The door opened to reveal a great, domed dining room. A feast was spread out on a long, black table carved of onyx. Near the back of the room, Hypnos played at the piano, with Enrique, Zofia, and Eva beside him. As Ruslan made his way to greet them, Séverin eyed the room. Thinly hammered sheets of golden feathers served as the floor. Above, the Forged ceiling magnified the stars so that they seemed within plucking distance, and while the glass walls afforded a breathtaking view of Lake Baikal… they were ornamented with rotating lights that took on the shape of the Greek zodiac.
“It’s beautiful,” breathed Laila, tipping back her head. The light flared against the burnished line of her throat, and Séverin nearly caught himself staring.
“Yes, quite,” said Ruslan, bending over Laila’s extended hand. “And does the room please you too, Monsieur Montagnet-Alarie?”
“I find it morbid.”
“Morbid?” repeated the matriarch.
But Ruslan’s smile widened. “Tell me what you see.”
Séverin tapped his foot on the floor. “The feathers of Icarus. And above, the too-close heavens. And around us”—he pointed atthe zodiac—“inflexible fate. This room is a reminder of the great overestimation of men… a reminder of how far we might fall. I’m surprised the floor isn’t bloodred.”
Ruslan hummed in agreement, rubbing his bald head. “‘Blood flow’d, but immortal; ichor pure, such as the blest inhabitants of heav’n, may bleed, nectareous.’”
“Who’s reciting theIliad?” called out Enrique from the back.
“Me!” said Ruslan gleefully. “Sometimes I surprise myself by remembering things… one imagines that without a ceiling of hair, all thoughts merely abandon the skull.”
“What did you say?” asked Séverin.
“Skull?”
“No.”
“Hair…”
“No.”
There was something else. Something that had struck him in that moment.
Ruslan paused, and then said, “Ichor?”
“Yes, that’s it.Ichor pure.”
Ruslan stroked his head. “The Fallen House loved any mention of the gods. It was even rumored they had found a way togivethemselves ichor, of a kind. A way to manipulate their very human matter. A rumor, however.”
“It’s no rumor,” said Laila. “We’ve seen it.”
“Ah, yes… in the catacombs, correct?” asked Ruslan, looking from the matriarch to Séverin. “So it’s true? You saw their ichor?”
As if he could forget. Sometimes he found himself touching his mouth, dreaming of sticky gold. Whatever alchemy rendered men to gods, he craved it.
“What let them do that?” asked Séverin.
“Let?” repeated Ruslan, his mouth twisting on the word. “They had objects the likes of which you and I cannot fathom.”
Ruslan moved toward the dining table, pulling out a chair for Laila and Delphine as he spoke.
“House Dazbog specializes in the collection of Forging lore, and I believe the Fallen House had come across an ancient weapon… it had many names. In the Indian continent, it was known in the Tamilian language as anaruval, the medieval court of Baghdad called it a lost angel’szulfiqar, but when the Fallen House came upon it, they called it the Midas Knife, not only after the cursed king from Greek myth, but also for its alchemical properties: blood to gold, man to god.”
“It sounds like magic,” said the matriarch dismissively.
“Perhaps Monsieur Montagnet-Alarie can tell us better,” said Ruslan. “Was it magic? What you saw?”
For a moment, Séverin was back in the catacombs. Once more, he kneeled on a stage, felt the sharp rip of wings searing through his shoulder blades, the pressure of horns at his head, and always the strange cadence in his blood that sang with divine invincibility.
“What is magic but a science we cannot fathom,” said Séverin.
