It rocked Dazen back on his heels, but more from shock than from the power of the blow. Dazen was usually pretty even-keeled, but as soon as Gavin saw his face, he knew he'd made a mistake. A big one. The pain didn't matter. The dominance didn't matter. Not to Dazen. He'd gone absolutely crazy. He didn't even need to draft red to utterly lose it. And lose it he did.

Dazen bulled into Gavin and swept him off his feet. Gavin tried to pull away, dance aside, pull loose. But Dazen wasn't jockeying for position; he was taking Gavin down. They fell. Gavin landed on top of Dazen, connecting a good shot with his knee.

It didn't matter. It was like Dazen didn't even feel it. He just absorbed the shot and pulled Gavin with the force of his fall. Abruptly Gavin's little brother was on top of him. Dazen grabbed his throat in both hands and squeezed.

Gavin's panic receded. They'd both been taught grappling. He slugged Dazen across the jaw. Nothing. Dazen took it. The next punch Dazen deflected with an elbow. He squeezed.

The panic came back with a vengeance. Dazen was going to kill him! Gavin punched and punched and punched, but Dazen just took the punishment.

Go ahead, hurt me, but I'm going to kill you.

The world was going dark when Dazen abruptly released Gavin. He staggered to his feet as Gavin coughed himself back to life. By the time Gavin stood, his little brother was gone.

After that, they hadn't fought again. It was enough. They'd known without saying a word that if they ever fought again, someone would likely get killed.

And if I'd won at Sundered Rock, someone would have been.

But Dazen had let him live. It was like that moment when he'd had Gavin's throat in his hands. He could have crushed me. He could have killed me, but he let me live instead. Because he was weak.

"If Dazen's weak," the dead man said, "what does that make you? You lost to him." He laughed.

"Never again. It's taken me this long, but I understand at last. I will take this lesson from my brother: win at any cost. Be ready to pay it all, and you won't have to." That was it. Simple. Now, now, Gavin was ready to become Dazen. He would take Dazen's strengths and leave his weaknesses.

He reached out a hand and touched his reflection. "You really are a dead man now," he said.

His previous attempts to draft sub-red had failed because he couldn't get enough heat. The only thing that generated heat down here was his own body, and he'd nearly killed himself last time when he'd taken too much heat. He'd gone delusional, and still it hadn't been enough. He hadn't been willing to risk everything. He hadn't been willing to die, if it took that. He was willing now.

"Thank you, brother. Thank you, son," he said aloud. He drafted a blade of blue luxin. It only held an edge if he concentrated hard, but over a course of days, he and the dead man shaved his long hair off. He would cut off a hank, separate the strands into narrow sheaves, and tie the ends of those so they wouldn't fall apart. When he had a good pile, smearing as much oil from his body on his makeshift yarn as he could, he began weaving. This had to be done first. Later he wouldn't be in any shape to try it.

For once, the blue helped him. The old him-back when he was free, back when he was Gavin-could never have done this. Threading the hairs over, under, over, under, making mistakes, starting over, fumbling and dropping the whole unfinished thing, trying to catch it and losing a week's work in one second when his fingers pulled the threads loose-it all would have driven him mad. But blue reveled in detail, in putting every hair in its place.

Dazen didn't even notice it at first, but one day he realized he had something he'd lost long long ago. He had hope. He would get out. He knew that now. It was only a matter of time. Vengeance was coming, and, if long delayed, it would be all the sweeter for it. Dazen sighed, contented, and continued his work.

Chapter 40

Gavin tore off the stained shirt and grunted as he scraped the cloth across his burn. Fifty danar shirt, and I ruined it in half an hour. Worse, he'd noticed some of the girls glancing at the spreading stain. That wasn't a disaster. They wouldn't ask about it. One of the Spectrum would. He liked to save up his lies for them.

He cursed under his breath.

Gavin knew that Marissia must have some sort of an organizational scheme to how she put away his clothing, but whatever it was, he'd never pierced its logic. He rifled through stacks of shirts and pants and breeches and cloaks and habias and robes and thobes and petasoi and ghotras, most of which he didn't think he'd ever worn. Orholam, he had a lot of clothes. And these were only his summer clothes. He supposed it was because, as Prism, he was supposed to be of all peoples, so if he met with an ambassador or needed to suddenly visit Abornea, he would already have local clothing that fit him.

He was still standing bare-chested, ointment smeared on his burn-at least he had the sense to keep aid supplies in his own room-when the door opened. Marissia slipped in quietly. She glanced at the burn on his ribs. Her jade green eyes lit with anger, though Gavin couldn't tell if it was at him or for him. Maybe a bit of both. She grabbed the ointment from his table and smeared more around to his back. Ouch. Apparently, he'd missed some spots. Then she bandaged him with a practiced hand. She wasn't gentle. "Does my lord need assistance finding another shirt?" she asked.

"Owww!" he yelped. He cleared his throat, lowered his voice an octave. "Please."

She went to a stack he swore he'd searched thoroughly and immediately plucked a shirt from its depths. He didn't think he'd ever worn it before, but it was a style he liked, and dark enough that if the ointment soaked through this one, no one would notice. Marissia had a certain magic of her own. He could swear that shirt hadn't been there before.

She began whistling quietly as she dressed him and fixed his hair; it was an old tune, pretty. Marissia was a good whistler.

Oh, the tune was "Little Lamb Lost." A comment on not being able to find his own clothes? Probably. He had bigger things to worry about. He'd dealt with his brother, how much trouble could the Spectrum be?

"I'll be leaving either in the morning or the next day," Gavin said. "There's a young man testing downstairs. Kip. He's my, uh, natural son." There was no need to use the "nephew" euphemism with Marissia. Marissia knew that Gavin had imprisoned his brother, but even she didn't know that Gavin wasn't Gavin. She hadn't known either of them before the war, so she didn't need to know. He trusted her completely, but the fewer people who knew that secret, the longer it would be before all this crashed down on his head. "He's sixteen-fifteen, I mean. Will you find appropriate clothes for him and pack for both of us for two weeks?"

"More for fighting or for impressing?"

"Both."

"Of course," she said flatly.

On his way out the door, Gavin grabbed his sword in its jeweled scabbard. He wasn't nearly the hand with a blade that even the least of the Blackguard was. He had been quite skilled once, but once he'd realized he could draft any combination of color and instantly have a weapon of whatever kind he needed, he hadn't practiced with plain steel as often as was required to compete with professional warriors like the Blackguard.

Of course, that assumed a fair fight, and there was no such thing with a drafter. The Blackguards themselves would fight with whatever was at hand: blades, magic, a goblet of wine, or a faceful of sand.

He tucked the Ilytian pistols into his belt too. Just to be an ass.

When Gavin stepped out of his door, there were two Blackguards waiting for him. His escort. It was his compromise with the White. He got to travel without the Blackguard when he thought it was absolutely necessary-so, most of the time-as long as he agreed to have them around when he was in a place where assassination was more likely. The White wasn't pleased with how he'd interpreted their agreement, but he clung ferociously to what little freedom he had.