Page 57 of House of the Iron Reaper

“Truthfully, I do not recall the title. But it has a passage about…” I glance at Deyanara. “Lightning.”

Deyanara stiffens. Cahir holds his chin in thought.

“Well, I have many books on lightning. But… Ah! Yes, I recall one I read to you.” Cahir’s gaze slides over to Deyanara, taking in her golden hair and storm cloud eyes. “You are curious about your nature, I assume?”

I nod, answering for her. Deyanara stands rigidly beside me.

“Then you have knocked upon the proper door.” He glances at the open doorway. “So to speak.”

Cahir turns and walks deeper into the library as we follow behind. My shoulders sag in relief, grateful for his memory. We fall one step behind him as we weave between tables overladen with tomes. I sneeze more than once, blowing out a dust cloud. We hear rather than see a smattering of students also in the library with us—Cahir’s library is the reason the sirens opened a university in Coalsburgh and their students make the most of it. The silence is punctuated with the odd cough or sniffle and turning of paper, but otherwise, they are lost to the gloom.

Cahir’s wings are tucked tight to his back, the leathery skin a deep red and lined with purple tattoos. Not for the first time, I envy his ability to tap into his faeth with ease. A small part of me even envy’s his Ascension, even when I shudder to think of his battle.

“I-If you do not mind me saying,” Deyanara speaks up, although her voice is barely above a hush. “You have an interesting name, Shu Cahir.”

“Ah, you noticed.” I can hear the smile in Cahir’s voice. “Not very dragon-like, hmm?”

Deyanara makes a choked noise.

“I did not mean to insult you!” she says, distressed. “I only thought it was unusual, but very beautiful.”

Cahir leads us to a pile of books stacked neatly on the floor.

“I find no insult, Fa Deyanara,” he says. “I am proud of my name. It was a gift from my mother, a witch of much power and kindness. She lives in Caldercruix with my father, and if not for my books, I would have joined them long ago.”

The words would have been sorrowful from anyone else, but Cahir speaks only in facts, his tone light and neutral.

“Is that why the candles are purple?” Deyanara inquires. “An enchantment?”

“Well observed! This House is rather insistent on wax candles over algae, but the flames are not good for the books.” Cahir shrugs. “It is the reason I have not breathed fire for many years. If not for my Ascension, I expect my krata would be as shrivelled as salted fennec by now.”

Cahir stands before a towering bookshelf, neck craned as he stares up.

“Kindly remain here,” he says to us. “I shall retrieve the tome.”

Cahir spreads his wings and, with one strong beat, flies upwards. Deyanara and I watch him go, melting into the shadows. Without him, the gloom presses in around us, the purple light barely penetrating. I hear Deyanara suck in a short breath, and find her hand in the darkness. She laces her fingers through mine, squeezing tight. Without speaking, we anchor each other in the gloom.

Cahir makes an “Aha!” noise from somewhere far above, the sound bouncing around us in an echo. He returns to the ground, a proud grin on his face and a large, dusty book in his gloved hand.

“Dragons only have a few books about lightning, as far as I am aware, but sirens have several,” Cahir says. “I believe stormy weather is often a concern of theirs.”

He carefully places the tome onto a nearby stack of books, and flips it open. Deyanara and I wave away a plume of dust.

“Ah, here we go.” Cahir slides a finger down one of the pages before tapping a section. “Would you like me to read it to you?”

“Please,” I say.

A second later, Deyanara nods. Cahir clears his throat, and begins.

“The benefits of lightning strikes are thus; the air is cleared, although we have not yet discovered why. A certain static present before a storm is removed and the air is purified. Furthermore, in the port of Salt Rock Bay, wherein thunderstorms are plentiful, the plant life appears to thrive. Locals believe a lightning strike is a sign of good luck from the Saints, making their soil more fertile. Although the science of this belief is under investigation, the results cannot be denied. It can be concluded that lightning, though destructive in its tendencies, is a vital and necessary part of the natural world.”

Cahir breathes a happy sigh, looking fondly down at the book. Deyanara’s grip on my hand loosens. She does not make a sound. I look at her, but the shadows cut sharp angles across her face and I cannot tell what she is thinking.

“What wonderful knowledge,” Cahir continues, gently closing the book. “Although slightly outdated, I have to say. I have another book, if you would be interested, on the work sirens do to harness the power of lightning strikes.”

“Harness them?” Deyanara says, and her voice is surprisingly clear.

“Oh, yes.” Cahir nods vigorously. “There is an absurd amount of power in a lightning strike. Thus far, every means of trying to collect it has… well, exploded.”