They’d come to rescue a Prism. Instead they’d rescued a man.

They’d done the impossible, five of them rescuing a man from fifty thousand, and it was for nothing.

“This isn’t how Prisms die,” Ironfist said, keeping his voice barely above a whisper. “When I was named commander of the Blackguard, they told me what to look out for. Nothing about Gavin Guile has been normal.”

“What is?” Karris asked.

“I’m not supposed to say. Last thing we need is every Blackguard playing chirurgeon, wondering if she should obey her Prism, or if he’s going mad.” He looked away and said, “It’s not the first sign, but eventually, they get color in their irises, and eventually, they break the halo. Just like the rest of us.”

“But…” Karris said. Obviously, that wasn’t what was happening here, not at all.

“That’s not all. There’s a ceremony, every seven years. I don’t know what happens, but the first time I had the distinct feeling that Gavin hadn’t made enough friends, and he wasn’t going to be Prism afterward. But an odd thing happened: they never had the ceremony, and Gavin kept being Prism. After that, everything changed. If you weren’t paying attention, you wouldn’t have seen it, but the composition of the Spectrum changed drastically. Marid Black killed himself, but he’d long struggled with melancholy, and we found a note. The Blue left immediately after Sun Day and was killed in a shipwreck, possibly while fleeing pirates. The Green retired and since has died. The Yellow was called home to Abornea and died months later after being thrown from a horse. The Sub-red withdrew to his estate on Big Jasper and didn’t leave until his death two years later, supposedly of drink and lotus eating. Delara Orange’s mother somehow emerged from what had been called ruinous debts; she’d been gone for much of the previous few years, missing meetings while she tried to beg, borrow, or steal money to keep her house together, but was suddenly present for every meeting. Only the Superviolet and Red seemed unchanged. It was spread out over so much time, and the news of some of these didn’t come for six or eight months later, that everyone was already engaged in maneuvering over who would take those seats. And Gavin and the White and the Red and the High Luxiats and the satraps and everyone else who was anyone jumped into those fights. No one party emerged as a total victor. I’m certain of that. I’ve kept tally of the close votes, especially the close votes Andross has won. He didn’t buy or suborn all the new Colors. It’s been nine and ten years or more now. It would have been clear by now if he had them all under his thumb. Which is probably the other reason everyone wrote off the changes as coincidence. Who would overturn a Color if they didn’t have a plan to put in a friendlier face?

“But I watched again, three years ago now, at the fourteen-year mark. No one was nervous. No one moved their families around, arranged visits, or wills, or escapes. There were no contenders to be the next Prism. And the day passed in peace. I don’t know what happened. I’ve searched the libraries and every history I can find, but there are no mentions of how a Prism is named. None. Not even speculation. Which tells me the lack is deliberate. This is not the work of one man expunging some records, like I thought at first. It must be the work of generations of men doing that. Think even of the oral histories, which can’t be stopped: even they speak only of parties and gathering of the Spectrum and satraps and luxiats, with a whiff of the usual politicking, and at the end, always, always, total unity and agreement, with ‘Orholam having spoken.’ I know these men, and Orholam could show up in a pillar of fire in the middle of the room and turn half the councilors into goats, and the other half would still not be in total agreement and unity afterward. And I can tell when Gavin is ready for a challenge or a fight or even a game. He doesn’t contain his excitement. He doesn’t even try.

“And he’s not been excited. Because he doesn’t know. I’ve never been sure whether I should be glad the Prism isn’t part of this conspiracy, or terrified because of that. But this, his eyes, they prove to me that we’re facing something unprecedented.”

But Karris was thinking about something altogether different. Gavin had appeared to be oblivious to all the angling going on under his nose because he was Dazen, and he was petrified. He hadn’t known what secret alliances Gavin might have made, and he hadn’t known or probably had any way to find out about the ceremony without exposing his real identity. And perhaps no one had bothered trying to enlist his aid for their schemes because they thought he would be dead when they carried them out.

Gavin had been absent half the time, hunting down wights with Karris and others in every arc of the Seven Satrapies. When he was home, he was pressed into rituals of all sorts, appearances for new discipulae, and even teaching lectures. He sometimes thought his high position meant he could simply ignore the political currents swirling around his ankles like a giant crossing a stream. There were layers upon layers of secrets, and at the bottom of any you might happen to excavate, you might find that it had all been a plot to marry this daughter to that son of a higher class, or to displace another family that had valuable shipping contracts, or a bastard son, or a gambling habit.

On the other hand, feeling in good health, Gavin might have never even realized that others were plotting what to do when he suddenly died. And then he hadn’t suddenly died. Who would tell him that they had been planning how to take advantage of his sudden death?

Of course, if he hadn’t thought it all beneath him, if he’d turned his mind fully to controlling the Spectrum, he would have noticed. But Gavin was no Andross. And Gavin had always his own secret to protect. How much had that hobbled him? If someone made a veiled comment that they expected the real Gavin to understand, would Gavin have demanded they explain, or would he have shied away instead?

Shied away. Every time. He’d hated talking about the war, though he must have practiced those lies to perfection. Hated talking about the past, period. And he’d done everything he could to make none of it matter: disrupting old alliances, forging new ones, destroying powers and dispensing justice where he could, regardless of where those receiving it had stood in the war. It had made him a great Prism, but it had also made him blind to the knives at his back.

Which was fine, as long as he was so powerful that no one dared use those knives.

There was more there. Something she was missing. A piece she’d been handed. But Karris was tired from rowing half the night, and worrying, and yesterday’s fighting had left her bruised and battered. And they weren’t home yet.

“You’ve got a secret,” Ironfist said. “Something I said made you realize something.”

“Yes,” Karris said. She wanted to explain it all to her commander, her old friend who’d saved her life on a number of occasions, whom she trusted perhaps more than Gavin himself. But she said nothing but, “I’m sorry.”

He nodded. “She said you’d say that.”

“Huh?”

“The White. She said at some point, you’d cut me off. Exclude me from your counsels. She said you’d apologize for it. She said that would be the moment when you were finally a Blackguard no more. And that it wasn’t a bad thing, but it would hurt. And that it was her fault, not yours.”