“Blood and bone,” the others swore.
She compressed her lips tightly and nodded, looking quickly at each, eye to eye. “Thank you. Thank you. All right. We’ve gotta get off Little Jasper completely,” Karris said. “We’re not safe as long as—” She cut off as they reached the ground-level grand atrium, and the lift stopped, revealing a semicircle of at least forty Lightguards, all of whom were pointing muskets at the lift.
One of the Blackguards muttered, “That’s unfortunate.”
Say this about Blackguards: facing death, they still guarded their tongues.
Several hundred people who were sheltering in the grand atrium or who had business with the Chromeria on this fraught day stood watching, confused and then aghast that people they’d thought were on the same side were pointing muskets at one another.
Gill Greyling murmured, “We can take ’em.”
Say this about Blackguards, too: facing death, they still never said die.
It made them excellent people not to listen to in certain situations.
A young Lightguard with a brace holding his leg straight and a crutch with a blade along the front edge announced loudly enough for the whole crowd to hear him, “Commander Fisk! I have to say I warned our High Lord Zymun that you would betray him. He wanted to give you a chance. So hard to find loyal commanders for the Blackguard these days. But we do have an admirable replacement. Gentlemen, it’s my honor to introduce you to your new Blackguard commander: me. You may call me Commander Aram. Brothers, sisters, all of you, surrender your muskets. Now.”
No one moved. The crowd murmured.
“That’s an order,” Aram growled.
Fisk was tense as a drawn bowstring, but he growled, “Do it.” He drew his own pistols, careful not to point them toward the jittery Lightguards. But instead of sliding the pistols to the any of the Lightguards, he slid them hard down one of the gaps between their lines.
You never arm your enemy.
The rest of the Blackguards followed in quick succession, doing the same.
“High Lady,” Aram went on, annoyed, “I’m afraid to say that I’m under orders from our new emperor, the High Lord Prism Zymun Guile, to take you into custody on charges of treason.”
“Treason?” Commander Fisk said loudly. He wasn’t addressing Aram, though. He was speaking to the other Lightguards, and the whole room. “High Lady Karris Guile, treason? Our Iron White is heading out to do battle for us all. She goes to join the Lightbringer himself. Are you telling me you’re gonna murder her? For that spoiled boy up there? What is he offering you Lightguards? Money? She goes to fulfill prophecy. She goes to save our island, our empire, and our very lives. If she doesn’t go, we all die! Hard to spend your bribe money when you’re dead. And after you discharge those muskets, consider this: what happens to you?”
“What do you mean what happens to—? Look,” Aram said, “we have our orders, and we obey them, unlike—”
“Here’s the thing,” Commander Fisk said. “We Blackguards are better trained than you are. But the damnable thing about muskets is that they wipe out most of the advantage of training. At least for the first volley, especially close up. That works against us today. But it works against you, too.”
“Huh?” Aram asked.
A young man in the crowd beyond the Lightguards had picked up one of the Blackguards’ discarded pistols. Now, swallowing, he pointed it at Aram.
“I think you should let the Iron White go,” he said, his eyes wide, his voice squeaky. He looked like he could hardly believe he’d found such courage in himself. He blinked, then, embarrassed, he cocked the pistol.
In an instant, others were picking up the muskets and pistols near them, as well, and pointing them at the Lightguards.
And then dozens of other people around the atrium produced muskets—with the threat of an invading army, everyone who owned a weapon was carrying it today.
In moments, the semicircle of Lightguards found themselves goggling as they were encircled by civilians and diplomats, bristling with dozens and dozens of muskets.
Chapter 120
Gavin gasped, jerking his hand away from the old man. “What was that? A vision? You’re a will-caster?” he demanded. “You might have told me! That could’ve come in handy a few times in the last few years, you know. And what the hell was that? Some slave kid? Mirrors? Why show me—”
The old prophet said nothing.
“Wait, that will-casting has come in handy, hasn’t it? You’ve been twisting me to your will for this whole climb, haven’t you? Was this all a deception, then? Have I actually seen any of this?”
Orholam sighed. “We know ourselves by how we see ourselves mirrored in others’ eyes. So when a man lies habitually, he distorts the mirror he holds up to the world. In fooling others, he loses himself. Those who praise him? Those who love him? He knows they must simply be fools. He hates himself because there’s a gap between what he is and what he believes himself to be. If the gap grows too large, it becomes a tear, a schism. A man torn asunder lives in madness. So, my friend, do you know who you are?”
“I’m a guy trapped on a tower in the middle of nowhere with a lunatic.”
“You’ve tried to be the Trickster. It doesn’t fit you. So you failed at trickery, and it made you fail at what you are made to do, too. Some try to blot themselves out with drug or drink, but you needed stronger stuff. You sought to unmake that which God Himself hath wrought. You used black luxin. You were afraid to be who you are. Ever in front of thousands, you thought you could stand alone, all while you secretly tried to buy redemption on the cheap. It’s why you took the pilgrimage seriously, but utterly wrongly.”
“Is this about the blade?” Gavin asked.
“There are many reasons to make a pilgrimage, but the most common is believing a pilgrimage is a shortcut to redemption. It’s also the worst reason to make one. As if one might carry a rock for a while and be finished with pride. Carrying a burden so heavy it hobbles you is a good metaphor for sin, but it’s only a metaphor. Confusing the image of a thing with the thing itself is the root of all sorts of trouble.”
“Let me guess: life itself is the pilgrimage?” Gavin asked.
But the old prophet hardly slowed. “You Guiles are eagles watching a sunset in a still mountain lake. You dive into it instead of soaring as you were made to do, and flap your wings in the water and curse the world because you can’t fly and you find it hard to breathe—and with your splashing you destroy the image of the sky, too.”
“Thanks,” Gavin said. Asshole. “So if I’m not who I think I am, then who am I?” He was trying to be flippant, but he was too exhausted. The day’s long fight had taken it out of him.
“You like to figure things out. Figure it out. Besides, I’ve already told you.”
No, you didn’t. “What does this have to do with that slave Alvaro?”
“Who’s asking?”
Ugh! God! Gavin hated prophets!
Dazen. Dazen hated prophets. Dammit! He still thought of himself as Gavin. Half the time. It was excruciating, holding himself together. “I’m Dazen Guile,” he said. His voice came out firmly. A strong, steady statement of fact. Mostly.