“Would you lie to me?” he asked.

“Absolutely. But not about this.”

“You would turn me into a liar.”

“You would not be the first good man I’ve seen live a lie.”

“Riddles.”

“Perhaps.”

“You mean Gavin, presiding over all the rituals. He’s an atheist, isn’t he?” When he said “atheist,” it was a slur. He realized he said it as a slur out of force of habit. He’d always thought it the worst thing a man could be. And now he was one himself.

“I prefer to think that he’s struggling through a lack of faith,” she said carefully.

He sneered. He’d come up here to tell her about the cards and the knife, but now—all this was double-talk. If he didn’t deserve the full truth from her, then she didn’t deserve it of him.

There was a knock on the door. “Mistress,” one of the Blackguards, a stocky woman named Samite said, “now that the Prism has returned, the Spectrum is proceeding with that emergency meeting. We need to head down in ten minutes.”

The White nodded to her, dismissing her. She looked burdened, bitter, for one second. “Your people are kind to me, Commander. Telling me about ‘that emergency meeting’ in case I’d forgotten that we have to decide whether we go to war today. But such kindness is dangerous when my body is betraying me and the Red is already trying to paint me as lost in my dotage.”

“I’ll speak with her.”

“Delicately, if you will. I know she means well.” She turned back to Ironfist. “I’ve already told the Black that he can’t remove you. The Red hates you for reasons I don’t know and that you won’t tell me, but he can’t have you while I breathe.” She waved her hand, and that was that. Ironfist was saved. “Now. My bet. I can’t tell you what it was, but I can tell you who it was on. I bet everything on Gavin. I bet the world on him, and I may not live long enough to find out who wins.”

Ironfist exhaled. Since when did I become a keeper of secrets and teller of half-truths?

He fished in his pocket. He pulled out a white rock, the size of his hand. He tossed it on the White’s desk as if it were trash.

Her eyes went wide. “Commander, is that…?” She reached for it. “White luxin,” she whispered.

“Gavin drafted it at the Battle of Garriston. He doesn’t know he did it.”

She picked up the white luxin with trembling hands, and for the first time that Ironfist had ever seen, she quietly wept.

Lots of crying women today.

Chapter 72

“Aliviana, come, I have something for you,” the Color Prince said. He turned to the engineer in charge of the trebuchet. “Ten chits if you make it into the city on the first shot. But you owe me five if she doesn’t scream.”

The engineer bowed low, almost prostrating himself. The people still didn’t know how much deference to pay to the Color Prince.

The entire camp had turned out for this. Noon was coming, and everyone knew that noon was the deadline. The guns on the city’s walls were trained on them, but they hadn’t fired during the entire setup of the trebuchet, three hundred paces from the city’s walls. Some of the prince’s followers stayed farther away, fearing that the guns would open up and try to destroy the trebuchet first, despite the women and children of Ergion held hostage around its base. More, however, crowded close, wanting to see the spectacle for themselves, heedless of the danger.

Liv had joined them because the prince had asked her to. “I will not shield you from the realities of war, Aliviana. This is our path, and you must know it. I trust you with hard truths.” She caught his implication: Unlike her father. Unlike the Chromeria.

She would be worthy of that trust. So she watched, from close up. The crowds didn’t jostle her. Her violet and yellow drafter’s dress guaranteed that. Drafters were treated as lords and ladies. They had power, and power was a virtue.

“You said you had something for me, my prince?” Liv said.

“A letter came for you,” he said. “And before you ask, of course I read it.”

He gestured, and a steward brought a letter. Liv knew the handwriting. She felt tingles up her arms, up her neck. It was from her father.

The Color Prince said, “It’s time for you to decide who you are and who you will be, Aliviana Danavis.”

The engineers began cranking the great counterweight up into the air, sticking long staves into a wooden gear, ratcheting it down. The counterweight rose, slowly racing the sun, which was approaching its own zenith.

Liv opened the cracked seal: “My Dearest Aliviana, Light of my Eyes.” A rush of tears came to her eyes, just at seeing her father’s hand. When Kip had told her Corvan had died in Rekton, Liv’s world had ended. She blew out a slow breath, blinked.

The crowd was jubilant and nervous by turns. The cannons could open up at any moment, spraying death everywhere, or the gates might open in surrender, or in attack, or nothing at all might happen. Men laughed too loudly. Some placed wagers. Liv could hear the women who were in line to be thrown over the walls crying quietly. Quietly only because they were trying not to upset the children, who still had no idea what was happening.

She kept reading: “Daughter, please come home. I know you think I’ve forsaken my oaths. I have not. I can tell you no more in a letter that may be intercepted, but I will tell you when you come.” What he said was true, but it was infuriating, too. She’d been with him. She’d asked him—and he wouldn’t tell her what he was doing. And now he would?

Now that she wasn’t under his control.

Wood groaning, ropes straining, the trebuchet’s enormous counterweight made it to its height before the sun. The engineers didn’t leave off their work, though, rushing around checking how their machine was bearing up under the pressure, preparing the basket for the woman, warning the crowds before and behind the trebuchet to move back.

Eventually, the chief engineer came to the Color Prince. “We’re ready, sir, should we load the cargo?”

Cargo. Oddly impersonal verbiage, wasn’t it? The prince nodded.

An older woman was led forward. There were tears on her cheeks, but she wasn’t crying now. Her clothes had been rich, Liv could tell, and she had the pale skin of a woman who’d never worked outdoors in her life. Wavy, silvered hair, brown eyes. Out of all the people staring at her, she saw Liv, and met her gaze.

“It’s a bluff, isn’t it?” the old woman asked. “Or am I fooling myself?”

Liv looked away. Trust me, her father had said. Was that just another way of saying, submit?

The woman let herself be folded into the net, meek, powerless. “Keep your head resting on the ropes,” the chief engineer said. “Relax.”

Relax, we’re trying to win our chits, lady.

“Ready,” the chief engineer said quietly to the Color Prince.

The prince beckoned Liv forward. His eyes were swirling red, and then blue, and then red. “Tell me, Liv. Should I wait until noon, or show them what it means to cross me?”

It was less than a minute until noon. Liv saw at once that part of him wanted to punish the city for standing against him, wanted to make them pay, was afraid that they would surrender too soon. Liv hadn’t finished her letter. She hesitated, somehow thinking it was important. “You might stiffen their resolve if they think you haven’t been fair. You’ve set up a deadline and a consequence, let it be their fault if this woman dies.” For some reason, she had to finish the letter before that woman died.