The Place
Stormglass Spires is a row of crystal spires on a wind-scoured ridge, and the ridge is the whole of the place, because the ridge has no other claim. There are thirteen spires at the last count, and the thirteen is the number the storm keeps, because a storm that has thirteen conductors is a storm that is a constellation, and a constellation is a city. The spires are natural columns of conductive glass, each one a pale blue that is more light than stone, and the columns have been shaped and tuned by a thousand generations of goblin hands, and the thousand generations is the craft and the craft is the ledger. The stone of the ridge is black and scoured, a black the wind has stripped to nothing, and the nothing is the ground, and the ground is the only thing the spires do not need. Light comes from the charge — the spires glow pale blue in a storm, and the glow is the whole of the city's daylight, and the daylight is the constellation in the dark. In the season without the storm the spires dim to a cold silver, and the silver is the city at rest, and the rest is the waiting, because the waiting is the law and the law is the sky. The wind on the ridge is the constant, a hard wind that strips the face and the rope and the breath, and the stripping is the sound of the place, a high thin ring that is the glass talking to the storm. It smells of ozone and cold stone, a smell that is the charge and is also the warning, and the one sound under the ring is the tick, a small click from the tuning chambers that is the storm being read as a word, and the word is the count, and the count is the kept. There is no landmark the way a ridge has a landmark, but there is one: the First Spire, the tallest and the oldest, a column of glass that rises forty meters above the ridge line, and the spire is the door, and the door is the charge. What makes Stormglass Spires itself is the ledger: the storm keeps a count of every strike it has made, and the count is the memory, and the memory is the price.
How They Live
The Lightning Goblins live in the spires, in chambers of carved crystal that hold the charge and give it back. A chamber is cut one tuning at a time, and a tuning is the season and a tuning is the calendar, and the cut of the chamber is the craft and the craft is the rank. Light comes from the charge itself — the spires glow pale blue in a storm, and the city is a constellation in the dark, and the constellation is the daylight and the daylight is the kept. They eat what the ridge offers: storm-fruit, dried meat, and the ash the spires throw off in a great storm, and the ash is the staple, because the ash is what the storm leaves as a signature, and the signature is the kept. Water is drawn from the ridge springs, and every drop passes through a crystal filter the keepers tune, and the tuning is the craft and the craft is the law. Heat comes from the charge in the season of the storm, and the season is the year, and the goblins have stopped asking the ridge for more. The defense is the charge — a visitor who climbs the spire is a wire that has not been grounded yet, and the not-grounding is the whole of the defense, because a visitor who is climbing is a visitor who is already counted. The day is measured by the sky, and the sky is read by the spires, which is also the alarm, which is also the calendar, and the calendar does not lie about the storm. Every child of the spires must stand in a tuning chamber alone through one full strike before the city will call it a keeper, and the standing is the naming, and the naming is the only thing the storm ever gives back.
People
Home of the Lightning Goblins, whose storm-clans are counted by spire. Thirteen spires, and the count is kept by the tuning-wards, which is to say the count is as reliable as the glass, which is to say it is reliable until the storm strikes it. The tuning-wards lead, and rank is decided by the tuning, because a ward who tunes a chamber before the storm is the ward the city trusts. Nothing that cannot carry a charge is welcome, and the not-carrying is not an insult, because the city has a ledger, and the ledger has a count, and the count has a price. A surface trader who once watched the spires from the far ridge called them a city that eats the storm and keeps the change, and the calling was the truest thing he said and the thing the spires paid the least attention to.
In Stories
The place where the storm lives, and the storm has a ledger. The Forgotten have passed the ridge once, in the season without the storm, and the passing was on the way to the high country, and the silver silence of the spires was the only thing that lasted. Uaellaen read the tick of the First Spire once, and the reading was the storm's own, and the own was the only thing that frightened him.