But Gavin woke the morning of his first night back at the Chromeria to find his mother sitting on the foot of his bed. Her eyes were red and puffy from weeping, though her cheeks were dry. She’d been careful to do her weeping before he woke.

“Did you think I wouldn’t know my own boy?” she had asked. “You’re the blood of my blood. Did you think you could deceive even me?”

“I didn’t think it would work this long, mother. I expected any of a hundred people to see through this farce, but what else can I do?”

“I understand why you’ve done what you’ve done,” she said. “I just had braced myself against your death, not your brother’s, and now to see you… It’s like having to choose which of my remaining sons I’d prefer to die.”

“No one’s asking that of you.”

“Just tell me this,” she said. “Is Gavin dead?”

“Yes,” he’d said. “I didn’t want… He gave me no… I’m sorry.”

Her eyes had streamed tears, but she ignored them. “What do you need, Dazen? I’ve lost both of your brothers; I swear to Orholam I won’t lose you.”

“Tell them I’m convalescing. Tell them the battle nearly killed me. When the time is right, tell them it changed me. But don’t make me look weak.”

And so she’d become his only true ally in the Chromeria. And after she left, he’d barred the door and opened the chest where his drugged brother lay, not a foot from where their mother had stood. He studied the unconscious figure minutely, and then himself in a mirror. Taking note of every difference, he set to work. His brother’s hair had a cowlick that stuck out whenever he cut it short; the new Gavin would have to wear his hair long so no one noticed this disparity. Gavin was a little shorter than Dazen, and had liked to wear boots with more heel; the new Gavin would wear flatter shoes. He began writing lists of his brother’s mannerisms, the way Gavin liked to pop his neck to the left and right. Or was it right and left? Damn it, Dazen didn’t even know how to pop his neck. Gavin liked to shave every day, even twice a day, to keep his face smooth; Dazen had shaved a few times a week, finding it too much bother. Gavin always wore a particular scent; Dazen had never bothered. He’d have to send a servant to fetch it. Gavin cared about his clothing and made sure he was at the forefront of every trend; Dazen didn’t even know how he did that. He’d need to look into it. Had Gavin plucked his eyebrows? Dear Orholam.

Other changes were harder to make. Dazen had a mole on the inside of one elbow. Grimacing, he sliced it off. It would become a little scar. No one would notice.

His mother helped, coming every day, handkerchief in hand for her silent tears, but back ramrod straight. She pointed out quirks Dazen never would have remembered, like the way his brother stood when he was thinking, and what foods Gavin loved and what he hated.

But the biggest reason for his success had been the real Gavin himself. Gavin had painted Dazen as a False Prism. He’d sworn that Dazen deceived his retainers with parlor tricks that would never convince anyone who wasn’t criminal or insane or who stood to benefit by standing with a False Prism. Everyone knew there was only ever one Prism every generation, so they’d believed the old Gavin implicitly. So from their first glance at Dazen’s prismatic eyes, they knew he was Gavin. Those who knew better, who knew that Dazen had never needed parlor tricks, who knew he was as much a Prism as Gavin—in other words, Dazen’s closest retainers and friends—had been scattered to the four winds after the Battle of Sundered Rock. He’d betrayed them, and if it was a betrayal for the greater good, it still kept him up nights to know that Ilytian pirates were selling his people for slaves in a hundred ports. He drew up his first list of seven great purposes, and he did what he could.

And through it all, his mother had saved him a dozen times. She deserved the truth.

“More,” he told her now. It was more of a surprise to him than to anyone that he had a son. He and his men had been living in caves and on the run, and even if he’d had the energy for entertaining some of the camp followers, he’d been heartsick over Karris’s engagement to Gavin. Dazen hadn’t slept with anyone during the war.

She stood and walked to the door, opened it to see that no one was eavesdropping, and returned. Quietly, she said, “So you’ve adopted your brother’s natural son. Why?”

Because you’re always bothering me about giving you a grandson, he almost said, but he knew that would wound her. Because it’s the right thing to do? Because Gavin would have? No, he wasn’t sure that Gavin would have. Because the boy had nothing and he deserved a chance? Because Karris was there watching and there was something perversely pleasurable about wounding her by doing what was right? “Because I know what it’s like to be alone,” Gavin said. He was surprised that it was the truth.

“You don’t give Karris enough credit,” his mother said.

“What’s she got to do with anything?”

His mother just shook her head. “She didn’t take it well?”

“You might say that,” Gavin said.

“What are you going to do if your father refuses to recognize the boy?”

“He’s not moving me on this, mother. I don’t do very many things that are right. He’s not taking this one away.”

She smiled suddenly. “Did it make your list of seven purposes this time? Defying him?”

“My list only has things that are possible.”

“So it’s harder than stopping the Blood War? Harder than destroying the pirate lords?”

“Twice,” Gavin said. “And yes.”

“You get that from him, you know.”

“What?”

“Your father always made lists, goals to check off. Marry a girl from the right family by twenty-five, join the Spectrum by forty—he made it by thirty-five—and so on. Of course, he never had to organize his life in seven-year blocks.”

“Did he never want to be Prism himself?” Gavin asked.

She didn’t answer right away. “Prisms usually only last seven years.”

Not long enough for my father. I see. “He wanted more sons and daughters, didn’t he?” Even after Sevastian. More tools. More weapons, in case more went bad.

She said nothing. “I want to go home, Gavin. I’ve wanted to join the Freeing for years. I’m so tired.”

For a moment, Gavin couldn’t breathe. His mother was the very quintessence of life. Beauty, energy, cleverness, good nature. To hear her speak as if she were broken down, as if she wanted to quit, was like a blow to the stomach.

“Of course, your father will never allow it,” she said, smiling sadly. “But whether he allows it or not, sometime in these next five years, I’m joining. I’ve buried two sons. I will not bury you.” So she was just giving him warning, giving him time to prepare. Dear Orholam, he didn’t even want to think about it. His mother had been his only companion, his best adviser, the one person who sniffed out threats from leagues away and loved him no matter what.

“So, what were your seven purposes? Accomplished any of them yet?” she asked, bringing the conversation back to safe ground, even though she knew he would dodge.