That last sent a shiver through Karris, even through her tears. Even as Parian men covered their hair from respect, that their glory not compete with Orholam’s, so were there ways one rarely addressed Orholam—that name itself was but a title, a euphemism to show supreme deference, to show how high above the pagan gods he was. In speaking that small word, huge in implications, the White was revealing just how dire she thought the situation was.

“God,” the White breathed.

The room fell utterly silent. Karris fancied she could feel the play of light across her face.

“God, you are God alone. God, please save us.”

After the long introduction, Karris expected more eloquence, more beseeching, more … words. The salutation had been longer than the letter.

Then she realized that was the White’s point exactly. The eloquence, the focus, should be on Orholam. His was the beauty and majesty and the power. He knew their need. He knew how best to help them. This heresy was not only a threat to an earthly order, it was a threat to the worship of Orholam throughout the Seven Satrapies, it was a defiance and renunciation of him. The White was merely declaring her loyalty and begging the help of their lord, as loyal vassals. What else, in the end, was there to say?

It was a mirror to the very help that the Blood Foresters in those border towns would beg, and that the Spectrum had silently agreed to deny. You must die, they had agreed without so much as a vote: you must die so that our purposes can be accomplished.

Karris only hoped Orholam was not so callous and practical with them.

Chapter 21

Teia hesitated outside the door of the Prism’s training room, deep under the Prism’s Tower, looking at a band of blue light illuminating the floor. She had never seen the room illuminated with colored light before. She hadn’t even known it did that.

She heard the unmistakable percussive action of someone punching combos against one of the dummies, and oddly, that violent sound eased her mind. Whoever was here was training—and thus, wasn’t an enemy. Though she knew from how he moved that Murder Sharp must train often, it was somehow impossible to imagine him doing it. He was only the finality of action, not the preparation for it.

Opening the door with the key that Commander Ironfist had given her, Teia went inside. She was just in time to see Commander Ironfist burst into action. His fists snapped out, punching the fraying leather heavy bag full of sawdust: stomach, chin, kidneys, and back up and down, too fast to follow, then he darted off to the side, running toward an obstacle course. He drew two practice swords while he ran.

Maneuvering with even one sword in hand or at your belt was part of Blackguard training that Teia’s class hadn’t even started yet—and that she’d noticed immediately during her brief participation in the battle at Ruic Head: trying to run and fight while carrying even a scabbarded weapon was hard work. Corners you knew your body could slip around suddenly caught your hip, threw you off your step. Carrying a blade openly was even worse, because you had to maneuver it by hand—if your blade stopped on a doorframe and you kept moving into it … not good.

So watching Commander Ironfist move through an obstacle course with two full-length swords was an education in itself. The commander was shirtless, wearing only his tight black trousers and the boiled-rubber-tree-sap-soled boots full Blackguards were issued: sticky, and nearly silent. Watching him explode from a full standstill was like watching a lion pounce—a ripple of muscles, a flash of flesh, and he was off, near full speed in barely four steps.

He hurdled an obstacle that came up higher than Teia’s chest, ran straight at a wall that had only a circular hole a pace across on it and leapt—diving, swords stabbing through, shoulders barely clearing the narrow opening, body not even nicking the edges. He rolled to his feet smoothly, blades flourishing.

He ran at another wall, barely losing speed, and ran up it. His momentum seemed to flow into the wall, all of it completely at his legs, his hands and swords coming into his chest, waist cocking. He leapt off the wall, twisting, the blades flashing out to hit a dummy on either side, each of them held in a box ten feet off the ground, everything below their necks protected.

The momentum of swinging both swords left-to-right meant Ironfist landed sideways. He tumbled, taking the fall, and popped back up to his feet. He looked irritated. Teia saw the problem. Without maintaining his speed, Ironfist had no way of leaping the chasm that was the next obstacle, at least not without stopping and backing up and losing precious time.

He saw Teia, of course, but he saw that she had no pressing business, so he said nothing. He went back to his starting spot and repeated it again.

This time, as he ran up the wall, he slapped the swords against the wall, each wrapped in blue luxin, released them, twisted his body, grabbed them with the opposite hands, and leapt straight from the wall, slashing in from both sides, cutting through the dummies, and landing flat. He charged the chasm, not losing any speed, and jumped it, skipping off a platform that was too small to stop on and then regaining speed, leaping for a rope that hung over the next chasm.

He lost a sword on that maneuver, but he spun down to the ground and laughed.

“The Prism’s own obstacle course. Of course, he cheats outrageously with luxin at every turn. He challenged me to beat his time before he left. I think I may just.”

As he approached, Teia was suddenly aware again of the sheer size and physicality of the commander. Her glance at his naked, scarred chest seemed to make him aware of his own half-dressed state. Oddly, he seemed embarrassed, the old habits of Parian modesty not totally overcome even after many years in the Blackguard. He grabbed his tunic and pulled it on.

“Here to train?” he asked Teia. “I can get you started on drills.”

Teia stared at him, somehow unable to speak. She thought of telling him everything. But Murder Sharp could be standing in this very room.

“Turned in your papers, did you?” he asked. He’d seen her coin sticks.

“Oh. Yes.”

“Are you going to leave?”

“Can I really?” Teia asked. It still seemed impossible.

“If you turn in the money to the Blackguard, you’re free. You’ll be able to make more money as a mercenary if you stay in and leave right before final vows, but some leave at your place. If you’ve grown up as a slave, sometimes the thought of real freedom is too sweet to put off for even one more day. Others just talk about it. I’ve known Blackguards who talked for fifteen years about buying their commission back—fifteen years after final vows, you understand—and traveling the world. Treg was in his last year before retirement and was still talking about buying that commission back.” Ironfist grinned, but then the grin faded. “He didn’t make it back from Garriston.”

“I want to be a Blackguard more than anything in my life, but…” Teia’s nerve failed her.

Commander Ironfist said nothing, just folded his beefy arms and waited. It was a patient silence, though, not demanding. Here was a man so busy he rarely slept more than five hours a night, but when he dealt with his Blackguards—even the nunks—he had a way of being present, unhurried. Teia had never really noticed how generous he was with his precious time, but now that she was experiencing it, she realized how often she’d seen it before, and she added it to the long list of things she admired about the commander. But …