Now, why weren’t these damned Blood Robes retreating with the coming night? Why?!
Then, suddenly, the black luxin returned in an enormous wave.
Dazen!
The wave scoured the islands, breaking the bane’s control of all the drafters, freeing them to do what they could.
The defenders and attackers were equally astonished, breaking from fighting for a few moments and then rejoining the fray. But even that didn’t make the Blood Robes flee.
And then the black wave was gone.
Corvan immediately deployed his drafters, but the sun was already so far down that they had little source. Some had mag torches, but those were rare and expensive—Corvan left it to the drafters themselves to decide if they needed to use them.
It allowed some pushback at key places, but there weren’t enough mag torches to fuel the defense.
Why the hell had Kip stopped sending light from the mirror array?! He hadn’t been answering the messages they’d flashed to him for a while now. And now was when they needed him on the mirror array most. These few minutes could make a real difference!
“Send messages to Kip again. Tell him if he’s got any more tricks, now would be a good time—”
“Sir, the superviolets say that the Ferrilux has seized the mirror array,” an attaché said.
“What?!” he demanded.
Ferrilux’s bane had been killed, but she had not. And she’d taken the array, which likely meant Kip was dead.
Dammit, Aliviana.
But he couldn’t think of her as his daughter. Not right now. And maybe it wasn’t her anymore. Maybe she wasn’t in control anymore. Maybe she was a victim, too.
So why would Ferrilux seize the mirrors as night came? Why put herself in such peril that she would try to take the mirrors even without her bane or her wights?
He looked out at the other bane once more. Each had some kind of central spire, a high point. He’d thought them mere lookouts, good areas from which the Blood Robes could see what was happening even behind Big Jasper’s walls.
And then he got it. The bane had brought lightwells, like great mag torches.
That was why Ferrilux wanted the mirror array.
The Blood Robes were bringing sources to the fight. With colors from each of the towers and the mirrors, the wights would be able to attack with magic, all night long, anywhere in the city.
Aside from the purely strategic disadvantage of fighting all those wights with no magic themselves, Corvan realized that in mere minutes his people were going to be fighting street to street against literal monsters in the dark.
The terror would be overwhelming.
“Sir! We’ve got more wights massing to attack. Hundreds at least!” an attaché shouted over the din.
“What colors? What colors, Lieutenant? And don’t you dare say all of ’em!”
“Sir . . .” Her face strained. “All of them.”
Chapter 133
Andross Guile crawled across the stateroom floor, drool and vomit dripping down his chin.
White luxin. Goddam. Kip had drafted white luxin before the end. The little barnacle on Andross’s ass had had the audacity to try to control the mirror array from Orholam’s Glare itself. And that fire! It had confirmed one thing, anyway, Lord Dariush had been right: the Atashians’ Dragon and the other satrapies’ Lightbringer weren’t the same person.
Or maybe they were, and Kip had failed, and they were all doomed.
Andross threw up again, retching on an empty belly.
The slaves were gone. Not a one of his household had stood by him. He had treated them so well, and this is what he got?
When the spasms passed, he pulled himself to his feet. He was past the worst of it now. Two bites into his garlic-and-almond chicken before he’d stopped. Two distracted bites before he’d recognized the tastes weren’t exactly garlic and almond, and stopped, and forced himself to vomit. Not garlic and almond, but two poisons whose odors most resemble those: arsenic and cyanide.
He braced himself against the doorframe, and slowly, slowly checked his Ilytian pistol. There was a chance that an assassin might come and make sure the job was finished. Then, reassured, he opened the door.
No one was outside. All the Blackguards had abandoned their posts, either traitors or men and women who put their loyalty to Karris above their loyalty to anyone else on the Spectrum. Certainly Zymun had had no Blackguards attending him when he’d murdered Kip. Zymun was stupid, but he wasn’t that stupid.
Andross tottered across the hallway to Felia’s old chambers. Opened the door slowly, in case its occupant had been given a musket.
“Who’s there?!” a young woman called out.
“It is I.”
“Who the hell are you?” Teia demanded from the couch. Good, good. He would have been furious if they’d put the little runt in Felia’s bed.
“Andross Guile. Your promachos.”
“Is Grinwoody with you?”
“I’m alone,” he said, coming into the room.
Teia relaxed visibly, taking her finger off the trigger, but still resting it along the musket’s guard and still keeping the musket pointed in his general direction. Her head was wrapped in numerous layers of thick cloths, and he could see she was listening closely for any quick movement. “Where is he?” she asked. As if she had the right to ask questions of him—but he was too sick to fight right now.
“Gone.”
“How’d you know they brought me here?” she asked.
“They couldn’t keep you in the infirmary; it would be the first place the Order would look. And they didn’t know of any of the hidden rooms except those the Order obviously knew about already. That left them without many good options.”
“You just . . . know all of this?” Teia demanded. “You really do have people everywhere, don’t you?”
“In truth,” Andross admitted, “I heard them arguing about it outside my door.” He hoped to elicit a smile, but Teia was past charm.
“Grinwoody is the Old Man of the Desert,” she said.
“Really? Is he now?” The red in him flared up. “Now, that information would have been very valuable before he poisoned my supper.”
“He poisoned your—Oh shit! So that’s why you look like that.”
So she could see through her head wrappings?
All right, then. Actually, good.
“You’re a miserable failure, Adrasteia, but I’m going to give you another chance.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You were supposed to kill the Order, right? Grinwoody got away. And you’ve missed all the fighting today. Good people have died. Friends.”
He could see her swallow. She wanted to ask, but didn’t.
“I can’t do anything,” she said. “I’m not here because I want to be. I drank lacrimae sanguinis. Had to, to get them all to drink it. I don’t even know if it wears off, but I’m weak as a puppy and—”
“It does.”
“What?”
“Wear off.”
“How would you know that?”
“I studied poisons quite a bit when I first got into politics—seemed a prudent defensive measure. Luckily, that was before I took on Grinwoody, else he’d have known about the mithridatism.”