The orbs settled at the top of the promontory at the height of a man’s face, at his eyes.
The very air distorted at the crown of the hill, and something there—perhaps even a mirror, as Gavin had suspected—seemed to bubble outward, as if something was pushing its way out from the mirror and into the world.
What was happening there was hard to make out, looking up the hill against the monotone brightness of the sky, except for where every downward angle from the figure’s pushing in made the mirror reflect black ground instead of the bright sky.
The face itself was unbearably bright. Gavin held up a hand to block the searing light. Through his spread fingers, Gavin saw a silvery foot slide forth. Then a gleaming arm with muscles etched of marble, then a perfect body with mirror-skin.
The godling took three steps out before he seemed to recall that here he needed to breathe. Gavin could hear the breath, this far away. If this was all an illusion, it was more sophisticated than any Gavin had ever heard of.
The mirror-skin of the being resolved, melting into or morphing into humanlike skin. Humanlike except for its utter perfection. As if in deliberate mockery of Gavin, it, too, wore only a loincloth. Its eyes, now not quite so brilliantly hot as the sun itself, were still unbearably bright, blotting out the man’s features. Gavin couldn’t scan that alien face for whatever deception or malice might lie there.
Gavin’s disbelief managed one more gasp. This was all a magical deceit—sure, maybe an ancient and fiendishly complicated one—but Gavin was no simpleton desperate to buy clever drafting.
The eyes. The eyes were the key!
He looked down to see if his own shadow moved as that bright being moved; no hex-casting, no illusion could cast such light that it actually threw shadows. The lack of shadows would reveal that this was mere will-casting.
The phantasm started circling down the hill, as if giving Gavin room, as if Gavin were a skittish wild beast. But Gavin welcomed each step the thing took away from the mirror—if this were will-casting or hex, the magic would be placed where everyone must look, the mirror itself.
But then he saw that his shadow was splitting, trembling, synchronized with those lantern eyes as they bobbed with the creature’s every step.
Fear shot down Gavin’s spine. It was real.
Worse—what if the godling were circling, not to alleviate Gavin’s fear but . . . it was heading toward the Blinding Knife!
Gavin shot away like an arrow loosed. Up the hill, the godling shot forward, too, rushing in at an angle toward the same prize as if he and Gavin were twinned eyes in a mirror, the light of heaven and the light of earth being called together here at the center of all things.
But the god was better positioned. Gavin didn’t dare look toward him for fear of it slowing him even half a step. He could feel the deity closing.
Then It cut in, not going for the prize but leaping at Gavin instead, as if he himself were the prize.
They went down hard, slamming to the beautiful and utterly unforgiving black stone of the tower’s roof.
And that resolved his last doubt with a thuddingly physical crash: you can’t get tackled by an illusion.
Coughing, gasping, Gavin lashed out immediately. If he’d learned nothing else from his life, it was that he who strikes first often strikes last. But with their legs entangled, his kick glanced off solid muscle.
Gavin lashed out with knees and elbows, kicking to create some distance.
Whatever else this being was, Its flesh wasn’t marble or luxin or pure will; it felt like that of a man.
And It fought like a man, too, grabbing Gavin’s ankle as he tried to pull away to run the last steps to the sword. The godling twisted Gavin’s ankle so hard that he had to flip sideways, or risk his leg being broken.
Gavin rolled, tearing his ankle free, but losing all forward momentum. He tried to stand, losing where his opponent was as he tried to claim a position between the being and the blade.
The godling crashed into Gavin again, blasting him off his feet and landing on top of him, two steps from the blade.
This time Gavin was on the receiving end of the knees and elbow strikes. He blocked, blocked, thrashed ineffectually. He’d never been a great grappler. The Blackguards he’d trained with never much wanted to slam their elbows into the Prism’s head, and in Gavin’s real-world fights, he’d only rarely come within range of a sword, much less fists. Drafting and shooting had always been enough. If anyone had come within grappling range, Gavin had been able to count on a Blackguard dealing with the threat instantly.
It had become one part of his training Gavin let rust into disuse; not even Blackguards could excel at every martial art, and Gavin had needed to be so much more than only a warrior.
The man went for a chokehold, and Gavin barely had the presence of mind to shoot an arm up through the grip before his opponent could choke him from consciousness.
Even as he strove to break free toward that damned blade—it was a hand’s breadth from his straining fingertips!—a chill cut through the heat of flight and fear and the raw vibrancy of battle juice: Gavin couldn’t fight this Opponent with some easy and obvious short-term goal animating his every move.
Trying only and immediately to grab the sword would make him too predictable. Back when he’d had his powers, fighting a monochrome drafter while standing between the man and his spectacles had always been easy. Drafters in those positions always thought they only had options after they had their spectacles and thus their power, so they always moved to grab their spectacles first, even if it put them in the jaws of an obvious trap.
Gavin would need to use every resource instead; this fight wouldn’t end in seconds; it might stretch minutes. How long it took didn’t matter. Whether he grabbed the Blinding Knife didn’t matter. Victory was all that mattered.
Gavin stopped trying to roll toward the sword and pushed hard into the godling’s pull.
The reversal threw them both over, away from the Blinding Knife. Gavin scissored his legs around the man, straining to lock his feet together.
“I know you,” Gavin said.
“You don’t even know yourself.”
“You’ re—”
The Opponent twisted, grunting, throwing repeated knee strikes, mostly deflected. They had to take as much out of him to dish out as they took Gavin to absorb. The fire in his eyes was smaller now, but just as intense if not more. Gavin couldn’t stare at him for long lest he be blinded.
“I . . . had seven goals,” Gavin said. He had to talk in short little gaspy fragments. He’d probably been fighting for only two minutes, and it already felt like years.
“For every seven years. You think I don’t know?” the godling said. He didn’t seem nearly as out of breath as Gavin was.
“ Took—” Gavin shifted as he took another shot in the ribs. He lost the thought. “Was careful not to even, uh, think about it out in the sun. In case.” In case the Order was right and Orholam really did see and maybe even hear everything done in the light.
“Thought darkness could hide your blasphemy?” the godling asked.
“Blasphemy? Ha! One can only blaspheme against a god!”
Gavin lost his grip on a sweat-slick arm, then he lunged for a better hold and missed.
They broke apart from each other, both rolling, both standing, chests heaving, throwing glances at the sword but neither of them making a move for it that might leave him vulnerable.