He must have been a bit tense, because it leapt out much farther than he meant, a pillar of fire ten paces high for a moment, before he tamped it down.

“Flesh protuberance,” Ferkudi said.

“Ferkudi!” Cruxer said. “Position! And shut it!”

“Lightbringer indeed,” Big Leo murmured.

“On with it!” Kip said. If the Lightguard hadn’t known where exactly to find him before, they certainly would now.

The luxiat picked up the cup. He’d apparently dropped it when Kip painted the sky with fire. He filled it from a skin with wine. “The wine is Orholam’s gift. The shared cup signifies the joys and sorrows of the life you will share.” He guided them to each drink, the cup held awkwardly in their clasped right hands. “Even the awkwardness you feel is an emblem of your new—”

“Just drink and say the oath,” Cruxer said.

“Kip Guile, Breaker,” Tisis said, needing no prompting from the luxiat, staring Kip in the eyes. “Your life shall be my life, through all the dawns and noons and dusks and nights Orholam grants us. My light is yours. With my body, I thee worship.”

Kip blinked for a moment, because he could tell she meant it. “Tisis Antonia Malargos,” Oh, Orholam, it was like he was outside of his own body. He saw the Lightguards, pushing through the crowd. They were within musket range now. “Your life shall be my life, through all the dawns and noons and dusks and nights Orholam grants us. My light is yours. With my body, I thee worship.”

And it was done. Kip had bound his will to this. It was finished. He was married.

The luxiat said quickly, “May there never be darkness between you. I declare you husband and wife.”

“Go!” Cruxer shouted. “Go, go, go!”

Kip saw Teia squeeze her hood shut, covering all but her glistening eyes, then she turned her back, and the black-and-white disks on her cloak rolled together, eclipse and darkness.

Kip and Tisis ran the other way. Big Leo had slung Ben-hadad over his shoulder and was pounding down the dock already, barely slowed by the weight. Kip followed, but it was as if the world had been drained of sound. They sprinted down a dock, and the Lightguards ran after them. Kip poured red luxin across the width of the dock in a wide swath, even his pounding heart silent in his ears.

The Lightguards pulled up short in front of the red luxin, none of them drafters, none of them willing to die. They fired their muskets, splintering wood around the running squad. Kip turned and drew his pistol, but saw the crowd of innocents behind the Lightguards. If he missed …

He holstered the pistol and ran up the gangplank to the galleass. The Lightguards had found sheets of wood to throw on top of the red luxin, and they charged across. Finally gathering their courage, or thinking Kip was too far away to throw more red luxin, the Lightguards ran the rest of the way down the dock, rapidly closing the distance to the departing ship.

Kip stood on the stern gallery and shot the pistol at the Lightguards. He threw luxin, the squad shouting at him to get down, calling him insane. One word worked its way through: Teia. Kip looked into sub-red and Teia moving among the Lightguards.

She attacked no one. Merely bumped an elbow here just as a musketeer fired, extinguished a slow match there, tangled men in the lines on the deck as they ran about, causing several to fall.

Kip had been throwing death right at her.

Cruxer pulled Kip down and behind cover, berating him for risking himself when there was no longer any reason to do so, but Kip didn’t even hear him. Teia.

Their ship passed the cannon tower guarding the bay, and they saw the Lightguards flashing mirrors at it, signaling, no doubt, to fire. But the cannons were silent. Silent until, suddenly, the entire battery blew up in a concussion that shook the earth and sea.

Explosion layered on explosion. Cannons and muskets and a falling wall. Card after card. But they passed as fast as he saw them.

“Tremblefist, no,” Kip said.

And oddly, at the sound of his own voice, Kip was back. He could hear again, and his eyes lost the intense, singular, war-blind focus. He saw his squad: Cruxer, and Ferkudi, and Ben-hadad, and Big Leo, and Winsen. Teia gone, and in her place Tisis. And he saw himself, madly dealing death to enemies he didn’t have to fight at all. And he saw his two faces: child and warrior, man and leader. Kip, who wanted to sit and cry and be taken care of; and Breaker, who was responsible for taking care of others. Karris said that to take up the latter didn’t mean to deny that the former existed.

Kip took a deep breath, then he popped his neck to the left and the right, and when he turned, he was Breaker.

“Breaker, my lord, what’re our orders?” Cruxer asked.

“This ship is going to Rath, but when it lands, we won’t be on it,” Breaker said.

“What?” Tisis asked.

“Ben-hadad, you’ve been on skimmers and sea chariots. Design one big enough for the squad. Tisis, you have people aboard?”

“Of course. But what are you—”

“Then it’s your choice. You can come with us, or you can take that signed contract to your sister Eirene without me. Our alliance and our wedding stands, but I have no intention of getting trapped in Ruthgar. I will help your family, but I won’t be its hostage. I’ll help your family by defending your satrapy. We’re going to Blood Forest. We’re going to stop the Color Prince. The Mighty are going to war.”

Chapter 97

When no one answered the door at the chirurgeons’ house, Ironfist broke it down. There was no one inside. Neither the chirurgeons, nor the Blackguards, nor Gavin Guile. There was no note, no sign of a struggle.

“They’re gone,” a voice said outside, behind him. “I’ve been waiting for you.” And then Grinwoody stepped into the house.

“Grinwoody,” Ironfist said.

Grinwoody waved a hand. “That’s not necessary, not here, not today.”

“Uncle,” Ironfist said, cracking a grin. The men embraced.

“You understand there was nothing I could do about this,” Grinwoody said. He gestured to the emptiness.

“Is he alive?” Ironfist asked.

“Gavin, yes. The Blackguard who was here protecting him and the chirurgeons, no. Andross will … No, even after all these years, I don’t know what Andross will do with Gavin. Imprison him until he breaks? Kill him when Gavin disrespects him, as he inevitably will? Elevate him for some purpose? I have no idea. Still.” He said it with frustrated admiration, as of an adversary who had fought for so long and so well that they were nearly friends.

Ironfist said, “I was there, within steps of that old scorpion. I could have … Did I fail you, uncle? Did I fail my Ulta? After all this time, and how high I rose.” He expelled a great breath.

“Do you have it?”

“The White had it hidden just where you said.” Ironfist handed over the polished ziricote-wood box, no wider than his hand and only a few thumbs deep. “I found no key.”

“Your commander’s pin,” Grinwoody said. Ironfist gave it to him, and Grinwoody snapped the pin between his fingers. Ironfist flinched, but Grinwoody wasn’t done. The halves hadn’t split randomly. He took one half and stuck it into the lock. It fit.

A line around the box glowed briefly.

Grinwoody said, “Throwing away your life to kill some noble was never to be your Ulta. There were … questions about your loyalty. Questions you’ve quite answered now.” He opened the box a crack and exhaled reverently, then closed it. “They call us masters of secrecy, and yet in dazzling the eye with lying light, the Chromeria is without rival. They say you’re the Blackguard because your skin is black, because your clothes are black, because in wearing no color, you show that your allegiance is to none of the Colors. They say you are Blackguards because you surrender your own light of reason to serve as a slave, that you are like the black-robed luxiats in taking on the humility of colorlessness. They say you serve in the dark. They say a hundred things that are all true—all to obscure one, central truth: you are called the Blackguard because you guard the black. The black seed crystal. Accessible only with the cooperation of the White and the commander of the Blackguard both. It is the weapon that kills Prisms and quenches luxin. This is the tool that will rebuild the Order. This is the pen that rewrites history. This, nephew, was your Ulta. You have succeeded. You’ve done more for the Order of the Broken Eye than anyone in three centuries.”