Chapter 7 The Ghost Swords #3
“And what makes Bloodglass so special?”
“It crystallizes a daemon’s flesh, slowing their movements considerably during battle,” Elias explained.
“It would be extremely effective as a bullet or other ranged weapon, but it has yet to be tested in a practical setting.” In a darker tone, he added, “If the batch is degrading as you say, Meister Barbaros, then I imagine it’s hard to predict what it might do. ”
“Which is why we want to transport it as soon as possible,” the guildmaster agreed.
“The final step of our production process, after glazing, is ‘firing’ the coated objects in the massive kilns constructed in your factory. Under such intense heat, we’re concerned the dust might react poorly, as it’s been sitting and degrading for so long. ”
“If the dust becomes unstable, we can’t use it,” Elias pointed out. “We might need to amend the contract. Perhaps we can test a small batch to see if it's still viable.”
“Testing?” Meister Barbaros stammered.
“To ensure quality. We can’t proceed with a bad mix.”
“You promised your military contracts were secure.”
“They are secure,” the commander growled—a spark of temper. “But we can’t work with defective dust, and I won’t be pressured into storing twenty thousand pounds of worthless material. We should test each batch before you transport it.”
“Testing each batch will waste time and product!” the meister groaned.
“We need assurance! Otherwise we’d be throwing away goldlarks by the bin!”
“It’s not our fault your construction took so long,” the guildmaster complained, his voice rising in anger. “We were promised a fully functional factory in Vimspring! We met our deadline; you blew past yours like a runaway train!"
“We ran into delays getting permits for the factories,” Old Blackwood said. “King Valienthe didn’t want the new industrial kilns built so close to the Bratzian border. There were security issues, but we appealed thirteen times to get our plans approved—”
Abruptly someone tapped on the door. Celise started, her elbow bumping into the back of the wardrobe. Lucky for her, the sound was swallowed by the servant’s footsteps, who entered the room.
“Your Grace?”
“What is it, Roffolo?” Old Blackwood called.
“Her Grace Estoria Blackwood has requested Lord Elias’s presence at the checkered pavilion. There is an impromptu fencing match underway, and she wants her son to award the winner. She wishes him to greet his guests.”
A beat of silence passed. Elias said nothing.
“A fencing match? What is this nonsense?” Old Blackwood grumbled.
“You can see them out the window, Your Grace.”
Old Blackwood turned about and crossed to the row of tall windows. Master Barbaros followed him. The two men left Celise’s line of sight, but she could easily imagine their view of the checkered courtyard, visible from the castle’s second floor.
“A fencing match? Now?” Blackwood blustered again.
“Ah, it looks like my daughters are in attendance,” Meister Barbaros crooned.
“Perhaps we should continue this discussion later tonight over dinner. Lord High Commander, you are welcome to test the anti-mana pistol at your leisure. Please, take the gun and the casings with you. Consider it a birthday gift.”
Elias closed the box of bullets with a firm snap.
Then he tucked the wooden case into his jacket and left the room, his boots slamming on the wooden floor.
Celise felt his energy pass by the wardrobe like a crackling thundercloud.
She shuddered. The Mad Dog did not seem like the friendly or diplomatic sort. Not at all.
After a pause, Meister Barbaros said in a soft voice, “Is he always like this?”
“Temperamental to a fault, no respect for decorum . . . . I truly don’t know where my son has gone, Meister Barbaros. A man came back from the Abyss, but he is not the boy I raised.”
The Meister made a sympathetic grunt in his throat.
“Oh well,” Blackwood recovered himself. “Let us get on with this award ceremony. Trust my wife to instigate a fencing tournament in the middle of a tea party. If it were up to her, she’d put a sword in the hand of every lady in the kingdom!” Blackwood laughed. “Let’s go downstairs.”
As the two left the room, Celise overheard Meister Barbaros’s retreating voice: “My daughters are enjoying their stay in Castleberry City . . . very kind of you to offer up your townhome. . . .”
Celise held her breath until the two men left the room. Then she spilled out of the wardrobe with a flurry of sneezes. Her heart raced in her chest, and her cheeks were flushed with unfamiliar excitement.
The Mad Dog seemed as intense and ill-humored as the rumors described.
She had almost seen his face!
She worried at her bottom lip, thinking over everything she had just heard.
How much of the Blackwood’s meeting was top secret information?
She had just learned of a brand new military weapon—a gun that could channel mana—and dust-shined bullets.
She didn’t think the papers or science journals had announced anything like that yet.
Ghost swords were still the preferred weapon of the Daemonguard. That much was common knowledge.
Had she just witnessed a revolutionary new weapon?
She really needed to get out of this room.
Shaking the dust off her skirts, Celise ran as fast as she could to the door.
She paused before rushing through it. She listened to make sure the hallway outside was empty.
She could hear an echo of retreating footsteps as Old Blackwood and Meister Barbaros walked down the hall.
She held her breath and waited a few more seconds before easing outside into the corridor.
The heavy wooden door slammed shut behind her, carried by its own weight.
Celise jumped. She whirled around. It almost felt like someone had slammed the door from the other side.
How ominous! She stared at the door suspiciously, then buried her hands in her skirts, clutching the fabric anxiously.
She needed to leave the north wing of the castle and return to the Moongazer Tower.
If the fencing match was already finished, then Marcella would be looking for her soon.
Then, abruptly, a gloved hand grabbed her upper arm. "Caught you."
Celise gasped. She instantly recognized the gruff, masculine voice beside her. She went stiff—then a strong hand wrenched her around.
Celise gazed, terrified, into the face of the Mad Dog duke.
At first she flinched back, wincing as though struck, expecting a horrific sight to meet her eyes that would haunt her nightmares for years to come.
But there really wasn't much to see. True to the rumors, the duke wore a black mask that covered half of his face.
It startled her. But that was all. His scars were hidden behind a plain and unremarkable piece of lightweight metal, perhaps copper, coated with black enamel paint.
The glossy black mask covered part of his forehead, his nose and his left eye down to just below his left cheekbone.
Most of the left side of his face was hidden.
The right side of his face was not scarred, and a piercing gray eye framed by dark lashes met her terrified gaze. The duke's sleek black eyebrow was lowered in anger, his wide lips turned down into a decided scowl. A shadow of stubble framed his jutting, arrogant jaw.
Celise couldn't hold his gaze—her eyes kept traveling downward.
A white starched collar hid most of the duke's neck, bound with a black cravat. He wore a vest of stormy silver brocade under a black frock coat. Very somber. It struck her as funeral attire, far from the punchy colors suitable for a party.
"What are you doing here?" that harsh, raspy voice demanded.
"I . . . I . . ."
“You were in the treasury. Don’t lie to me, girl. I watched you leave right after my father. This floor is off limits.” His eyes flitted to her bright hair. “We don’t have any guests from Sera’naya. What is your business here?”
Celise’s mouth went dry. The Mad Dog’s anger washed over her like a physical force. Her throat wouldn’t allow her to speak. To suddenly find herself face-to-face with a man like Elias Blackwood—after all of the rumors, gossip and anticipation—left her stricken with terror.
“Are you a spy?" he snarled. His grip tightened on her arm. His one visible eye searched her own—piercing, hardened, gray as ice.
"No . . . I was just . . . looking around . . . ." Celise realized how absurd that sounded. Her heart raced too fast for her to think straight. She couldn't seem to catch her breath. For a horrible moment, she began to swoon. Her vision swam. Little white spots danced in the corner of her eye.
Mother of dust, was she going to faint?
Then a strange sound reached her ears. An uproar at the end of the hallway interrupted their standoff.
The roar grew in Celise’s hearing like an ocean wave, rising in volume and intensity.
She finally pried her eyes away from the duke’s burning stare and looked up the corridor.
Her gaze traveled past the long row of standing vases and beyond the tall windows dressed with green brocade drapery.
She gasped. “Oh!”
At her slight sound, Elias looked up as well.
A small horde of servants was charging at them down the hallway. Three notable figures were in the lead: a woman wearing a white chef’s hat, a stout man with a black scowl on his face, and a lavender-haired Bratzian who was unmistakably the Blackwood’s steward.
“There! The young master can settle this,” Celise overheard the steward say.
“Since Her Grace is indisposed at the Teacup Tournament, our wayward star can make a few choices for his own birthday banquet. Lord Elias, your timing is excellent! I’m so glad we found you.
We have several urgent matters to discuss concerning the ball—”