They thought Gavin was mad. Without his prismatic eyes, no one believed he was the Prism. Without his drafting, without his regalia, without his Blackguard escort, his impish imperial imperiousness seemed the struttings of insanity.

Was what Gavin had woven in all those years of power so thin a veil? Is a man no more than his magic?

Then one day, the door opened and the Nuqaba came in, bracketed by her Tafok Amagez. She limped a little as she came to stand in front of him. She waved the guards away. They hesitated, obviously mindful of what had happened last time. Her jaw set, and they left.

“You may be pleased to know we’ve come to an agreement,” she said.

“We?”

“Eirene and I. Your father and the two of us. We are going to sell you to him. After you’ve faced justice.”

“Justice?” Gavin asked. “So you’ve come to wash my feet and begin begging to know how you might pay restitution.” Lies and illusions and bluster. But it was all he had.

“You’ve assaulted the Nuqaba. A drafter who assaults the Nuqaba is punished by having his eyes burnt out. Everyone wins.”

She meant it. Every word. Even after all he’d said.

You can’t barter with crazy.

“Even you win,” she said. “With your eyes burned out, your father doesn’t need to know you lost your power. Eirene wasn’t going to go along with it, until I pointed out that your father might deny that you were you. After all, without your prismatic eyes, what are you? Useless, that’s what. Useless.”

She leaned close, but not close enough for him to snatch her haik and pull her against the bars and brain her.

“You’ll be gagged, of course, and in the very stadium where you killed so many, you will be publicly blinded. While people cheer. You always did so love a spectacle, didn’t you? On the ship home, you’ll be scrubbed and shaved and given a haircut and put back in clothes befitting your former rank. Your father has to accept receipt of you, of course. Has to accept that it’s you. But I want you to know something. On that ship with you, there will be an assassin. A man loyal to me unto death. After you’ve been accepted, he will shout some nonsense about the Color Prince, and kill you. Do you know how hard it is to stop an assassin who doesn’t care if he dies?” She sighed. “Your death is necessary, I’m afraid. It’s my fault. I was careless. I spoke too freely, earlier. I searched all our laws to see if I could cut out your tongue and remove all your fingers instead so that you wouldn’t be able to tell him what I said, but there’s no such punishment. Blinding will have to do.”

Her tone was so light and joyous that Gavin thought she must be joking.

She wasn’t joking.

“Do you know,” she said, “it used to be quite common? Blinding drafters, that is. I think they had more drafters then. They said that if a man misused the light Orholam gave him, he should be denied light altogether, that perhaps he would repent and not lose his soul. Tell me, Gavin, don’t you agree that you’ve misused the light that Orholam gave you?”

Yes. Yes, I have.

He said nothing.

“There are instructions for how to do it—hear this—humanely. Because if you’re going to put out a man’s eyes, you should do it without unnecessary suffering, right? Ha. Apparently, it requires all sorts of strapping down. They used to build this machine. Quite ingenious. Two pokers that could be adjusted to the wideness of each man’s face. The tines heated glowing hot. A stopblock so that eyes would be fully burnt out, without piercing the brain and killing the blasphemer, no matter how he might thrash. There are even instructions on what luxin to use to prop the eyelids open. If you burn the eyelids, the blasphemers would often get an infection and die. You want them to live, not die of a fever. How can they repent if they aren’t in their right mind, right? They said they did both eyes at once because after losing one eye, a man’s anticipation of the pain of losing the second was so great they’d often go mad.” She smirked. “We, of course, have no machine. We’ll do one eye at a time. I want you to think of one thing, Gavin Guile. Tssssss.”

He looked at her, confused.

“That’ll be the sound of your eyeball steaming as red-hot iron enters it.” A chill went through his very core. This was the woman who it was rumored had tortured her husband for years. Suddenly, he believed it.

“And know this, if you shout anything other than screams of pain, if you claim to be Gavin Guile, we’ll shout you down and beat you for blaspheming and tear out your tongue. There aren’t instructions in my scrolls how to do that, but I don’t need them. I already know.”

She was a worse butcher than her brother ever was. “What happened to you?” Gavin asked. She wasn’t like this, before, was she? Or had it been there all along?

“I refused to merely survive.”

“You’re the Nuqaba; you’re sworn to Orholam.” Though as the words came out, the irony wasn’t lost on Gavin that he should be the one speaking them.

She glanced around for eavesdroppers, then the expression instantly morphed from appalled to grimly amused. “A dead faith that keeps rolling only from its own momentum. Men want to worship, and worshipping abstractions is hard. I give them something easier: me. As you used to.”

“I never asked for men’s worship,” Gavin said. He’d lost faith, but he’d taken it as his responsibility to safeguard the religion for those who did believe. Why destroy it for others, if it made them happy? Why destroy it, if there was a slim chance that it was true?

“Did you not?” She shook her head. “I don’t even need the seed crystal to tell me that you’re deceiving yourself. I have preparations to make. Just remember: tssssss.”

She laughed, and left.

Gavin sank to the ground of his cell. His eyes. Dear Orholam, his eyes. His fucking eyes had been betraying him all his life.

During the war, men and women, satrapahs and conns had believed in him because of his prismatic eyes, he knew. His impossible eyes. His brother had seen the onset of their prismatic glory. That had torn his brother’s soul; Karris had only been the pebble that upended the cart. With one glance, his eyes had proved to the world that what the Chromeria said could never happen, had happened. Two Prisms in one generation. And if one had to pick between brothers, it was hard not to choose whichever brother who stood before you, threatening you, wasn’t it?

You are nothing more than your magic, Gavin Guile.

Gavin remembered his first conversations with his older brother about magic. Gavin, the elder, had known everything. Or speculated with such confidence that Dazen had never failed to be impressed. He’d worshipped Gavin.

He still did.

He wondered how much of his persona as Prism was a projection of that winsome, pretend perfection his big brother had embodied to Dazen as a child. Gavin was the oak around which Dazen had grown, like ivy. The parasite vine climbed high and decorative, slowly choking the life out of that which it embraced. No wonder Gavin had hated his little brother with the boyish hatred of encumbrances.

Even after the war, Dazen had grown round the great expanse that had been Gavin, draping his own foliage over the widespread branches and calling himself an oak. Calling it life, when it was death. Blocking out the sun, light, and life intended for another.