The House of Sundering Flames by Aliette de Bodard

Author:Aliette de Bodard [de Bodard, Aliette]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Orion
Published: 2019-07-24T22:00:00+00:00

13

Everything Afire

Philippe went around the boundaries of the community with Isabelle and Hoa Phong, drawing fragmentary wards in the khi elements. Weaves of protection against burning in khi water; to live to a long age in khi wood; for faithfulness and loyalty in khi earth—the element that centered all the others, the center of the universe around which everything revolved.

Buildings, in many ways, were simpler. They would burn easier with fire, but khi fire wasn’t physical fire: it followed the fracture lines of the universe, the easy, downhill path. That meant streets. That meant the breath of hundreds of people drawing grooves in the fabric of the world. Buildings—concentrated, unmoving blocks where mortals stayed put, where they made their homes—were masses of khi earth already. For these, he drew a weave on the doors, and watched the khi currents slowly and steadily realign around them. He’d offered to do it for Grandmother Olympe and the aunts’ flat. The look he’d had would have blistered stone.

“You don’t have time. Don’t waste it on us, child.”

He knew enough not to argue with her dismissive choice of pronoun: he’d retreated, and sworn never to mention it again.

Halfway through his circuit of the community, he saw the first anomalies.

They were tentative threads of khi fire, running under the cobblestones, barely visible in the dim light. He knelt, frowning.

Hoa Phong crouched by his side, thoughtfully staring at the stones.

“That’s interesting,” she said. “I wonder …”

But Isabelle had already touched one of the threads.

“No!” Philippe said, and braced himself for her to fall; but instead everything lit up like a Christmas garland.

It was a network like fungus, or the roots of some patient tree: the entire street was covered in it, as was every other street as far as he could see. The threads ran back towards a single source; he could guess where.

“Harrier,” he said. “This goes back all the way to where Dân Chay was imprisoned.”

Hoa Phong’s face was hard. “Fire.”

Once, man tricked the tiger into waiting, and burned him with fire.

Dân Chay wielded khi fire, against which the Houses had no protection: no wonder Harrier had burned like dry kindling. And no wonder they had been Dân Chay’s first target, the first people he’d want revenge on for holding and torturing him. But he had finished with that House, and now he was reaching out across Paris.

How dare he? Philippe only kept his hands from clenching with difficulty. How dare he take things meant to protect and heal, and turn them to destruction?

“Not here,” he snapped. “Not so easily.”

He wove threads of khi water like blades, laying them across the street—and watched with some satisfaction as the fire, bumping into them, shriveled and died.

“That won’t hold him,” Isabelle said slowly. “Will it?”

Not for long, no.

“Let’s fight the easy battles first,” Philippe said. There would be more streets, more threads to ward against. “Can you help?” he asked Hoa Phong.

She shrugged. “If you don’t mind khi wood.”

Of course. Wind and the first flowers—what else would have been her khi element of predilection?

“Good enough.

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