Free The House of Shattered Wings by Aliette de Bodard Page A

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 . . .
    â€œDoes the House have enemies?” he asked; and was startled to see Emmanuelle’s pleasant expression darken.
    â€œAnything 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.”
    â€œI see,” Philippe said.
    â€œYou’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.”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œHawthorn?” The word meant nothing to him, but the way Emmanuelle said it . . .
    â€œIn 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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œAnd now,” Aragon said, “let us see some magic.”
    â€œNo,” 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.
    â€œYou 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