In the Shadow of Lightning

45

Demir’s cell deep in the Maerhorn was a small stone room with the luxuries of a fireplace and writing desk. It was lit by gaslight and smelled like the chamber pot in the far corner, its only ventilation coming from a series of tiny holes drilled through the thick stone at the top of one wall. Demir sat on the threadbare bed, his knees pulled up to his chest, still wearing the uniform that he’d rushed back to Ossa in the day before.

He had slept. Pure exhaustion necessitated it. It had been an angry, delirious sleep, and he felt no better for it.

Every attempt to maintain his confidence had failed him. He’d made a mistake, a serious misstep, and now that he’d stumbled, the consequences for his actions and his arrogance would catch up with him. It was a deeply unpleasant thought that rolled around his head like a cannonball on a ship’s deck. How to stop it? Was there any way? Or had he pushed himself too hard and managed to break himself all over again?

He didn’t think he was broken. He knew what that felt like, and the only thing that had ever come anywhere close was fearglass. A misstep. That was all it was. He could get out of this, perhaps even profit from it. But how? He was in a dungeon beneath the Maerhorn. He’d attacked the son of one of the most powerful men in Ossa. He’d done other things too, but had expected to have the time and glory to sweep them under the rug.

He sighed and let his head loll back against the cold stone wall, only to snap forward again at the distant sound of an opening door. He could hear voices, though not make out the words. Another door, closer, opened and then closed again, and Demir peered through the flickering gaslight toward his own door. It was heavy oak, with a small barred window. The tramp of footsteps echoed just outside of it and he saw the flash of passing figures. A couple of Cinders, and Capric’s long black hair and sharp profile.

Capric looked toward him for a split second as he walked past, their eyes meeting briefly.

Demir listened to the footsteps retreat. He should have done this whole thing differently. He’d let his broken self, rife with emotional cracks, take over when he should have walked it out with skyglass and witglass, allowing himself to process Capric’s betrayal fully before responding to it. Just a few minutes to calm down was all he would have needed, and he would have seen how much better it would be to destroy Capric slowly, bleeding him out from every direction over the course of years. Capric wouldn’t have even known they were enemies.

Demir’s self-recriminations were brought to a halt by the sound of more footsteps, and the unmistakable rolling of wooden wheels across cut stone. They stopped outside his cell. The door was unlocked, and a lone Cinder pushed Father Vorcien’s wheeled chair into the small room and up beside Demir’s bed. Demir glanced at Father Vorcien’s unreadable face, covered in glassrot scales, eyes traveling up and down Demir as if to strip him naked and read all his secrets.

The door remained open and the Cinder stood just behind Father Vorcien. It was an older woman – a glassdancer, though Demir could sense no glass close enough to affect it – and she kept her hand on the hilt of her forgeglass-studded smallsword.

“I wasn’t expecting company,” Demir said, licking his palms and drawing them over his head to slick back his hair. “Otherwise I would have cleaned up the place. Please, have a seat.”

To his surprise, the corner of Father Vorcien’s mouth turned up slightly. He harrumphed, shifting slightly in his wheeled chair, and said, “Whatever else happens, Demir, you should know that I’ve always liked you.”

It was an odd sort of flattery to give someone whose life you held in your hands, and Demir tilted his head to one side and tried to read Father Vorcien. He could get nothing from him. Old and crippled, and yet Father Vee was still the imperturbable statesman. “Then why did you tell Capric to order the sack of Holikan and frame me for it?”

“Right to the point, then?” Father Vorcien asked. “I wish everyone else in this glassdamned city were so forward. But you … you don’t fear me, not like everyone else. I think that’s one of the reasons I like you.” He let out a small sigh. “I didn’t order Capric to do what he did.”

“I don’t believe you,” Demir shot back immediately. He might not be a fifth as experienced as Father Vorcien, but he was not a fool, either. The old patriarch would say or do anything to maintain whatever he had decided was the truth.

“Believe me or not, I don’t particularly care. This is my small kindness to you, and you may do with it what you like. I did not give that order. I did tell Capric to take you down a rung – to make sure that some humiliation befell you on that campaign. You were cocky and arrogant enough for a dozen guild-family heirs, and you needed to be reined in. Capric overstepped that order by a significant margin.”

Demir stared back at Father Vorcien. The coldness he’d felt at seeing the old man was beginning to heat up. He could feel the rage twitching back to life in his belly, and sought to still it. Rage had gotten him into this situation. It would not get him out. “So you’re telling me,” Demir said flatly, “Capric acted all on his own when he ordered the slaughter of thousands of men, women, and children?”

“Correct.”

Demir almost said I don’t believe you again. But what would be the point? “And how is knowing this a kindness?”

“Because it will, hopefully, prevent you from declaring a guild-family war against the Vorcien.”

“And this is for my benefit?” Demir asked doubtfully.

“You won’t win,” Father Vorcien replied simply. “But I don’t believe you have changed so much that you would not do some painful damage to my family before we crushed you.” Father Vorcien’s eyes wandered for the first time, glancing up at the ceiling. “Between you and Montego. Hah! Adriana knew exactly what she was building when raising the pair of you. A lethal combination. You know that he’s waiting outside the Maerhorn at this very instant? The Cinders would never admit it” – Father Vorcien glanced over his shoulder at his bodyguard – “but they’re pissing terrified of him. Cinders! Terrified of one retired cudgelist! They have four marksmen and two glassdancers watching his carriage.”

Demir felt his eyes narrow. Father Vorcien, he realized, had taken him off guard. He glanced down, drawing patterns on his uniform leg with the end of his finger. “How long was your discussion with the Inner Assembly? The one where you figured out what to do with me?”

“Half the glassdamned night,” Father Vorcien said with a yawn. “You are a liability. You don’t fear any of us. You don’t respect any of us. Gregori is furious that you destroyed his ancestral hunting home with your flood. Supi wants those thousand pieces of sightglass returned immediately. And me … well, you did force one of my sons into confessing to a war crime in public.”

Demir flinched. He did not think they would kill him, but he had just noticed the shadows of at least two more Cinders standing in the hall just outside the cell. His life might well depend on this conversation. He should beg, plead, promise. That was what any sane person would do. Then again, Father Vorcien would know it was insincere just by virtue of who Demir was. He spread his arms. “Then what do we do from here?”

“I make you an offer that benefits us both, you accept the offer, and then we move on.”

Demir had expected an offer. He did not expect it to benefit them both. “Right. The Ossan way.” His mind wandered to his soldiers, no doubt getting nervous about his extended absence down at Fort Alameda. How long until Tadeas started asking where Demir had gotten to? How long until Kerite and her Grent allies regrouped and attacked again? Demir’s one advantage here was that the Inner Assembly still needed him to command the Foreign Legion. “What’s the offer?” he asked.

Father Vorcien looked down at his hands folded in his lap. “Put aside your blood feud with Capric and marry Kissandra.”

“Kizzie?” Demir blurted. He’d been caught off guard before; now he felt like the two of them weren’t even having the same conversation. “You can’t be serious. She’s my friend, and she’s a bastard.”

“She’s my bastard, and I’ve been looking for an excuse to legitimize her for years without raising Sibrial’s ire.”

Demir scoffed. The sound turned into a choked laugh. “I never believed you had a heart.”

“Shriveled with glassrot, but it still exists,” Father Vorcien replied. His gaze was unwavering; he stared at Demir with the casual intensity of someone who always got what they wanted.

Did he know about the phoenix channel? Demir suddenly wondered. Aelia Dorlani might resort to ham-fisted burglary, but this was far more Father Vorcien’s style if he thought that Demir had something he wanted. And it was the second such offer, if he included the offer of patronage Capric had brought him the day he found out his mother died. If Father Vorcien did know about the phoenix channel, to what lengths would he go to acquire it? Was this the easiest path for both of them?

“If I say no?” Demir asked.

Father Vorcien spread his hands. “If you say no, then I will assume your blood feud continues. First, you’ll remain in this dungeon for…” He shrugged. “… an indeterminate amount of time. I can’t keep you here forever since you didn’t actually kill Capric, but long enough for my people to destroy what little reputation you have left. Second, I’ll blacklist your hotel and every one of your clients and employees. No one will supply them, buy from them, work for them, or hire them ever again. Third, I will order Kizzie to continue her investigation into your mother’s death but I will not give you any of the results.”

That last one was just adding insult to injury, and they both knew it. Demir scoffed. No threats against his person, but Father Vorcien didn’t need to do that. What he’d just described was far more insidious than just killing him and it showed how well Father Vorcien knew Demir: it was more painful to ruin those under his protection than to ruin Demir himself.

“If you accept,” Father Vorcien went on, “the Vorcien and Grappo will be tied by blood. You’ll be the richest patriarch in your family for generations. You’ll marry a friend, which is more than most patriarchs get to do. You’ll be a Vorcien in all but name and that will be real power. The possibilities will be endless.”

“All under the Vorcien thumb.”

“You don’t think you and I would be able to work together?”

“You did destroy me,” Demir responded glibly, “and I do have a blood feud against your son. But no, I’m more worried about when you die and Sibrial takes over. You think I’m going to bow and scrape to that ogre?” The very thought turned his stomach, but he tried to ignore it. The old him – the entity that he should have listened to when he first saw that military missive – was fighting for control of his thoughts again. He could feel wheels spinning in the back of his head. Plans created plans created plans.

“I believe,” Father Vorcien said slowly, “that you can handle Sibrial.”

“You can stomach the thought of me manipulating your heir after you die?”

“I’ll be dead, and Sibrial will need a guiding influence outside of his brothers and sisters. I’m not a fool, Demir. I know what Sibrial is. You’re getting distracted. I need an answer.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

Demir settled back on the flea-ridden bed, turning inside himself and listening to those wheels in his head. He didn’t like the framing of this at all – Father Vorcien was right about the benefits, but the very idea of marrying Kizzie was too personally complicated. She was almost like a sister to him, and romantically connected to his best friend. Knowing he’d have to sleep with her even just a few times to make an heir of their own made him want to retch. He had no doubt she would feel the same way. Even worse, it further complicated his relationship with Thessa. Could that get more complicated?

Demir pictured a mirror in his head. Staring back out of it was his younger self – chubby, confident, arrogant. Do your duty, his younger self told him. This is Ossa, where everything is complicated and there’s always a solution. Marry Kizzie as a formality. Take Thessa as a mistress. Take the Vorcien riches and fame. Destroy Capric later, after Father Vorcien is dead. Take everything you’d ever want.

I’m not you anymore, Demir spat at himself.

You’d be a lot happier if you were.

Would I? No. I’m not you, but I can’t be me either. I’ve got to be something more. Something that takes the best of both of us. Demir looked at those plans that his old self wanted to put into motion. He examined them, plucked at them. They were always moving, like a dozen waterwheels in a massive factory, but they were also always changing. Malleable. His future, he reminded himself, was not set in stone. You are right, he said to himself. Everything is always complicated and there’s always a solution. I will do this, but I’m going to do it my way. Not yours.

Suit yourself, his younger self laughed. I don’t actually exist. I’m just a piece of you that you’ve never reconciled.

The image disappeared, vanishing from his mind’s eye in a theatrical puff of smoke. He shook his head to clear it and focused back on Father Vorcien. “What do you get out of all of this?” he asked. “Beyond me ending my blood feud and securing Kizzie’s future?”

Father Vorcien actually did smile this time. “There. Finally asking the right questions.” He leaned forward slightly in his chair. “I do get you under my thumb, I won’t deny it. More to the point: in exchange for this bounty of riches I’m offering you, you’re going right back to the front. Kerite has started to move again, and I need a general to stop her.”

So he was right. They still needed him. Demir raised both eyebrows. “The Inner Assembly isn’t stripping me of my command?”

“They will if I let them. They want to. But if I assure them you are under my control, they’ll hold their peace. For now.”

“And if I win, you’ll have the hero of the Empire as your new son-in-law.”

“Indeed.”

Father Vorcien knew. Demir was certain of it now. He knew about the phoenix channel and that was the real benefit he gained in all of this. Everything else was a smoke screen. Demir touched his temples, his head hurting from too little rest and too much pressure. He really didn’t have a choice. To protect himself, to protect his clients and employees, he had to take the offer. “Is Kizzie going to have any say in this?”

“She wants to be legitimized more than you know,” Father Vorcien said dismissively. “She’ll find it distasteful, but she will say yes.”

“She has to agree,” Demir insisted.

“I’ll take care of that.”

It was an ominous statement that made Demir’s stomach lurch. How many lives would Father Vorcien twist to get his hands on the phoenix channel? Any that he needed to, Demir imagined. He took a deep breath, glancing inward one last time. Could he do this without ruining lives? Without hurting the people he loved? “Then it’s a deal.”

Father Vorcien’s glassrot-covered cheeks lifted into a grin. “You will abandon your blood feud against Capric?”

“Yes.” No.

“You will marry Kissandra?”

“Yes.” Not if I can get out of it.

“You will bow the Grappo neck to the Vorcien?”

“Yes.” Never.

“You will return to the front and end this war?”

Demir actually laughed out loud at this last one, but it was a sad laugh. “We should sue for peace. End this without more bloodshed, before the Grent can recover.”

“It’s not up to us anymore,” Father Vorcien replied. “Kerite has already recovered. Her reserves have arrived from the Glass Isles and she’s preparing to attack Harbortown as we speak. The Grent still believe they can win. They won’t pull back until their pet mercenary army has been destroyed.”

“You could have mentioned that earlier.” Demir felt a flash of fear. He hadn’t faced Kerite directly the first time because he knew he couldn’t win. She was just too good a general, and her mercenaries were enough to help the Grent crush the Foreign Legion. How the piss would he beat her on the open field when her reinforcements had already arrived?

“Would it have changed anything?” Father Vorcien asked.

“I suppose not.”

“Good.” Father Vorcien gestured to the door. “Now go save the Empire, son.”

Demir almost laughed at that. Almost. Cheeky old bastard. The two Cinders waiting in the hall showed him out in complete silence, and in just a few minutes he was sitting in Montego’s carriage, facing the massive cudgelist, his thoughts turning around themselves.

“Well?” Montego demanded. “What happened? Breenen told me about the missive, and the entire city is talking about your duel with Capric. Are you all right? Do I have to kill the Vorcien? Answer the second question first.”

Demir snorted. Kill the Vorcien. Not just one of them, but the entire guild-family. Only Montego would ask such a bold question. “No, you don’t have to kill the Vorcien. I’ve struck a deal.”

“You mean Father Vorcien forced a deal on you,” Montego said flatly.

“Correct.”

Demir drummed his fingers on the wall of the carriage. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d so much as considered lying to Montego. They’d never held anything back from each other, not in twenty-five years of friendship. “Father Vorcien knows about the phoenix channel.”

“You’re sure?”

“He didn’t say as much, but it explains his maneuvering.”

Montego leaned forward, peering at Demir sharply. “He offered you a marriage, didn’t he?”

“Kizzie,” Demir answered.

Montego inhaled sharply. Demir could see the calculations in Montego’s eyes, no doubt extrapolating the entirety of the conversation Demir had had with Father Vorcien. Montego took a few shallow breaths and said softly, “She’s always wanted legitimization more than anything. This would secure her future.”

“Could you handle it?” Demir asked.

“You know that I would not let my personal feelings get in the way of either Kizzie’s or the Grappo’s future,” Montego said slowly. “However, I would … not be able to stay in Ossa if you marry Kizzie.” No angry outbursts, no demands that Demir recant the deal. Just a simple statement. It was surprisingly gentle from one so known for violence, but it hurt more than if Montego had punched him. If the deal went forward as Father Vorcien wanted, Demir would lose his best friend.

He tried to focus. He had a war to win, and the Grent were already on the move. Every minute he spent here might lose him what little advantage he had. He suddenly felt a great indignation – for himself, for Kizzie, for Montego. Father Vorcien might think everything was just business, but he had no right to force any of them into such an arrangement. “This is Ossa. Everything is always complicated, and there’s always a solution,” he said.

“You have a plan to undermine Father Vorcien?” Montego asked with a frown.

He only had the slightest glimmer of a plan, and he knew that Kizzie’s future was in his hands now. Whatever he did to outmaneuver Father Vorcien needed to account for Kizzie. That made it ten times as difficult. “Nothing matters until I return from fighting the Grent,” Demir replied. “If I return. But Father Vorcien is so worried about the war that he made an amateurish mistake.” He grinned at Montego. “He didn’t get the deal in writing before I left the Maerhorn.”