Let us pray? This was Andross Guile saying this? How shaken was he? The man made a mock of the faith at every chance.
The White made the sign of the four and the three, and the rest of the Spectrum followed her lead. They lay their hands, palms open, on the table in front of them, receptive, open to the light, open to truth. “Father of Lights, Holy One, Orholam.” She aspirated the h, giving it the old pronunciation. “Righteous Father, Strong Tower of Kalonne, All-Merciful One, Comforter of the Downtrodden, Guardian of Orphans, Good Teacher, Deliverer, Unfailing Defender, Savior, Warrior of Justice, Supreme Magistrate, Worthy of Honor, Mighty to Save, Bright Morning Star, Fire in the Night, Hope of the Last Tribe, Indefatigable Healer, Restorer of the Broken, Father, King, and God.”
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.