Quentin blinked, then his eyes flicked up as he tried to remember. “With one arguable exception, and one definite one—yes, at least for the past two hundred and twenty-two or -three years.”

“And that doesn’t seem curious to you?”

“It’s not curious at all. It’s not like you’re the first to notice that, Kip. Breaker? Why do some people call you— Never mind. It’s more evidence that Orholam has blessed the political order of the Seven Satrapies. And the exceptions prove that Orholam sees all men, and when the nobles displease Orholam, he is more than willing to go outside our human politics.”

“Convenient how that works for you, either way.”

Quentin held a reproachful silence. Finally, he said, “Did you wake me only to mock me?”

Kip wasn’t angry at Quentin, who seemed like he was outgrowing his naiveté, though with great pain. Kip was angry at his grandfather. It seemed that if there was one place free of politics, it should be Orholam’s house. But that wasn’t Quentin’s fault.

“No. I wanted to ask you how a Prism’s … uh, installed? Elevated? Whatever. Is there a ceremony?”

“It’s ‘consecrated,’ actually.”

“How’s it happen?”

Quentin looked a little peeved that this was what Kip had woken him for. “It’s all very secret. There’s a feast. There’s mourning for the Prism who has died, and every light in the city and the Chromeria is extinguished for the night except for the great braziers that they light in the star towers. People mingle and drink and mourn their own dead and sing songs and only these little beacons of light remain.”

“What about the ceremony itself?”

“It is known only to the Spectrum and the High Luxiats. I think the Spectrum may only be told what to do on the night of. I mean, the High Luxiats can be very close-mouthed about the things they think are important, and it doesn’t get much more important than that.”

“Who’s currently on the Spectrum who was there seventeen years ago?”

“You mean when Gavin was made Prism?”

“Right.”

“Your grandfather, of course. The White and the superviolet … and I think that’s it, actually. It’s been a hard seventeen years.”

“Would there be something about it in the restricted library?” Kip asked.

“What’s this about, Kip?”

“It’s about a knife.”

“A what?”

“A knife. Maybe a holy knife.” Kip paused. “Your face just did a thing.”

“A thing?”

Kip was suddenly suspicious. “Do you know something about this, Quentin?”

They’d reached the restricted library. “Let’s wait until we’re inside,” Quentin said.

Kip manipulated the panels to bring the diffuse yellow luxin glow to the darkened room. Quentin didn’t look any better in full light.

“Kip, I—I swore to tell you anything you asked about.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And I wasn’t … precisely forbidden to share this, but I did know that it wasn’t meant to be shared. If you ask it of me, my oath to you supersedes an implicit understanding, but it makes me very uncomfortable.”

“Out with it,” Kip said.

“So you’re compelling me?”

“Damn right.” It wasn’t even a question.

“One of the High Luxiats let slip to me that they lost something very important some sixteen or seventeen years ago. He said that Andross Guile had taken it, and then claimed it was lost.”

Kip rocked back on two feet of his chair and blew out a heavy breath. “I was right,” he said. “I just woke up and I knew. Huh.”

It was the Blinding Knife—or, as Andross had called it, the Blinder’s Knife. If Kip hadn’t been working and studying and fighting every hour of the day before collapsing into bed and nightmares half the time before repeating all of the rest again, harder, he would have thought of it sooner.

Kip had stabbed Janus Borig’s assassin Vox with that blade, and the man had failed to draft green at the very moment he’d gone toe to toe with Kip. It had saved Kip’s life. Vox had shouted, ‘Atirat! Atirat, come back!’ Atirat, the green goddess.

Kip had stabbed one of the green demigods at the top of the bane, and it had robbed the woman of her color.

Kip had thought that Zymun had stabbed Gavin when they were escaping the Battle of Garriston. And he had.

Thinking again of the fight on the ship, when Kip screened out Grinwoody’s contorted, furious face, and the flailing blows, and Andross Guile’s intense concentration, and Gavin’s self-sacrifice, and his own guilt about his ineptness and that he had gotten his father nearly killed—when Kip screened it all out and thought only about the right things, everything became clear. And the right things were Gavin’s eyes, and the knife. Gavin had looked at Kip and his eyes hadn’t sparkled with refractory elegance of a Prism’s eyes, and then Kip had seen the dagger grow.

On the deck of Gunner’s ship, Kip had seen that dagger pulled from Gavin’s chest. No longer a dagger with a single gleaming blue jewel, it was now a gleaming white-and-black sword with seven burning gems in the blade.

Kip strained to remember how his father’s eyes looked then, but Gavin had been five paces away, in the darkness, shouting with pain, eyes narrowed or averted.

Not Gavin’s eyes, then. Andross Guile’s. Kip had been face-to-face with the man, and he had seen the broken halos in his eyes. And since then, Kip had seen his eyes again. Kip had sunk the dagger into Andross’s shoulder that night, if only for a moment.

The Blinding Knife was what made Prisms. And the knife had taken that away from Gavin.

“What is it? What does it mean?” Quentin asked.

“Well I’m not going to tell you. I know you can’t keep a secret.”

Quentin looked ill.

“Quent. I’m joking.”

“So what is it?”

Kip shook his head. “I wasn’t joking about not telling you—I’m not telling you. I like you, Quentin, but I barely know you, and I don’t know how much of what we say the luxiats make you share with them. I wouldn’t even hold it against you. It’s very hard to say no to some of these people. I was joking that you can’t keep a secret.”

“Not really joking about that, though,” Quentin said.

“I wasn’t questioning your character.”

“Yes you were.”

“Yes, I was.” Kip shrugged. “Tell me I’m being irrational.”

Quentin opened his mouth, then closed it. “Might be rational, but it doesn’t feel very good.”

That was why Andross Guile had been so focused on the blade. Kip had thought him a monster for caring more about the blade than about his son Gavin. But to Andross it wasn’t a blade, it was the future of all the satrapies. The Blinding Knife was the key to making a new Prism.

And Kip’s mother—his drug-addled, hate-filled wretched harpy of a mother—had stolen it seventeen years ago. And disappeared.

It had meant that Gavin couldn’t be replaced. Most Prisms lasted seven years or fourteen, but despite his clashes with the Spectrum and with his father, Gavin hadn’t been replaced. Because they couldn’t replace him. They had lost the one implement by which the gift of Prismhood was conferred—and, probably, taken. They killed the old Prism with the blade, it took his or her power, and they somehow transferred it to the new one.