Warm sunlight breaks over the eastern wall of Clearheart’s octagonal fortress, bathing its courtyard in a golden glow. From the southeast-facing window of his second story guest room, Lamp greets the radiant dawn with a pensive glower. He wonders whether he ought to smile instead, but the expression simply won’t indulge him.
By now, the Glassblood raid has completed, and the executors of his revenge have begun their journey home. Their success and safety are beyond question; Lamp can’t entertain even the slightest doubt to the contrary. His overwhelming confidence stems not from hope, but from cynicism.
If anyone among the graft thieves was capable of overwhelming a basileus, then they would be one.
People like Blackwing and Clearheart maintain their high stations in part because none of their rivals possess the confidence and power to challenge or dethrone them. Little within the caldera poses a real threat to those who stand at the pinnacle of human strength, so Lamp’s not worried that an isolated fortress of outcast criminals would have brought them low.
However, with that foregone conclusion in mind, with that clear assurance of victory, shouldn’t he revel in his achievement? Shouldn’t he have risen from bed with a smile on his lips and laughter springing from his chest? Surely his achievement warrants celebration.
Lamphand the humble scholar set two warlords on a path of destruction against his enemies. Although he had no hand in the slaughter that surely followed, he was the one who orchestrated its initiation. He brought about that night of blood. His words spoke his adversaries’ doom into being.
Should that not please him?
As a child, Lamp had dreamt of wielding kingly power to correct the ills of his world. In adolescence he abandoned such delusions and had instead begun to pray that others would intercede where he could not. Only in adulthood did he cast aside such hopes entirely. But now, through circumstances he had not planned and could not have orchestrated, his juvenile fantasies of violent retribution are finally realized.
Why then, does he only feel guilt and self-disgust?
Lamp glances down at his glass hands and sees that they still shine clear. Not a single drop of blood stains his fingers. Still, he almost expects to taste it on his tongue.
He wonders: how many graft thieves did Lamphand the scholar kill merely by twisting Blackwing’s paternalistic ideals and Clearheart’s blood lust to his own ends? How much death did the man who saved Lamp’s life deal as a result of his coercion?
How many of the butchers’ future victims did he save incidentally by pursuing his own grievance? Is it more than the number of prior victims whose bodies the Glassbloods will pillage only because Lamp argued that their stolen grafts could save a stranger’s life?
And to what degree does he even believe in his own rescue plan? He can’t possibly know in advance whether it will work, but surely he at least argued for it from good faith. Didn’t he? Was it confidence he felt yesterday, or was he simply not concerned?
Now, in the sobering light of a new morning, Lamp finds himself filled with doubt, and a phantom taste of iron settles on his tongue. How long until that washes away?
Maybe it shouldn’t. From yesterday until the end of his life, Lamp will have to bear the knowledge that people died and killed because of him. It was justice, whatever end those graft thieves suffered, and it was justified, but death still weighs heavily upon his soul. Lamp supposes that’s better than feeling apathy, and far better than celebrating what he did.
Acknowledgement of his actions is enough. He won’t smile about it.
Feeling marginally more at ease, Lamp closes his eyes and bathes in the warmth of the rising sun. After a few deep and slow breaths, he turns from the window and exits his room, entering the narrow corridor which runs along the exterior-facing wall throughout Clearheart’s guest quarters. As Lamp enters the hallway and shuts his door behind him, a voice from the next room over softly calls out his name. Her subtle accent and youthful tone would identify the speaker even if he didn’t already know who dwelled there.
“Lamphand? Is that you?” Grayowl calls in her native tongue.
He answers in the same. “Yes. It’s me.”
“Thank heavens. My face paint has started flaking, and Lord Blackwing wished for me to hide my true graft, so I fear to leave my room. Could you please fetch breakfast for me? I have waited since before dawn.”
“Of course.” Lamp answers with an indulgent smile no one else can see. “I was just on my way to find my own. I’ll grab yours as well and return shortly.”
She thanks him, and he departs for the kitchen. Clearheart’s pale-toothed servant had shown them where to find it yesterday, so Lamp has no trouble retracing his steps down the stairs and around the veranda toward the back wall.
He sees a queue of soldiers already waiting for admittance and joins its tail. Additional warriors soon shuffle up behind him, and the scholar quickly finds himself surrounded by a crowd of professional killers.
Thankfully, the Glassbloods pay him little attention. Lamp gladly returns that favor, keeping his eyes directed at nothing in particular as the line slowly shuffles forward, and he eventually obtains two servings of tagenitai.
Lamp makes a hasty exit with his girdle cakes in both hands, cutting through the courtyard to avoid mercenaries milling on the raised walkway. A swift jaunt across the packed dirt brings him back to his allotted section of the manor, and he hurries upstairs to the illusory safety offered by the guest wing’s empty hall.
Owl evidently hears him coming and opens her door before he can announce himself. Lamp tries to hand the girl’s food off to her, intending to dine separately in his own room, but she waves for him to enter instead. Taken aback by her breach of etiquette, Lamp hesitates at the threshold while searching for polite terms with which he can explain the problem. The handmaid responds by rolling her eyes in what Lamp can only presume to be an unladylike manner.
“I could not care less if Lady Clearheart’s servants gossip about me. You are invited into my room for breakfast. Come inside so we can eat.”
Feeling awkward but unwilling to make an issue of it, Lamp obliges. Owl steps behind him to shut the door since his hands are full, then walks around toward the room’s only table. She pulls out a chair for both of them and gestures impatiently for Lamp to join her. With a sigh and a shake of his head, he complies.
They chew wordlessly for the first minute of their slow meal, both of them preoccupied with staring out the nearby window to watch as Glassblood spearmen assemble in the courtyard for their morning drills. Eventually, Owl breaks the silence by clearing her throat. She glances at Lamp’s wrist before she speaks, eying the frosted line between his graft and flesh.
“I apologize if this is too sensitive a topic, but have you…” She closes her eyes, breathes out, then looks back to him. “I gathered yesterday that you have some personal connection to the graft thieves. When I asked Lady Clearheart to explain what you had said while convincing Lord Blackwing, she told me you demanded of him a restitution which he had previously promised. May I ask what occurred?”
“Oh.” Lamp looks down at the table, feeling shamed. “My argument was unfair to him. The context you’re missing is that Blackwing rescued me from a pack of graft butchers on the night we met. Yesterday, shortly after we docked, he received a missive from the basileus who rules over the territory in which I was attacked. That lord, Bronzemane, claims to have executed all members of the gang and preserved their bodies so we could view them for confirmation.
“Bronzemane normally wouldn’t bother to go out of his way like that, even for someone of Blackwing’s stature, so we suspect he had a hand in their operation and is merely covering it up now. Blackwing offered to investigate further on my behalf. I declined at the time, but then later twisted his words to push him into attacking the cartel directly. It was emotional extortion.”
His voice trails off, and he lifts his eyes back to Owl’s with difficulty. He finds an expression of pained sympathy upon her face.
“That encounter must have been horrific.” She tells him softly. “I wish you had not experienced it, and I am glad you escaped unharmed. While I cannot speak for Lord Blackwing, I believe the course you advocated was ultimately a righteous one, and I must assume he agreed to follow your plan because he understood that.”
“Thank you.” Lamp answers numbly.
She nods. “If I may ask, how long ago did this occur? I had thought you entered Lord Blackwing’s service two years prior, yet if this Lord Bronzemane only sent word yesterday…”
“... Ah.” He replies after a puzzled moment. “I see your confusion. I met Blackwing for the first time nine days ago. For the two preceding years in which I worked for him, I never knew his identity. So the attack happened only a few nights before you met me.”
“Oh.” A bit of moisture gathers in her silver eyes, where it shimmers but doesn’t fall. “I had no idea.”
Lamp shrugs. “Of course not. I never told you.”
“Still.” She breaks eye contact, gazing out through the window with a bitter smile. “I laid my greatest problem at your feet whilst you bore a heavy burden of your own, and you lent a hand regardless. I know it was a matter of duty to your lord, but I appreciate your actions all the same. Thank you, Lamphand, not just for salvaging my meeting with Lady Clearheart, but for all the little moments along our journey that helped me to feel welcome in your homeland. This adventure of mine would have been a strikingly different and far more difficult ordeal without you.”
Lamp almost winces. “Grayowl, I- I’m glad I’ve made you feel comfortable here, but yesterday… I drove that conversation towards my own goals. I can’t earnestly say I did it for you, or for your princess. I saw an opportunity, and I took it… It was for me. I’m sorry.”
The girl shakes her head and turns back to him. “Sorry for what, exactly? For finding a way to rid both our worlds of great evils in a single swoop? That seems a paltry offense to me. The only way I could take offense at your actions is if your proposal was made in bad faith. Tell me, then, do you truly believe we have a chance to salvage Growth’s current incarnation by feeding it stolen grafts?”
“I do.” He tells her honestly, though slightly to his own surprise. “I believe in it more than I doubt it, at least.”
Owl nods, and her shoulders slump slightly in what he hopes is relief. For a moment afterwards they sit in silence, and Lamp eventually looks back outside, this time watching the clouds. After swallowing a few more bites of food, the handmaiden speaks again.
“Before I came here,” she begins softly, “I told myself that I would find the lost princess no matter how long it took me, and that I would drag her back home no matter what lines I was forced to cross or what principles I had to sacrifice. I never expected her to be such an infamous figure that the first people I bumped into could deliver me straight to her doorstep in less than a week. I was also not prepared for her to have grown so strong and so callous that she could not be moved by either compassion or force.”
Owl looks down and smiles slightly. “Yet despite my failures of imagination, I hold more hope now than at any point during my fevered preparations. For the first time since I decided to challenge fate, I feel that I am winning. I owe much of that to you, whatever your motivations, so please accept my gratitude and stop berating yourself for having granted your own wish along with mine.”
“Thank you.” Lamp whispers to avoid choking on his suddenly strained voice. “And you’re welcome.”
They share an unsteady smile, both of them on the verge of tears for slightly different reasons. The tender moment breaks a few seconds later when they hear a sharp knock upon the door.
“Good morning Lamphand, Grayowl.” Calls the silken voice of Clearheart’s butler. “I came to inform you that Blackwing’s ship has returned undamaged to our fair harbor. His vessel is currently sailing around the bay, repeating a message via sound grafts and light signals. Assuming he makes only one pass, we may expect him and Clearheart to return within the hour.”
“Thank you.” Lamp calls back after rushing through a translation for Owl. “Do you know what they’re saying?”
Muffled yet dulcet tones answer through the door. “I’m told it is a proclamation of the Glassbloods’ heroic public service, with due credit paid to your employer. The butchers were slaughtered, their base put to flame, and their leader’s corpse now hangs from a noose at Blackwing’s prow. If you have further inquiries, I can direct you to one of our relay posts where you may request a transcript of the proclamation.”
“Thank you. That won’t be necessary.” Lamp demurs.
“Very well. Ask one of the staff where to find me if you need anything.”
The man departs with a soft scrape of leather soles against the tiled floor, leaving Lamp and Owl in silence. The scholar wipes a residual bit of moisture from his drying eyes, then asks his companion if she’d like for him to find a view of the harbor so he can observe Blackwing’s signal flashes and report back. Owl declines on the basis that they can get their information directly from the source after a short wait.
Lamp nods in acceptance, then finishes the last few bites of his breakfast. As he swallows the last morsel, his mind turns to the future, and he voices a question he hadn’t found any opportunity to raise after it became relevant yesterday.
“It’s roughly two and a half months until the next conjoining, correct?”
“Yes.” The outlander smiles wryly. “Our expedition was, perhaps, a touch too efficient. I had anticipated dedicating years of my life to this search. I should be grateful that it required only two weeks. However, now that my mission is nearly complete, a few mere months seem like an intolerable delay.”
Lamp nods in sympathy, then muses. “Blackwing will probably take us back to Trembleheel’s Landing for the interim, which I wouldn’t greatly mind. I just hope he doesn’t lead us all the way back to Wall Town.”
“I could accept either destination.” The handmaid shrugs. “His lordship’s outpost was a little dull, but I enjoyed my time there all the same. The people were friendly.”
Lamp replies with a shallow nod and a subdued noise of agreement. While he doesn't dispute her assessment of Wall Town’s character, he’d rather pass his time in a small city than in the sticks. Before he can think of a polite way to phrase that opinion, Owl poses a new question.
“Lord Blackwing intends to cross back with me when I return home, correct?”
Lamp nods. “He did imply that yesterday- all but confirmed it, really. I ultimately don’t know his intentions, but I can say that I’d love to make the journey myself.”
She smiles warmly. “The court would gladly receive both of you, and I would be honored to show you my world as you have shown me yours.”
“That is nectar to my ears, you’ve no idea. There are so many sights I want to see, so many places I’ve encountered in your art and poems that I can’t wait to finally visit. I’ve actually dreamt of wandering your greatest cities. Gods, what I’d give to finally see Taj Jacpehan, Nagharehdad, Baghdokhtaran, and…” His voice trails off, his wistful expression falling into a thoughtful frown as he recalls that Bagh Dokhtaran means Daughters’ Garden. The name doesn’t seem quite as whimsical as it had when he first translated it more than a year ago. “That last one… Is that where…”
Owl nods soberly. “It is the bed of Growth, the seat of House Caution, the site of our princess’s palace, and my home since I was chosen as her handmaid several years ago. It will be our immediate destination once we return across the bridge of chaos, assuming you come with me.”
Lamp leans back in his chair while inhaling, then tilts his chin toward the ceiling and blows out a long breath through his nose. Once he runs out of air, he resets to a normal posture.
“I’m surprised your city’s connection to Growth was never mentioned in anything I translated.” He remarks. “Both names cropped up a handful of times, but never as a linked pair.”
“Their infrequency was no coincidence.” The outlander answers with a sad smile. “Though Her Highness and I curated the selection of offerings for Lord Blackwing’s trade ceremony, the works from which we chose were first collected and appraised by our city’s lesser nobles. Out of consideration for their patroness, they were highly judicious when selecting art or poems which mentioned Growth. The princess, likewise, was often disinclined to select such pieces for inclusion in the final trove.”
Lamp unconsciously drums his fingers across the table while thinking aloud. “And whatever she approved of still had to be selected by Blackwing afterwards. That’s three sieves before anything could get to me. It’s a wonder I learned anything on the subject at all.”
“Just so. Thank the gods, it proved to be enough to spark your inspiration yesterday.”
He nods. “With a journey like that, we should thank Wayward especially.”
“I have. Every morning and night since I arrived here.”
A brief lull follows, but the two of them soon hit upon a new topic by describing the major urban landmarks in their respective world-tiles. A few minutes into that discussion, Lamp inadvertently delivers a great shock to his counterpart when he mentions offhand that the caldera hosts three other poleties of comparable size to New Carcosa. After assuring the incredulous girl that the largest city she’s ever seen is in fact the largest in his world by a commanding margin, he fields a number of questions on the caldera’s total population and size.
“Depending on the weather and any time needed for repairs, the average ship would take more than a month just to…” Lamp abandons his explanation mid-sentence when a strange noise drifts in through the open window and catches his attention. He shuts his jaw and turns to face the aperture as if doing so would somehow aid his ears. After a wordless moment, he mutters. “Is that music?”
“I hear it too.” Owl nods in agreement.
She leans to the side and glances down into the courtyard. Lamp copies her, but sees only that the soldiers below are occupied with the same martial activities as before. The sound isn’t coming from nearby, then.
“Drums and something with a reed.” The girl observes. “And do you catch that faint, rough undertone? It reminds me of the roar I hear from our capital’s arena when my family is still minutes away. Are we hearing your people cheer for their returning warriors?”
“It’s Clearheart’s victory parade.” Lamp concurs. “Her musicians must be amplifying their instruments with graft magic for us to notice it from such a distance. Shall we go find a spot from which to watch their arrival? The hallway outside might have a window facing the compound’s entrance. We shouldn’t need to pass through any populated areas of the manor.”
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Owl agrees, with her curiosity at last winning over caution, and they step out into the empty hall. The triumphant melody grows louder as they round the building in search of a window with the proper view. By the time they find an appropriate vantage on the southwest wall, they can faintly hear garbled speech beneath the music. The spoken rhythm doesn’t match the tune, however. These words aren’t lyrics, but a proclamation.
Closing his eyes, Lamp focuses on the distantly booming voice of Clearheart’s approaching sound-binder. He translates the words for Owl as they settle in his ears.
“Good people of New Carcosa, before you march triumphant heroes! Overnight, while you slept safely in the peace of this fine district, your Glassblood protectors ventured into darkness and hunted the vermin of our island in their warrens!
“I ask: Who was it that plagued your children's nightmares?! Who was it that desecrated your cousins’ graves and carved apart the dead?! It was this man! He and his cartel! He whose corpse now hangs before you, broken and unmade! Look upon his body and count the grafts he stole from the people of this city, each of them a life cut short! See now what became of him and know that his reign of terror has ended for all time!
“The butchers are destroyed! Their stronghold lies in smoldering ruins! Their soldiers’ bodies feed the crows! Their captain is dishonored and slain! All for you! All for the great city! Come and see what becomes of your enemies while Clearheart shields you! See what she has done in your honor and for your vengeance! See the fear and wrath she brings to evil!”
The crier pauses his exaltations then, letting the drumbeat of tympana and the overlapping drone of auloi pipes soar above the cheering voices of an unseen crowd. The music gradually grows louder as the Glassblood procession slowly climbs uphill to reach the outer walls of their fortress. When the crier’s voice picks up again, it booms so loudly that it must come from just outside the gate.
His words cover the same subject in roughly identical terms, so Lamp refrains from translating and waits by the window for the man to fall silent again. When he does, the music dies down with him, and Clearheart’s own voice projects over the jubilant masses.
Her own speech covers most of the same themes, but she also gives thanks to Blackwing for his aid in the assault and for “pledging to bury the grafts in deep waters where none shall ever reclaim them.” The Prince of Merchants makes no comments of his own, but Lamp can hear the crowd cheering his name.
Then the Glassblood’s gates swing open, and the troop marches inward with Clearheart in her blood red armor at its head. Directly behind her, two soldiers carry a grisly trophy from their hunt.
A large male corpse hangs by his neck from a leather loop affixed to the top of a wooden pole. Deep lacerations mark his extremities, caking his limbs in dried blood. His left leg ends at a stump below the knee. Dark red stains against his groin and bare thighs advertise his castration. Lamp can only wonder which of those wounds were inflicted posthumously.
“That’s rather excessive.” The scholar mutters.
“Agreed.” Owl whispers her reply with a nauseous expression. “Was it truly necessary for Lady Clearheart to parade her adversary through the streets in this manner?”
“Necessary? No. But there is a purpose to it.” Lamp lifts his eyes from the grotesque procession to watch the sky as he explains. “One corpse is worth a thousand boasts. Consider: what proof would Clearheart have of his death if she didn't present a body? As for his nudity- that serves to identify him. No one here knew that man’s face before today, but it only takes one glance at his body to understand his crimes. We see the scars from implants that healed over. We see the mismatched graft materials that don’t belong together on one person’s frame. They show us who he is- what he’s done.”
Owl swallows. “And his… manhood? What strategic objective did she accomplish through that act of mutilation?”
Lamp shrugs. “Maybe he said something to piss her off, or maybe some of her soldiers lost friends to these bastards and she let them take an extra measure of revenge. Plenty in this city would do worse to his body if Clearheart tossed it outside the gates. Even without that, he’ll be lucky to get a clean burial.”
They fall silent as the Glassblood’s quiet parade reaches their central keep and turns east toward its single entrance. As the group passes below their window, Blacking glances upward for a brief moment to meet his translator’s eyes. Perhaps it’s just a trick played by the shadows of the merchant’s helmet, but the man appears deeply exhausted for the first time Lamp can recall.
The scholar almost calls down to his employer, but before he can find the words, Blackwing looks away. Owl, for her own part, watches the hanging corpse until it disappears from view. Only once the street below them empties out does she speak again.
“I comprehend her logic, distressing though it is. And I suppose the incitement of distress was also part of her intention. That aside, I expected better from Lord Blackwing. I feel somewhat shocked that he agreed to join her in that gruesome display.”
“It’s part of Clearheart’s compensation for the job.” Lamp posits flatly. “He shares a modicum of credit while she offloads almost all of the risk.”
“What risk? Your people seemed exuberant.”
“For now.” He sighs, then turns to the outlander. “Once the excitement wears off, people will start asking where all those stolen grafts really went. Clearheart got ahead of any rumors by publicly declaring that Blackwing has ownership of the spoils. If the public believes he upheld his ‘promise’ to dump everything into the sea, then none of us will have any problems. If they doubt him, then only we have problems.”
“If things come to that, could he explain about…” Owl begins hesitantly.
Lamp shakes his head, understanding her unfinished question. “Honesty would not garner us sympathy. Even though we didn’t kill anyone just to harvest their grafts, we’re still breaking a major taboo here. In fact, if the city knew our true plans, it would likely mean a riot. Hells, just telling everyone that Blackwing knew about your society for two whole years and kept it a secret would be enough to spark mass outrage against him… For that matter, I suppose they wouldn’t be terribly happy with me either.”
He grimaces, then presses on with his explanation. “Clearheart put a lot of work and time into winning her district’s support after she conquered it. She’ll need plausible deniability in order to maintain everything she’s built against the inevitable rumors that she stole the graft stockpile for herself, so Blackwing will serve as her patsy. It’s a position we forced him into.”
“Oh.” Owl quietly mumbles while turning her back to the narrow window and leaning against the stuccoed wall beside it. “That all seems obvious in retrospect, but I failed to anticipate those factors when they were making plans yesterday. Truthfully, I spared no thought at all for how this operation would be perceived by your people. I was too absorbed in my hopes and worries for my own world.”
“That’s understandable.” Lamp brushes her confession aside as he looks back out through the window with an unfocused gaze. After a deep breath in, he muses solemnly. “It’s an odd thing. Graft theft isn’t formally legal anywhere in the caldera that actually bothers to follow laws, and most districts in New Carcosa enforce the cult’s recommendation to execute any criminals caught in the act. However, there are unspoken exceptions; nobody makes much fuss whenever beggars and the unhoused quietly disappear overnight.
“We all hate graft theft in principle, but it’s never a pressing issue until it becomes your problem. It’s convenient for me to blame the basileis for not doing enough to combat this issue over the years- and they certainly deserve a large share of that criticism- but I also know they’d have taken stronger action if the public had ever demanded it from them with a unified voice. I suppose we’re all lazy hypocrites for muttering our discontent when we should have clamored it.”
Owl takes a moment to absorb his words, then asks in a sad tone. “They targeted beggars?”
“Mostly.” Lamp answers without taking his eyes off the horizon. “That’s a large part of why our city tolerated the cartel for so long. Some people here saw it as a means of controlling undesirable populations, a way to extract utility out of those whom they considered useless.
“In light of that, it’s strange to say that my people would riot if they found out what we intend to do with the reclaimed grafts, but I’m still confident they would. People can fit a thousand little obscenities down their throats one at a time, but our condensed transgression would prove too much for them to swallow in a single gulp.”
Owl nods slowly, then gives a heavy sigh. “I understand. Any horror becomes permissible once made common. Most people can stomach evil so long as it isn’t unfamiliar. Our cultures share that failing.”
Lamp has no answer, so they stand together quietly for a minute longer until Clearheart’s white-toothed butler comes to fetch them to his employer’s office. They follow without delay and soon find themselves back in the room where they first met the former princess only a day before.
Clearheart has enough chairs set out for her guests this time, but to Lamp’s mild surprise, he sees that Blackwing is the only person aside from their host already seated. The copper-plated woman he’d briefly met yesterday, whom Blackwing had introduced as his ‘right hand’ in New Carcosa, apparently did not return with their mutual employer to Clearheart’s domain. Perhaps Blackwing sent her home to rest.
Setting that little mystery aside, Lamp greets his boss with a solemn exchange of nods. He notes again how haggard the other man looks, but confirms to his relief an absence of serious injuries. Although a few new dents and scratches mar the armor’s black paint, it’s clear that nothing penetrated to harm the body beneath. A minor cut above the merchant’s knee, already scabbed over, seems to be the worst of his wounds.
Blackwing’s dark helm now lays discarded at the man’s feet, unceremoniously knocked onto its side. A cloth sack rests nearby, its soft fabric draped over a rectangular object hidden within. Lamp marks that up as another conundrum to be ignored for now.
Having greeted Blackwing and confirmed his welfare, Lamp seats himself, and Owl follows his lead a moment later. Once the late arrivals are off their feet, Clearheart claps her hands together once to draw the room’s attention. Glancing towards the mercenary, Lamp belatedly notices that she has a bandage wrapped around her neck. A small splotch of dried blood stains the cloth’s left side.
She’s mortal after all.
Despite being the only one of them with a significant injury, however, she still presents the highest spirits. In fact, she’s the only person in the room who looks at all happy. Lamp braces himself to translate as she begins speaking.
“We succeeded beyond our expectations!” Clearheart boasts to Owl in their shared native tongue. “Wing’s ship now carries multiple crates filled with the carefully packaged grafts we confiscated from the butchery. You should have enough material to satisfy Growth’s appetite in the next cycle and beyond.
“I suppose it’s also worth mentioning that we also found a bunch of money, but those spoils will be divided between Wing’s sailors and every Glassblood regular who participated in the operation. No shiny bronze coins for you, I’m afraid.”
“I suspect I can live with that.” Owl replies in half-hearted jest before bowing her head and adopting a sincere tone. “From the core of my heart and on behalf of my entire kingdom, I thank and praise you for the aid you have rendered. Even with a thousand blessings, I could not have accomplished this task without your intervention.”
“A thousand?” The corner of Clearheart’s mouth turns upward. “You estimate me highly; in my experience, it only ever takes one. You’re welcome, though. I was glad to be of service- truly. I only got short with you yesterday because your initial request was unreasonable. We could have avoided our little spat entirely if the final proposal had been offered first.”
Everyone in the room glances toward Lamp. He pretends not to notice.
Owl returns her eyes to Clearheart and nods. “I apologize for yelling at you in your own home. I forgot my manners.”
“It’s fine, kid. Your heart’s in a good place.” Clearheart waves a hand dismissively, then leans back in her chair and gives the girl a level stare. “Now then, you brushed me off when I mentioned this yesterday, but do you want to learn how I acquired magic? Your princess may be able to employ the same method, and you should at least keep it as a final resort.”
“I decline.” The handmaiden answers with a grim expression. “I spent much of last night thinking about this question, and I have decided to maintain my ignorance.”
“Bad choice. Why’d you make it?”
“Because I know she would refuse the offer.”
The mercenary raises an incredulous eyebrow. “Don’t you want to extend it anyway, just in case she surprises you?”
“No, I… The decision I have made…” Owl’s voice shrinks, and her body seems to collapse inward as her confidence evaporates. Her voice trembles slightly as she explains her choice. “While I would gladly trade my own life to save hers, I will not sacrifice my kingdom to preserve a single soul, no matter how dear to me she is. I believe Her Highness would make that same choice, and I will not undermine her resolve by compromising my own. I cannot tempt her astray with knowledge I never gained, so I must not learn.”
Clearheart clicks her tongue with a peeved expression. “Have it your way, girl, but if all your other rescue plans fail, feel free to come crawling back here in a few more years once the desperation sets in.”
Owl looks away without saying anything. Clearheart shakes her head in either disappointment or annoyance, then turns toward Blackwing.
“You’re more of a pragmatist.” She states in the modern tongue. “If I offer to sell you a secret about that golden spear of yours, perhaps a way to open the bridge between worlds on your own schedule, would you be interested in buying?”
“So long as your price is fair to the one paying it.” The merchant answers cautiously whilst leaning forward in a contradictory show of interest. “I assume this is about the object you asked me to bring?”
“It is.” The mercenary shifts her gaze toward Owl yet continues in the local language. “Confirm one thing for me: When our guest crossed over, did she bear a painted wooden mask carved with features merely approximate in structure to her own? It might bear an inscription on its forehead and inner surface, with an inlay of reflective metal or stone. Does that match the description of the item inside your bag?”
Blackwing nods to Clearheart, then picks up the cloth sack at his feet and pulls from it the wooden box containing Owl’s falsemask. He reaches past Lamp to hand the container to its owner. The girl accepts it with a conflicted expression as she listens to the final translated words of Clearheart’s question.
With sharp eyes but a calm tone, the mercenary resumes. “Those masks are carved whenever needed from the living wood of the current Growth incarnation. Given the girl’s age, hers would have been fashioned only a few years ago, meaning its material was taken from my aunt’s flesh. Since it’s likely the only part of her that will ever pass within my reach, I want to bury it.”
The room waits for Lamp to translate Clearheart’s offer into words Owl understands. Once appraised, the handmaiden nods twice with strengthening resolve, first towards Clearheart, and again with greater conviction towards Blackwing.
“If this sacrifice can go some small way toward repaying my debt to both of you, then I will make it.”
She hands the box across the table. Clearheart accepts the container with a grateful nod then immediately opens it to confirm its contents. She pauses for a moment, staring downward with an unreadable expression, before gently laying her fingers against the sculpted face within.
Looking on unobtrusively from his seat, Lamp is struck by how closely the mask resembles its former owner’s features. Nearly Owl’s entire adolescence had passed between the manifestation and loss of her native magic; no carver could have guessed her future visage with such accuracy. The peacefully closed eyes, however, seem as if they half-belong to someone else.
“It died in the crossing?” The mercenary asks softly in her old tongue.
“Yes.” Owl replies in a mournful tone. “The mask was inert when I awoke.”
“When you awoke? You blacked out too?”
“I did.”
Clearheart grunts. “Growing a new organ fucking hurts. Anyway-”
She sets the box aside, turns toward Blackwing, and switches languages. “As I mentioned yesterday, the golden spear I received atop our sacred mountain had a list of instructions wrapped around its shaft. Among those writings was a depressing little poem which I was directed to recite before stabbing the world wall. It read as follows:
“‘Lonesome is the dusk at the close of day. Lost is the hope of dawn come anew. Blind is the faith that never wavers. Bitter is the trust now returned to you.’
“I spoke those words to open the first portal between our worlds. Immediately before doing that, I wet the golden spear’s blade with my own royal blood. To wit-” She tugs at the bandage around her neck and begins unwinding it. “While I’m sure as hells not schlepping all the way back across the empty plain with you just to bleed a little, I can at least send you off with the closest thing I have to a key. I make no guarantees that this’ll keep fresh enough to work, but if it does, maybe you can skip that three month interstice.”
She wads up the bloodstained rag and hands it off to Blackwing in a strangely casual exchange. He stuffs it into his bag with a gracious nod. Clearheart returns the gesture before directing her gaze back toward Owl.
“One last thing before I let you go.” She says in the old tongue. “And it’s really none of my business, but I know you’ll screw it up if no one pushes you, so I have to ask: Where exactly do you think your relationship with my niece is headed?”
Owl blinks, clearly surprised by the question. After a moment of plainly expressed uncertainty, she hesitantly answers.
“I… without a soulmask, I would no longer be qualified to serve as her handmaiden. If my original magic is restored to me upon my return, then I will attempt to resume my station. If, instead, the mask is permanently lost, then I will make whatever arrangements I can. I expect I could find another role in her household easily enough, even if it places slightly more distance between us.”
“That’s the height of your ambition? Just another member of staff, stealing kisses on the side?”
“What more could I hope to become?” Owl asks with aggrieved exasperation. “Her highness must marry a nobleman to produce spare children for the next king to adopt if his own offspring die or prove deficient. I cannot perform that role myself!”
“And you’d both just take that?” Clearheart asks with a derisive sneer. “You really came all this way, caused all this uproar, just to waste the rest of your life as some wallflower of a mistress? Pardon my Greek, but where are your fucking balls? If you really love that girl, and she genuinely loves you back, then you have to do something real about it.”
“What-”
“Figure it out!” The mercenary shakes her head and sighs in a release of frustration. “Listen, kid. The gods won’t hand you anything you don’t pursue. In romance and in all other aspects of life, good things only come to those who run them down. Get chasing.”
Clearheart stands abruptly and offers Owl a hand to shake, signaling the end of their conversation. All three seated guests rise together, and the girl reluctantly accepts the offered gesture.
“Good luck, Grayowl.” Clearheart pumps her arm once then releases it. “And I meant what I said yesterday about giving you and your beau a place to live. You’re welcome to visit if you ever find yourself back in my corner of the cosmos.
“Oh, and tell your wanax…” She pauses, then her face slips into a gentler expression than Lamp would have believed it capable of making. “Tell Murshili I hope he’s well, and that he’s welcome to write me. I’ll reply if he does.”
Owl answers with a strained smile. “I will inform His Highness of the offer, my lady.”
“‘My lady?’” The mercenary scoffs. “I believe that’s ‘coldhearted bitch’ to you, brat.”
The handmaid’s grin widens. “As you decree, you coldhearted bitch.”
Clearheart chuckles. “You’re very welcome. Now scram! All of you! Get out of my house! The whole city will be celebrating what we did last night, so I have several dozen parties to attend!”
Blackwing needs no further encouragement. After a curt nod to their host and a few brief words of thanks, he turns and exits the office. With his helmet tucked beneath his human arm and the bag with Clearheart’s bandage tied to his waist, he leads his two companions toward the nearest exit. Lamp quickens his pace to pull abreast as soon as they’ve crossed Clearheart’s waiting room.
“Owl’s face paint has begun to flake off.” He murmurs. “Do we need Emerald to refresh it?”
“No.” Blackwing answers without pausing to look back. “Her feather pattern is still imperceptible, and the city is distracted. We’ll move now.”
“Okay.” Lamp accepts the decision, then asks another question in the same soft tone. “Did you sleep at all last night?”
“Yes. An hour on the way back. I’ll get more when we’re away.”
They step out from Clearheart’s manor onto the veranda and turn around toward the building’s only true exit. Lamp scans the courtyard as they move, and his eyes are immediately drawn to a spectacle taking place against the back wall.
Clearheart’s trophy, the butcher’s nude and mutilated corpse, hangs flat against the stone. A line of young recruits stands facing it with their shortbows strung and arrows nocked. They wait with rapt attention as a veteran instructor orders them one by one to aim, draw, and loose. Their close range to the target indicates that this exercise isn’t archery practice so much as mental conditioning. The Glassbloods are using their enemy’s corpse to teach a new generation of fighters not to feel.
“Nothing goes to waste.” Lamp mutters darkly.
Hearing but not understanding him, Owl turns her head to see what caught his attention, then stops dead at the sight. A growing tension in her face and neck indicates that she’s about to vomit, so Lamp quickly steps between her and the ghastly scene. A moment later, Blackwing reaches back with his graft arm and places a firm hand on the girl’s shoulder to steer her away. She allows herself to be turned forward and led down from Clearheart’s walkway.
As they step into the stone tunnel to the outside, Owl swallows her bile and hoarsely whispers. “I truly cannot comprehend that woman.”
“I’m right there with you.” Lamp murmurs back. “Though for me, it’s her brutality that I expected and the good humor which I found off putting.”
“Did she have good humor?” The handmaid asks half-heartedly.
“Yes. Well… above my expectations.”
Hurrying along after Blackwing’s quick stride, they quickly distance themselves from Clearheart’s manor and rush through the Glassblood compound, only slowing when they approach its outer wall. The fortress gates, normally left open during the day for convenience, now stand closed against the energetic crowd outside. From the cacophonous noise carrying over the bulwark, Lamp can only assume that the streets outside are still thronged with celebrants.
Lamp never had much love for crowds, he still feels a weight lifting from his shoulders as the guards begin to pull their gates open again.
Yesterday, when Clearheart had invited Lamp and Owl to stay at her fortress overnight, the scholar had understood that he was being taken hostage. Clearheart might have called off the raid over suspicion of a double cross if Blackwing had insisted on sheltering his people in a different location. As strongly as Lamp had desired to object, he’d understood how little choice they had in the matter.
It’s over with now, though, and he’s about to finally be rid of this place. The heavy doors slowly swinging open before him almost seem to let out into a brighter world. If nothing else, it’s certainly a louder one.
Blackwing moves forward the moment there’s space for him, not even waiting to be waved forward, and his compatriots dutifully follow him under the wall. They emerge from its shadow seconds later to find the street outside filled with jubilation. Only the Glassblood’s narrow moat and thin bridge separates them from the most exuberant press of bodies Lamp has ever seen.
Blackwing’s emergence prompts a further explosion of cheers from the already excited public, but the Prince of Merchants gives the people no response. He merely pauses for a moment to set his helm back upon his head, then he holds out his long left arm and glances at Lamp and Owl in turn.
“Grab hold.” He calls over the noise. “We’ll travel by rooftop.”
Lamp does as instructed, then looks up with a question. “Back to the docks?”
Blackwing shakes his head. “To Candlewire. It’s time to finalize our plan.”
