In the Shadow of Lightning

7

Demir was surprised that Idrian came along so readily, especially looking as worn-out as he did, but he wasn’t going to look that gift horse in the mouth. The big breacher returned in his armor ten minutes later, sword and shield slung over his shoulders, a massive cloak draped over his armor to keep the moonlight from glinting off the steel.

No one questioned him as he moved past his sleeping companions, and he simply nodded to Demir to lead the way.

Demir remained for a few moments, watching Mika and Valient sitting quietly by the fire. He desperately wanted to say hello. Back during the Holikan campaign he’d spent only a few days with the Ironhorns but they’d all treated him more like family than a commanding officer. He’d loved it then, and he craved it now. At a grunt from Idrian he shook off the thought. The Ironhorns were not his family – none of them but Tadeas, anyway – and he had his own responsibilities now.

It was the same with Idrian. The big breacher had aged in the last nine years; a little gray at the temples of his short black hair, a little more weathered and scarred; but he was the same man whose company Demir had enjoyed on the Holikan campaign. It was so damn good to see him that it hurt, and Demir wanted nothing more than to give him a hug. That would be wildly inappropriate, of course, and he doubted that Idrian felt the same. Once they were out in the darkness, Demir matched his stride with Idrian’s, glancing sidelong at the breacher. “I did the best I could to find us a safe route, but you know better than I do that things change quickly in a war zone. Stay close, keep your eyes open.”

“Horns ready, hooves steady,” Idrian replied, lowering an eye patch down to conceal his purple godglass eye.

Demir felt a flicker of a smile cross his face. His uncle had been saying that since he was just a kid. Anyone who’d ever served in the Foreign Legion, officer or soldier, knew that motto and who it belonged to. Demir nodded his thanks, and the two set off into the night.

Demir navigated the city partly from memory – he’d spent plenty of time in Grent in his youth – and partly from a memorized map provided by one of his mother’s spies inside the Ministry of the Legion. They crossed a dozen bridges, went through six checkpoints manned by Ossan soldiers where Idrian was waved through by recognition alone. They finally crossed into the northwestern districts of Grent, where the combat lines were hazy and whole communities seemed untouched by the war going on less than a mile away. They were behind enemy lines for sure, but Grent military presence was light, focused as it was on Ossa’s primary attack.

Demir removed a glass egg from his pocket, holding it up in front of him and grasping it with his sorcery. He cracked it into half a dozen bullet-sized shards, letting them float just over his shoulder. If this action unnerved Idrian, the breacher didn’t show it. Why would he? Demir had some idea how many glassdancers Idrian had fought and killed over the years, and it was not a single-digit number.

The night was relatively silent, broken only by the artillery duels going on to their south. The normal evening traffic was practically nonexistent, and the few Grent civilians they passed stared at Idrian’s sword warily before hurrying on, no doubt mistaking Idrian for one of their own breachers.

“We’re getting close,” Idrian told him, gesturing toward a wooded hill looming less than half a mile from them. Smoke rose in the moonlit night, and the hillside flickered with building fires. It did not bode well for their journey. Demir swallowed bile, wishing he’d arrived in Ossa just two days earlier. He could have gone in and gotten back out, questioning Kastora without having to travel into a war zone.

It was, Demir realized, the first time Idrian had spoken in over an hour. The silence was comfortable, between two men with a job to do, but it still made the small of Demir’s back clammy. What was going on in Idrian’s head? No doubt he’d come along because of his own ties to Kastora, rather than as a favor to Demir. But what was he thinking about? Nine years since they last saw each other, and it was at the lowest point in Demir’s life.

Idrian was not the kind of man Demir could catch up with, not like Kizzie. It made him very difficult to read. Were his commanding officers just as infuriated by his quiet dependability? Or did they take it for granted? If there was one thing a guild-family member hated, it was not knowing how to get inside the heads of their underlings.

Demir discarded his musings as they began to ascend the hill to the wrecked glassworks. The area was deathly silent and appeared to be abandoned. He stretched out his senses, looking for glassdancers. No one. He turned to meet Idrian’s eye and gave a shake of his head as they hurried up to take position just outside the wall of the compound. “No glassdancers,” he told Idrian. “In fact I don’t hear anyone.” He tried to keep the frustration out of his voice. If Kastora was dead, or had withdrawn farther into the city, he was equally out of Demir’s grasp, and his mother’s mystery would remain unsolved.

“Two soldiers in that doorway there,” Idrian said, nodding around a corner, “a young man and a middle-aged woman. They’re both half asleep.” He put up his sword, sliding it into the strap across his back and hanging his shield from the hook on his left pauldron. “Looks like you didn’t need me after all.”

Demir glanced around the compound, his stomach falling. Not just for Kastora, but for the place itself. The main office had gone up in flames, possibly taking decades of silic knowledge with it. Furnaces had been destroyed by the flames, and one of the two dormitories. The destruction made him sick. He rounded the corner, keeping his senses taut, and approached the pair of Grent soldiers in their orange-and-white uniforms sleeping in the doorway to the only remaining furnace room.

Neither noticed him until he was practically on top of them. The young man started awake, leaping to his feet and leveling his musket at Demir while hissing at his companion. “Show us your hands, stranger! Looters will be shot on sight!”

Demir carefully removed his left glove and showed his glassdancer sigil. “I’d suggest lowering your weapons.” He subtly altered his accent, giving himself the slightest Grent drawl.

Both soldiers were up and alert now, and they paled visibly in the firelight before lowering their weapons. The woman, nervous and haggard, swallowed hard. “Apologies, sir. We didn’t know…”

Demir waved it off. “I’m looking for Kastora. I haven’t been able to find him, nor get news of his health.”

The soldiers glanced at each other, seemingly about to answer, when the woman gasped. “Holy shit. It’s the Ram.”

Idrian moved up to stand beside Demir. Demir shot him a glance, wondering if it would be easier or harder with him out in the open. “At ease, soldiers,” Idrian said.

“You’re … you’re not supposed to be here,” the young man said. If they’d balked at seeing a glassdancer, they were practically shitting themselves now. “You’re an Ossan.”

“Ossan or not,” Idrian replied, “Kastora is my friend.” He peered at the woman. “Tinny, right? And … Geb? You’re part of the glassworks garrison. We met last time I visited to have my eye worked on.”

“The Ram remembered my name,” Tinny whispered loudly to Geb, her mouth hanging open.

Demir put his hand over his mouth to hide a smile. No pretending to be a Grent glassdancer then. But this might be easier. “Kastora?” he prompted gently.

The pair seemed to deflate. Geb said, “I’m sorry, Ram. He’s hurt. Hurt real bad. The garrison was ordered out and even with all the best godglass at hand we couldn’t stabilize him enough to move him. He’s not going to last the night. Tinny and I volunteered to stay with him until the end. It’s the least we could do after he’s been so good to us over the years.”

Demir’s gaze fell on the open door behind them. By the flickering light of the burning buildings he could just make out a makeshift cot, piles of bloody bandages and blankets, and a person lying in that heap. He shoved his way between the soldiers and approached quickly, falling on his knees. He’d met Kastora, long ago, but had no memory of the kindly, pained face that stared back up at him through half-closed eyes. Demir examined the face for a few moments, then glanced down at the bloody coverings. He was no surgeon, but an aggressive bayoneting was the only thing he could think of that would put a man in such a state.

“Kastora?” he asked.

The old man opened his lips to reveal that he was clutching several pieces of milkglass and cureglass between his teeth. He used his tongue to move them off to one side. “Who are you?” he muttered.

“I’m Demir Grappo. Adriana’s son.”

“She sent help, did she?” His words were slow, but surprisingly coherent for someone at death’s door. He’d probably made that milkglass himself. “Could have come sooner, Lightning Prince.”

Demir flinched at the nickname, surprised someone like Kastora even knew about it. He turned and gestured for Idrian to join him. The breacher said something quietly to the two soldiers, then joined Demir at Kastora’s bedside.

“Idrian? Piss, I could have used the two of you this morning.”

“I’m sorry, Master,” Idrian said softly. “I would have come if I’d known.”

“Of course, of course.” Kastora’s eyes returned to Demir. “What’s your excuse?”

“My excuse?” Demir felt his eyes narrow, and tried to remind himself that he was talking to a dying man. “My excuse is that I only just returned from the provinces yesterday. My mother has been murdered, her death used as pretext for this war, and all I have from her is a note telling me to talk to you immediately.”

Kastora stared back at him in silence for some time. “That’s a good excuse,” he finally admitted. “What happened to Adriana?”

Demir could see the death in the old man’s eyes. It would be here soon, no helping it, but he bit back his questions and recounted the details of his mother’s death – and the subsequent outbreak of war – as best he could in a brief few moments. He had barely finished when he realized Kastora was muttering to himself. He leaned forward to listen.

“They couldn’t have known what we were up to, could they? No. It’s impossible. No one knew. It must have been unrelated. But the confession, the war. It is too convenient. It is…” He stopped, his eyes once again focusing on Demir. “The prototype. It was…” He tried to gesture. “… destroyed in the fire.”

“What prototype?” Demir asked, feeling his breath catch in his throat. Here it was – the reason his mother had partnered with Kastora. Some kind of silic advance? A new godglass? He grasped Kastora by the shoulder, hoping the physical touch would help the old man focus.

“Adriana didn’t tell you?”

Demir felt a pang of conscience. If he’d been here, he would already know what was going on. If he’d been here, his mother might still be alive. “She didn’t get the chance.”

“Of course. The prodigal son. Do you know anything?” The final word dripped with despair and derision.

“You’ll have to be more specific,” Demir replied, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

Kastora let out another shuddering sigh. “There is so much to explain and not enough time. Where to begin?” He raised his voice. “Tinny, Geb. Leave us in private, please.”

The two soldiers, still standing in the doorway, withdrew without protest, leaving Demir and Idrian alone with Kastora. Despite how well-acquainted he must be with dying men, Demir was surprised to see Idrian looking very uncomfortable. Idrian said, “I should go too. Whatever you two have to discuss is silic business. I’m just a soldier.”

“No!” Kastora objected. “This is my deathbed confession. I will not give it before just one man that I do not know. You will stay, Idrian, if only to repay the kindness I’ve shown to you.”

Idrian’s apparent discomfort grew, but he remained, pressing gently on his godglass eye with two fingers. Demir reached out to take Kastora by the hand. Blood smeared between their fingers. “Tell us what you need to say.” Kastora stared at the ceiling in silence for some time, and Demir worried that he was slipping away. He gave him a shake, his patience waning. “Come on, man! You have to tell me!”

“There is too much,” Kastora said again in barely a whisper. Stronger, he continued, “The cindersand is running out.”

Demir scoffed. He couldn’t help it. It was a simple statement, at once true – cindersand was a finite resource, after all – and ridiculous. “That can’t be possible. There are thousands of mines and quarries all over the world. They produce so much…” He trailed off at the serious stare from the old master. “Explain.”

“Those mines,” Kastora said, “are empty, or close to it. Governments all over the world are already tapping into their stockpiles. Production is down, prices are up. At the current rate, it will take less than six months before the general public will find it impossible to buy godglass. In a few years, only guild-families and kings will be able to acquire it.”

Demir glanced at Idrian. The breacher’s facade was close to unreadable, but there was a glint in his one eye. Fear, perhaps. Demir didn’t blame him. Without cindersand you couldn’t make godglass. Everything depended on godglass. What Kastora was intimating wasn’t just the loss of a lesser material, but of sorcery itself. Civilization would collapse just as surely as it would with the disappearance of gunpowder or printing presses or waterwheels.

It couldn’t be true. Demir’s mind warred against the idea, and yet here was one of the greatest silic masters stating it as his deathbed confession. Demir thought back to his last day in the provinces, unable to buy a piece of cheap skyglass. Before that, he’d struggled to find witglass, and before that, forgeglass had been more expensive than he expected. At the time he’d just ascribed it to the breakdown of supply in the poorer regions of the Empire, but now he wasn’t so sure.

“What do I do with this information?” Demir asked, not bothering to hide the edge of desperation in his voice. He felt as if a massive burden had been placed upon his shoulders. “What did my mother have to do with it? What is the prototype?”

Kastora took a deep breath, as if summoning some reserve of inner strength just to get the words out. He seized Demir by the arm. The master’s hand was surprisingly strong. “Do you know what a phoenix channel is?”

It sounded familiar, like something Demir’s studies had brushed upon long ago. He glanced at Idrian, who just shook his head.

“It is the great goal of the silic sciences,” Kastora explained, “a mechanism by which energy is turned into sorcery, effectively allowing us to recharge spent pieces of godglass.”

Demir scowled. Memories of long-forgotten studies leapt forward. What had his tutor called the phoenix channel? Simple. Elegant. Unobtainable. “A phoenix channel would allow us to avert the disaster of sorcery running out,” Demir replied slowly. He could feel his eyes widen at the implication. “You made one, didn’t you?”

“I did! Your mother and I designed it together. It was her idea to use cinderite, rather than just regular godglass. It was destroyed in the fire. You can find what remains…” Kastora shuddered again, closing his eyes briefly. “… in the corner over there. It can be rebuilt, but you will need the schematics and someone talented enough to follow them. I sent both away.”

Demir searched his pockets for a small notebook and a pencil. He wrote down the word “cinderite”. It was a rare material, formed naturally when lightning struck deposits of cindersand. “Where did you send them?”

“To your hotel. Her name is Thessa Foleer.” Kastora took a deep breath. “She is a twenty-two-year-old journeyman, and my protégé. She is the only one I’d trust to finish my work. I have not seen more raw silic talent in my lifetime. If she does not make it to the hotel, you must find her.”

Demir stared over Kastora’s head, mind churning, trying to form some kind of a plan. Thessa could be anywhere – captured, dead, on the run. She might be at the hotel by the time he returned, or she might have already boarded a ship for Purnia to escape the fighting. “What does she look like?” Kastora stared back at him with the eyes of a dying man who’d just been asked for a laundry list, but Demir did not retract the question. “I need to know,” he pressed.

Finally Kastora said, “A little taller than you. Dirty-blond hair. Soft features. Light skin.” He seemed to push the words out with great effort, and Demir wondered if he had more than moments left. Kastora continued, “She has the scars of a siliceer but … she is also an experienced falconer. You’ll see those scars as well.”

Demir scribbled more notes – Thessa’s name, her description. He let Kastora talk, giving him additional details about both the siliceer and the phoenix channel. He could sense the life slipping out of Kastora, each word growing more pained, each breath more labored. When he finished, his whole body seemed to sag in exhaustion.

“The soldiers who attacked you this morning,” Demir asked, “did they know about the phoenix channel?”

“I’m not sure,” Kastora gasped painfully. “They didn’t seem to be looking for anything in particular. They just wanted to capture the glassworks. Good strategic sense at the start of a war.” He chuckled, though Demir wasn’t sure what was funny about it. Perhaps the giddiness of so much pain-killing milkglass. Kastora’s head lolled to one side, his skin pale, the light in his eyes growing dim. Demir squeezed his hand, silently wishing the old man more life so that he could get more information.

Kastora gave another shuddering sigh, and this one felt more final than the others. His face relaxed, his body sagging against his makeshift bed. His grip on Demir’s hand loosened. “I can’t fight it anymore, Demir.”

“Is there anything else?” Demir begged, shaking Kastora’s shoulder once more.

“It’s time to let him go,” Idrian said.

Demir swore under his breath. So many questions. No time. This wasn’t Kastora’s responsibility anymore. It was now Demir’s. “It’s all right,” Demir relented, “I’ll make sure your work is finished.”

“You must find Thessa,” Kastora ordered. “Enough of this. Let me die.” He spat the cureglass out of the corner of his mouth, and though he still held the milkglass between his teeth, he began to convulse. It took him several minutes to die, and he did not go quietly.

Demir clutched the master’s hand until long after he was dead, thinking. There was so much to consider, more than he could fathom in a single day. Finding out that the cindersand was running out was enough to stagger anyone. The possibility of a phoenix channel – of recycling pieces of godglass – was a light at the end of a very dark tunnel. He was brought out of his reverie by the appearance of Idrian, who he did not even realize had left. The breacher carried a piece of canvas, which he laid gently over Kastora’s body. Demir got to his feet and took a step back to stand next to Idrian, wondering what was going through the breacher’s mind.

“You understand what you just heard must remain a secret?” Demir asked.

Idrian nodded solemnly.

If it were anyone else, Demir would have already killed them with a shard of glass through the back of their neck. There was enough lying around to make it easy and this was too big to be trusted to flapping mouths. But he knew Idrian’s character. He trusted him, just as Kastora had trusted him. Demir forced himself to walk away from the body and found, resting in the opposite corner of the furnace room, the remains of what had once been Kastora’s prototype. It was an odd contraption, mostly destroyed by the flames, but what remained was a box containing a broken tube, several large pieces of godglass, and half-melted sheets of tin.

Kastora had said that the design was Demir’s mother’s idea; another gift she’d left behind, but one that had been destroyed by idiot soldiers trying to capture the glassworks. Demir ran a hand through his hair. “I have no idea how I’m going to do this. I don’t have the knowledge to make a new one of these. I don’t even have the connections with people who could try.”

Idrian snorted. “Find Thessa. I know her, and she’s just as skilled as Kastora claimed.”

“And if I can’t find her?”

“You’re the Lightning Prince. You’ll think of something.”

“The Lightning Prince has been dead for nine years,” Demir snapped. “He lived a short and horrible life.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to get his temper under control. This was too much for one man and he could feel the very concept of it threatening to break him. He pushed back. He could not afford to break again. There was too much at stake. In mere minutes everything in his life had become an afterthought. Hiring Kizzie to pursue those killers on his behalf suddenly seemed like the smartest thing he’d done in years. “I apologize.”

He turned to find Idrian staring at him. The normally stoic breacher had a desperate, almost crazed look in his eye. For half a moment, Demir thought that he was going to be attacked.

Idrian said, “This phoenix channel: It can recharge spent godglass?”

“That’s what Kastora said.”

“So if you rebuild that, you could recharge the godglass in my eye?”

Demir was taken aback. “I suppose I could.”

Idrian nodded to himself as if making a decision. “If you need anything – anything at all – I will exchange my services for use of the phoenix channel.”

“Oh.” Demir raised both eyebrows. Clearly that eye was even more important than he’d suspected. One would be a fool to take such a promise from a breacher lightly, and from the Ram in particular. Demir had just been offered a very valuable piece of credit. He sucked on his teeth, thinking of a way he could use it, but stopped himself. “I won’t make any promises,” he said. “I don’t even know if I can rebuild the damned thing.”

“I suggest that you make every effort possible to do so,” Idrian said quietly. “And I’m not just saying that on my own behalf. I’m only a soldier, but I know what will happen if the cindersand runs out. This phoenix channel could save the Empire; the world.”

Demir looked back to the other side of the furnace room, where Kastora’s body was still warm. The pressure of this sudden new burden weighed on his shoulders like an anvil. Despite this, his thoughts were starting to focus better, his ideas feeling more concrete than they had in years. Purpose – not just pursuit of wealth or fame or sex or revenge but real purpose – had been thrust upon him. It did not resurrect that old part of him entirely, but it did wake it up.

“Anything at all?” he asked.

“Anything within my power,” Idrian responded. “This is more important to me than you realize.”

“For now, help me get the prototype back to the Ironhorns’ camp. I’ll have Tadeas deliver it from there.” Demir stepped outside, glancing sidelong at the two Grent soldiers sharing a cigarette some ways down the road. He felt a pang of guilt that he hadn’t thought to summon them over for Kastora’s final moments. They had earned it, after all. He walked over to join them, offering them each a piece of fine-quality godglass. “Kastora has passed,” he told them. “Thank you for what you did for him.”

Tinny cleared her throat. “I don’t know who you are – I don’t even really know why this war broke out – but I’m glad you and Idrian were here for his final moments. We’ll be going, if that’s all right.” She said the last words with trepidation, as if still waiting to be murdered at any moment.

Demir gestured for them to withdraw and turned back to the glassworks. He frowned at something that caught his eye. There, sitting up in the branches of a large tree that stretched over the compound walls, was a falcon. He couldn’t name the species in the darkness, but it was a big, beautiful bird. It was wearing anklets and jesses, the little leather straps dangling from its legs. A trained bird for certain. Was it Thessa’s?

“Idrian,” Demir called, “lend me your gauntlet.”