“Indeed?”
“I tasted a Fallen’s blood.” He gambled that Selene’s aversion to hurting Fallen would be a known thing; and that it was close enough to the truth to satisfy Samariel.
At length, Samariel nodded. “I see.” He withdrew his hand; but remained standing close, uncomfortably so. “You should have known better, but never mind.”
Philippe bristled, controlled the angry retort that came to him with an effort. “You said you could take it away, for a price. What’s the price?”
“Tsk. Manners.” Samariel shook his head. “A few years in Silverspires would have corrected that, at least.” He smiled, waiting for Philippe to rise to the bait. Philippe said nothing, and thought back to the almost alien serenity that had once been his, as an Immortal — to the misty landscape of mountains stretching into infinity until the entire world seemed to blur away and dissolve; the boats scattered on the expanse of the river at dawn, and the hypnotic songs of the fishermen as they cast their nets into the liquid mirror of Heaven.
“Your price,” Philippe said, again, shaping his lips into the smile that Ninon called “inscrutable.”
Samariel’s eyes drifted toward the clouds in the skies. “My price. Tempting as it is to charge nothing — I imagine it would be quite a setback for Selene to lose you — I still should not undervalue my time. We both agree on this, don’t we?” He didn’t wait for Philippe’s answer, but went on. “You know that House Hawthorn and House Silverspires are… at odds.”
“To say the least.” Philippe didn’t care much, one way or another. Let them destroy each other, and they’d have got nothing but their just deserts.
“At the moment, Silverspires is… strong.” Samariel made a grimace. “Morningstar’s legacy is not to be trifled with.”
“So?” Philippe shook his head. “I have no hold over it.”
“That would be where you are wrong, my little friend,” Samariel said. “The greatest cracks in a building come from within — that’s what I want from you. A way for Hawthorn to gain the ascendant.”
“I don’t play House politics,” Philippe said. “And how would I know what you’re looking for?”
“A weakness.” The sky had gone dark, and the few birds had fled. In the dim light, Samariel’s teeth shone as white as bleached bones. “A hold on Silverspires. Bring me that, and Asmodeus will do the rest.”
Weaknesses. Aragon had feared the price Samariel would ask for. He had known, or had suspected. “You want to destroy the House.”
“Don’t be a fool.” Samariel shook his head. “It’s not the war anymore; just a game that we play among ourselves. Yes, we’ll bloody Selene’s nose, and humiliate her. Neither I nor Asmodeus have the least interest in destroying anything or anyone.”
A game. In a way, it would have felt cleaner, if Samariel had outright asked for destruction; but then, what had Philippe expected, from a House-bound? They were all the same; replete with the casual arrogance that had brought over Annamites and other colonials to fight their senseless war; the ones who had risen to power on rivers of blood; on deaths and suffering and the wreck of lives such as his.
He should have walked away. He’d meddled enough with Fallen, and it had cost him enough — he should have shaken his head and gone back to Silverspires, to his unbreakable captivity, to a future that he could no longer envision.
But there was a darkness, at the heart of the House, a curse within him, and that was Morningstar’s legacy, not the House Selene was so proud of that she’d sacrifice anything, imprison anyone for it. It was nebulous and unclear; and not something he could give Samariel, not yet; but it was a start, all the same.
“A weakness. And when I bring you this, you’ll lift Selene’s spell?”
Samariel pursed his lips. “You don’t trust me? Perhaps you’re right. You should trust no one. But I’ll swear it on the City, if that makes you feel better. Bring me a weakness of House Silverspires, and a way to exploit it; and I’ll lift the spell that keeps you here.”
On the City. “That’s binding,” Philippe said.
“Close enough. Will you do it, then?”
It was no light request; it was a risky one — it could be more damaging, more far-reaching than he thought, burning like embers kindled back to life. But… but, if he did this, he would be free. He would walk away from the House, from Selene and all her power games, and the uncertain future when she owned him and his powers; when he was, once more, pressed into servitude as a weapon.
Free.
He could — no, demons take Isabelle — for a moment he’d had this mad dream she’d given him, that he could, somehow, go back to Annam, make a life for himself again, away from the pomp and decorum of the Jade Emperor’s court — again, that warm feeling in his belly, the beginnings of a hope he’d started to cling to but shouldn’t afford; of a dream he should lose faith in.
Samariel lifted his head again, to stare at the sky — his nostrils flared, though not a muscle of his face moved. Something. He’d smelled something?
Philippe looked up. The air was tight, as heavy as before a storm; the few birds overhead moved sluggishly, dwarfed by the dark clouds that covered the horizon.
Something was wrong. “Yes,” he said. “I’ll do it.”
“That’s a bargain, then,” Samariel said. “Until we meet again.” He bowed, as dapper and as lithe as ever, and withdrew, but not before Philippe had caught a glimpse of his hands — and the slight tightening of his fingers that marked wariness, or anger, or both.
He was alone in the courtyard, staring at the storm clouds gathering in the sky; and there was a pounding against his head, a slow dimming of the light as if something large and winged had flown across the sun; but the sun was already hidden, so it couldn’t be that.
With difficulty, he tore himself from the contemplation of the sky — and saw Isabelle, who stood at the entrance of the courtyard, a half smile on her lips.
“You—” How much had she seen? “Why are you here?”
“Because I felt what you were doing. Through the link.”
She smiled, her face smooth and innocent, and as deceptive as Samariel’s. “You could have trusted me. We had a bargain.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” The pounding was getting worse; that feeling of standing at the edge of an abyss.
“Liar,” Isabelle said. “I saw him leave. I caught some of what you were thinking.”
The link again — why was it much stronger in her — why could she read his mind sometimes, while he could only feel her in moments of calm and silence; or when they were physically close to each other?
“It’s no business of yours,” Philippe forced through clenched lips. “And nothing that need concern you.” She was part of the House; but how loyal was she? How much would she report to Selene?
She was there at the back of his mind; angry, scared for the House — and scared for him.
He’d have been afraid, too; if he didn’t feel so sick.
“Philippe? Is something wrong?”
But he wasn’t with her anymore; he stood in the courtyard, and the buildings around him had the warm golden color of limestone. The courtyard was packed with people: with the old-fashioned clothing he’d seen pictures of in Indochinese schools — the top hats, the swallowtails, the voluminous dresses and corsets.
He knew, even without turning around, that Morningstar would be by his side. The other’s presence had an intensity that seemed to distort the very air around him. He wore a top hat, too; and the wings were folded; though he still had the sword, which he leant on as if it were a gentleman’s cane.
“Beautiful, isn’t it? We stand at the pinnacle.” He smiled; and Philippe’s entire being was suffused with warmth. “This,” Morningstar said, pointing to the crowds and the buildings and the blue sky above, “this will last forever.”