The pistol roared and went spinning harmlessly out of the giist's hand.

It staggered back, but Gavin stepped in close once again. He threw two quick jabs, left hand to the giist's right eye, right hand to its left eye. The blue bug-eye lenses cracked, melted, releasing a quick burst of resin and chalk smells. It all happened so fast the blue wight couldn't resist. Blues were slow to react when they found their presuppositions were wrong.

Broken, the giist sank, sat, tried to catch itself, and fell on the sand. Despite its solid blue lidless eyes, despite the burned skin and the crosshatched blue luxin through the cut on its cheek, to Gavin it looked abruptly human once more.

The startled look in those broken-haloed eyes.

The red red blood spilling down its chest.

And suddenly, the figure looked more like a man than like the monster that Gavin had found standing over Sevastian's bed all those years ago, the window broken open behind him, light gleaming off blue skin and red blood.

Gavin took a deep, unsteady breath. He'd stopped it this time. No innocents had died. And there was one decency left to extend, not because Rondar Wit deserved it, but in spite of the fact that he didn't.

"You gave the full measure, Rondar Wit. Your service will not be forgotten, but your failures are blotted out, forgotten, erased. I give you absolution. I give you freedom. I-"

"Dazen!" the giist shouted, hands clutching its wound, writhing.

Gavin was so startled he lost his place in the funerary rite.

"Dazen leads us, and the Color Prince is his strong right hand." The giist laughed, blood flecking his segmented blue lips.

"Dazen's dead," Gavin said, his gut twisting.

"Light cannot be chained, Prism. Not even by you. You're the heretic, not…" And then the darkness of death closed over the giist at last.

Chapter 32

Kip barely had time to get scrubbed down with towels, dressed in some soldier's pants and a dry shirt and heavy boots-surprisingly enough, it all fit; apparently they were used to big soldiers out here-and plopped in front of a fire before Ironfist showed up. His tightly curled hair was damp, but otherwise there was nothing to give away that he had just been in the ocean too. He wore a regulation gray uniform like Kip's, though with a gold seven-pointed star and two bars on his lapel, where Kip's uniform was blank.

"Up," Ironfist said.

Kip stood, rubbing his arms in what seemed a vain effort to get warm. "I thought you were a commander of the Blackguard. Why are you wearing a captain's uniform?"

Ironfist's eyebrow barely twitched. "So you know Chromerian ranks?"

"Master Danavis taught me all the military ranks of all Seven Satrapies. He thought-"

"That's nice. You have all your belongings?" Ironfist said.

Kip scowled, at being interrupted and dismissed and at the thought of belongings. "I don't have any stuff. I didn't have that much to start with, and-"

"So the answer is yes," Ironfist said.

So that was how it was going to be. "Yes," Kip said. "Sir." He was only a little sardonic with the sir, but Ironfist looked at him sharply, no humor at all in the one raised eyebrow. He really was very big. Not just tall, not just really tall. Rippling with muscle. Intimidating. Kip looked away. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "I'm sorry you had to dive in and get me. I'm sorry I made you lose your spectacles. I'll pay you back, I promise."

Suddenly, to his complete horror, Kip felt tears welling up from nowhere. Orholam, no! But the pull was as irresistible as the riptide. His stomach convulsed as he tried to choke back the sob, but it escaped anyway. He was so sick of being weak. He was the child who couldn't even hold on to the rope someone put in his hands. He hadn't been able to do anything. He hadn't saved Isa when she needed him. He hadn't saved his mother. He hadn't saved Sanson. He was powerless, stupid. When it had come down to it, he'd panicked. His mother was right about him.

Half a dozen expressions rushed over Ironfist's face in quick succession. He raised one hand awkwardly, lowered it, raised it again, and patted Kip's shoulder. He cleared his throat. "I can requisition another pair."

Kip started laughing and crying at the same time, not because Ironfist was funny, but because the big man thought Kip was crying about his spectacles.

"There you go," Ironfist said. He thumped Kip's shoulder with the side of his fist in what Kip thought was supposed to be a friendly manner-except it hurt. Kip rubbed his shoulder and laugh-cried harder.

"Let's go," Kip said, shrinking back lest Ironfist tap one of his namesakes on his shoulder again and leave a smoking ruin.

Ironfist's eyebrows twitched up in a momentary expression of relief.

"Almost as bad as dealing with a woman, huh?" Kip said.

Ironfist stopped cold. "How'd…" he trailed off. "You are a Guile, aren't you?"

"What do you mean?" Kip asked.

"Let's go," Ironfist said in a tone that brooked no argument. Kip didn't hesitate. He didn't know what precisely Ironfist would do to him if he didn't obey, but knowing was a logical process. Fear was faster.

Outside, he saw that they'd rigged up another boat on the ramp. He rubbed his clammy arms and stared at the sea. The tide was halfway in and getting worse, and the waves crashed powerfully over the rocks of Cannon Island. This boat was a small sailing dinghy. It didn't look even as stable as the dory. And it was smaller. Kip's stomach turned.

"Commander?" one of the men said. "You sure? I wouldn't want to go out on this even with experienced sailors. Especially if you're going the long way."

Kip didn't see the look that passed between the men, but he heard the soldier say, "Yes, sir," quickly afterward.

Cannon Island was in the middle of the current that flowed between Little Jasper and Big Jasper. Little Jasper Bay was calm, protected by a seawall, but Kip and Ironfist were headed the opposite direction, to circle three-quarters of Big Jasper in order to get to its bay.

"Aren't we going to the Chromeria?" Kip asked. He could see the tops of colored towers, only partially visible above the rocky body of Cannon Island. "Why can't we go to their bay? It's closer."

"Because we're not going straight there," Ironfist said. He gestured for Kip to get in and handed him an oar.

The men pushed them off and Ironfist began rowing hard. Kip did his best to keep up with the big man, but almost immediately they began turning toward Kip's side. Ironfist said nothing; he just switched sides and rowed hard a few times on Kip's side until they were straight, then returned to his own side. The commander aimed them so they quartered the waves. Kip's heart was constantly in his throat. The three- and four-foot-tall waves yielded to five- and six-foot-tall waves.

And then Ironfist raised their little sail a third of the way. "Keep us straight," he barked, working the lines. Kip felt like a headless chicken, flopping awkwardly from one side of the boat to the other, keeping them headed slowly forward, going up each wave with a lurch and swooping down the opposite side.

"Down! Get down!" Ironfist shouted. Kip dropped just as the wind shifted and the sail swung from one side of the boat to the other, the boom whipping over his head. It snapped so hard against the ropes that Kip thought it might tear off or break.

Orholam, that could have been my head.

The dinghy leaned over hard, even with the sail only a third of the way raised, and jumped forward. Kip had barely gotten back up to his knees, and the sudden forward motion made him tumble backward, splashing into the cold dirty water at the bottom of the dinghy.

"The rudder! Take the rudder!" Ironfist ordered.