“I’d fight to avenge you, too, you know,” she said, smoothing his hair. “I’m a Forester myself.”
“If it comes to that, you fight with a pen in one hand and a scepter in the other,” Kip said. “You’ll do far more damage.”
“I know. But I don’t have to like it.” She swallowed, and he saw for one moment the depth of her fear for him. And he saw the bravery she showed in controlling it.
She straightened his light jacket—a fashion necessity, she assured him, despite the warmth of the evening—and tucked away his necklace. Finally, she laced his sleeves at the wrists to cover his Turtle-Bear tattoo and spritzed him with some scented water. “Remember how you walk. Shoulders back, string from the top of your head,” she said, but all he heard was, ‘I love you, I love you.’
“Like a marionette,” Kip said, smiling at her in the mirror.
Her breath came out ragged.
She cleared her throat and, still looking at him in the mirror, said, “Lift your left arm.”
“When I walk?” he asked.
She smacked him, but smiled.
He did it.
“Which arm did the man in the mirror raise?” she asked.
“Uh . . . his right?” Kip said. He hadn’t meant it to come out as a question. He tried again, and immediately felt foolish. “Yep, definitely his right.”
“You know why? No, don’t give me that look.”
He’d been giving her a look. He couldn’t deny it. “Because our eyes—and how the light bounces—and stuff? I mean, the light travels correctly, but we reverse the image when we imagine that there’s actually a person over on the other side of the mirror. Why are you frowning?”
“No, it’s a hint.” She shook her head. “I’ve been afraid of this meeting for you for a long time.”
“You have?”
“I’ve been trying to arm you for it.”
“Uh . . .”
“Kip, there are two kinds of mirrors a man should fear, because both push their will into him and can do so without him even realizing they’re not objective or passive. The figure in the mirror raising the wrong arm is our hint that between reality and perception, things can get twisted.”
“I remember. The first kind, anyway.” She meant actual physical mirrors, where his own distorted perceptions could confirm lies about himself while he believed he was seeing objective truth.
“The second is others’ regard. We judge ourselves by how others see us, and oftentimes that’s exactly what we need to do in order to correct our errors of self-judgment. But you’re going to see Andross Guile.”
“Not a man who has much regard for anyone,” Kip said.
“It’s ten times worse, Kip. You meeting with your grandfather is more dangerous for you than facing ten thousand enemies.”
“It’s just a silly card game,” Kip said. “I’ll lose a few rounds, he’ll feel superior, and we’ll call it a day.” But something in his guts twisted. Andross was going to make him put wagers on the games. Kip just knew it. Wagers he would certainly lose.
She sighed quietly. “Are you reassuring me or yourself?” But she didn’t wait for him to answer. “Kip, he’s dangerous to you because you admire him so much. You hate what he’s done, sure. But you’ve compared yourself to him from the first time you met him. You’ve aspired to be what he is. And you’re actually so much more than he is.”
“He’s smarter than I am.”
“Sure. So? A man whose intelligence is leavened with humility is doubly wise.”
“He’s more cunning. More connected. More masterful. More knowledgeable. More—”
“He’s a hundred things more! And not one of them matters. I worry what you’ll see when you look in his eyes, Kip. Because he’s warped. People come away from meeting him hating themselves and hating the world. People meet with you and they come away with hope. You’re a thousand times the man he’ll ever be—no matter what happens. No matter what.”
Kip swallowed. “I love you.”
“I know, you fat fuck,” she said.
His eyebrows shot up, and she laughed at shocking him, and he remembered the phrase from their earlier talk about how he’d scorned himself.
But now her face went somber. Her hands rested on his shoulders, and he could tell she was appreciating how solid they were, how broad. “Remember to see yourself as you are in the eyes of those who love you. That’s what it means when we say ‘Orholam holds you in His eyes,’ Kip. And I do, too. Swear to me you’ll push back against everything else.”
“Honey,” Kip said, admonishing her, “I’m a Guile. I don’t know how to not fight.”
She grabbed him as he turned to go, her fingernails digging painfully into his arms. “Then you fight. Fight for all of us. I love you.”
Chapter 77
Quentin wasn’t in his room, but Teia was already in the damned tower, so she went looking for him in their old restricted library. She needed to report her failure.
The door was closed. Of course.
She sighed and eased it open, as if the wind had pushed it, peeked quickly, and let it close again.
No one was in sight.
She peeked again, then slipped inside.
The sound of laughter arrested her. Quentin, laughing? With someone else?
First, that was very strange, and then it oddly felt like he was cheating on her.
She ghosted closer, drawing paryl to her fingertips. She didn’t recognize the man as she approached from behind, though. Tall, lanky, with long dark hair, a dark beard, the frame of spectacles over his ears. Baggy sailor’s trousers, but a fine dark tunic, not a luxiat. She streamed paryl out toward him, the light cutting through his clothing to show her what weapons he carried.
It was veritable armory. Large pistols in queer sheaths at his hips, smaller ones on little frames up his sleeves loaded with springs, knives, and a sword-breaker, and two spare sets of spectacles.
This was no visiting scholar.
She felt a sudden sheen of sweat on her upper lip. Had Quentin ratted her out? Was he working with the Order?
“Perfectly safe,” Quentin said. “No one comes here.”
She reached across the room and slipped little blades of paryl into the man’s neck. The paryl illuminated him further as she closed in on him. Some kind of odd, broken-and-repaired contraption encased one knee that had ugly scars around it; maybe an open luxin connection there?
Quentin was laughing along with a wight?
The little holy hypocrite. I thought I knew you, Quentin.
Teia readied a second strike for him.
“You can’t expect the old boys to give up all their secrets without a fight,” the stranger said, tucking a stray bit of hair behind his ears. Or securing his spectacles? There was something about that voice—
The man launched himself backward, staying in his chair as it tipped toward the floor. Before he slammed into the ground, he caught himself with both feet on the underside of the table, even as a mechanical ka-chung rang out. Teia found herself staring into two small pistol barrels that had sprung from the man’s sleeves into his hands even as he hung upside down, tilting in his chair. Her paryl daggers into him had been shattered by his sharp movement. His spectacles glittered with sub-red. But behind everything unfamiliar, behind even the unfamiliar spectacles, were eyes she knew well.