it carelessness on her part, though she’d never been careless before. Perhaps she thought he wouldn’t go far from where he was. Or perhaps she foresaw that she’d have to take him away from the grounds of Silverspires quite soon, and that it wasn’t worth recasting the spell only to have to undo it again. He didn’t want to dwell on that; so he snapped the last threads himself, reaching out to the fire and metal in the khi currents to form blades that would cut through anything. Now he could run, if there was an opening.
Not that he believed there would be one.
He must have slept, at some point; sliding noiselessly into dark, fearful dreams shot through with shadows sliding across mirrors.
When he woke up, woozy-headed, he saw Morningstar.
The Fallen was standing in the center of the room, which was no longer an empty celclass="underline" there was a table with… something strapped on it, something that moved and wheezed and moaned, something he couldn’t afford to think of as human anymore. Morningstar’s face was cold, emotionless, as he reached for a knife. He’d come for Philippe — but no, Morningstar wasn’t looking in his direction. “Tell me again,” Morningstar said to the table. “All of it.”
Another vision from the past. Another memory. His head ached: he couldn’t be sure if it was the dreams or the awful presence that filled the room. He’d thought Asmodeus was bad, but he’d forgotten how… overwhelming Morningstar was, how the mere sight of him hefting a blade could trigger a mixture of fear and awe — how he could hunger for the magic to turn his way, to acknowledge him in any way, even if it was simply to flay him alive — he would revel in the exquisite sensation of pain, in the surge of power that promised he could be anything, do anything….
A noise at the door; and Asmodeus stood there, escorted by two guards in Silverspires’ colors.
He was younger, his swallow-tailed coat hanging awkwardly on his frame; though his eyes were still as cold and hard as pebbles, polished to a sheen by the rush of living in the mortal world. “Lord Uphir is waiting for you upstairs, my lord.”
Morningstar was bent over his work, and didn’t answer at first. He nodded to something Philippe couldn’t hear, and then looked up. “Apologies. Important House business. Asmodeus, is it?”
Asmodeus bowed. “Yes, my lord.” There was something, some of the same underlying energy he had now, the same harsh, unyielding core that suggested he wasn’t going to call anyone “my lord” for long.
“Give me a moment,” Morningstar said. And, then, turning to where Philippe crouched — the magic turning, focusing on him with the intensity of a naked fire — he said, “Do you see?”
Philippe didn’t answer, but Morningstar shook his head. “That Fallen on the table plotted to overthrow my rule. We can’t have that here. You must understand. We’re only strong when we’re united. Any strife among us is an opening for our enemies. I don’t like this”—a bare smile that seemed to illuminate the entire cell—“but it has to be done. Cancers must be excised from the flesh.” And, reaching out, he bent over the table once again. “As promised,” he said, and the blade flashed down, and there was an end to the piteous cries.
Morningstar dropped the knife on top of the table. He moved toward the door, flexing his back. The enormous serrated wings moved with him, catching the light; every part of him exuding a peculiar sharpness, like blades forged by a master. “Come,” he said.
“My lord—” Asmodeus was still looking in Philippe’s direction. “Lord Uphir—” He took in a deep breath. “He wants to see you alone.”
“He’s never objected to the presence of my students before.” Morningstar turned back for a second, puzzled. Philippe braced himself against the pain that spiked through his eyeballs, even as he welcomed it. “Oh. Your lord is a fool, kinsman — do you know that? Mortals are more than the equal of Fallen.”
Kinsman. It was a rather peculiar way to refer to another Fallen; as if they were all brothers under the skin — something not even humans had managed.
Asmodeus said nothing. Morningstar laughed; a sound so loud and primal it seemed to push back the walls. “I won’t force you to utter a word against him, don’t worry. Come,” he said again, and walked through the door — and, in the darkness that followed him, shadows gathered and flowed like liquid ink, a tantalizing, heart-stopping glimpse of wings extending to blot out the light….
The scene faded, leaving Philippe in the cell once more, breathing hard. The shadows were gone; and the world had gone dull without Morningstar’s presence — everything was a touch darker, every sound oddly muted, every smell less sharp than it had been — as though he moved like a ghost through offerings not meant for him, tasting only the grit of the earth and the bitterness of ashes. He wanted — craved another vision, even though his head ached as though it would split in two. Another parcel of wisdom, of something, of anything that would make sense of what he was going through.
But he’d heard Morningstar, quite clearly.
Mortals.
A mortal’s memories. But that was impossible. Leander had been Morningstar’s last mortal student, and he was dead. Magic could prolong a life, he supposed; could heal some diseases, repair some muscles and strengthen some bones, but not to the centuries-long life span of a Fallen. Humans lived at most a hundred years, a hundred and ten? Nothing more than that.
But the memories were in the mirror; and the shadows were linked to them — he had seen them drawn to Samariel’s bedroom, had seen Morningstar’s ghost leaning against the bedpost, keeping watch over the body — the shadows were what the mirror had summoned. And the memories, quite unmistakably, belonged to one of Morningstar’s mortal students.
The shadows were a mortal’s revenge.
Who, and why? And how? The dead didn’t cast spells. They didn’t summon killing shadows, or seek revenge on those who had wronged them; or the world would be full of angry ghosts.
It was impossible. And yet…
And yet it changed nothing. It was tentative, useless knowledge — if he told Selene he had a connection to the shadows, she would toss him to Asmodeus without a second thought. He needed a person he could trust to investigate further, and there was a short supply of those at the moment. He was at the bottom of a cell, praying that Selene would find a use for him; a reason to protect him from Asmodeus — throwing in his lot with the House he’d so desperately tried to get away from.