In Morningstar's Shadow: Dominion of the Fallen Stories
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About this ebook
In a Paris that never was, a city of magical factions where Fallen angels mingle with magicians, alchemists and witches...
House Silverspires, founded by Lucifer Morningstar, is the oldest and most powerful in Paris--but every star shines brightest before its fall... This series of three short stories charts the fortunes of the House throughout the century, from the Great War that tears the city apart, to the devastating loss of Morningstar and the difficult choices facing the House for its own survival.
Set in the universe of the critically-acclaimed The House of Shattered Wings.
Aliette de Bodard
Aliette de Bodard writes speculative fiction: she has won three Nebula Awards, an Ignyte Award, a Locus Award and six British Science Fiction Association Awards. She is the author of A Fire Born of Exile, a sapphic Count of Monte Cristo in space (Gollancz/JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc., 2023), and of Of Charms, Ghosts and Grievances (JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc, 2022 BSFA Award winner), a fantasy of manners and murders set in an alternate 19th Century Vietnamese court. She lives in Paris.
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In Morningstar's Shadow - Aliette de Bodard
In Morningstar’s Shadow
Dominion of the Fallen stories
Aliette de Bodard
Nine Dragons River
Published by Nine Dragons River 2015
Cover art © 2015 Tade Thompson
Cover layout Rhiannon Rasmussen-Silverstein
Copyright © 2015 by Aliette de Bodard
Distributed by Smashwords
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
1. The Face of Heaven
2. Paid Debts
3. What Has to Be Done
Afterword
Bonus: Chapter 1 of The House of Shattered Wings
More Info and Free Ebook Offer
About the Author
The Face of Heaven
House Silverspires, Ile de la Cité 1917, during the Great Houses War
If one was dedicated, and silent, and watchful, one could learn to see angels again.
Elisabeth had remained in her small attic for more than three years–sitting under the wooden rafters with the dust of things that were no longer used; stretching down to lie at night between two towering heaps of boxes, enclosed and reassured by their solidity. Footmen brought her meals and took them away; and sometimes dependents of the House came, to make small talk, though most got uncomfortable and left, running out of words as if some spring within them had been exhausted. They seldom came back a second time. Elizabeth didn't mind.
Out there was nothing. Out there was death and dust; the distant sound of battle, the turmoil of spells hurled between dwindling armies; the war that was tearing Paris apart, pulling down buildings, covering everything in ash and dust until the sun was a distant memory. Out there was–no, Elisabeth would not think of the bones and decaying flesh–not of sightless eyes in the gravel of the Jardins du Luxembourg–of lifeless flesh, cooling down past any ability to heal–
She would not. She rose and went to the telescope, pulling open the window. It was night, and the sound of the fighting was distant; receding from Ile de la Cité–towards Solférino or Samothrace, more minor Houses in the hierarchy of the city. Morningstar would have said she was safe; that she was in his House; in Silverspires, the oldest one, the most powerful; and that the war wouldn't touch her. Elisabeth–who had stood on the gravel with her hands bloodied and torn, and watched her old life vanish– knew it was a lie.
Above her, the sky was dark–no moon, no stars anymore, the pall of spell-residue drowning out everything. Once, there had been an astronomer–the previous owner of the telescope, the angel-watcher, old Arsène. He'd died in one of the earlier skirmishes, and never been replaced; for who would look to the skies to find newborn Fallen, at a time when nothing could be seen?
Elisabeth knew otherwise. Kneeling by the telescope, she unwrapped the small mother-of-pearl box she'd brought with her–feeling the heat of power trembling in the air: a Fallen's nail-clipping set in amber and sealed within the box, a source of magic for any witch strong enough to use it. Elisabeth wasn't a good witch; but one didn't need to be very good.
Power slid down into her stomach like burning honey–thick and turgid and scorching her insides like a thousand fires, leaving a trail of pain down her throat as if she'd swallowed the sun. She stood, for a moment–sated and brittle, and feeling as though the least of her gestures would irretrievably shatter the world–and then bent down again, to look through the eyepiece.
Everything shone, now–the sky a mass of moving lights that might have been moons, that might have been stars–and above the rooftops of the House was the shadow of buildings, blurred vertical shapes that