THE SHADOWS OF THE whipping posts stretched across the yard, pushed by the setting sun. I can still see those pillars, shadows themselves of the pillar where dear Gibson was whipped. I stood on the steps of the barracks beside Sir Amalric while his men stood guard as the four Irchtani were whipped by four of their own. Kithuun-Barda stood to one side, watching his four soldiers. They did not cry out—not at first—and when they did their screeching set the whole pack of xenobites to cawing, screaming at the sky.

From my vantage point on the stairs, how clearly I saw the line of division between our two peoples. Human and Irchtani, xenobite and man. Though the Irchtani fought for us and willingly, it seemed to me the space between the platform and the yard would never be bridged—could not be, so far apart did we seem.

Yet those pillars were not the back wall of a firing range; those four xenobites were not a hundred. No coins with Death’s head had been paid to soldiers who had done nothing to earn them. That at least was good.

Men have come to me for prophecies, asking after the future. I never could answer them. What we may become is ours to choose, and we may choose badly. I know only that we must choose—as I have chosen—and live by our choices. In ages hence perhaps the Irchtani will dwell across the Empire. They may captain ships or council lords as scholiasts—and perhaps be lords themselves. Or perhaps they will vanish, like the Arch-Builders of Ozymandias—like ancient Ozymandias himself. I cannot say, can say only that I saved the lives of four—or of a hundred.

I hoped it was enough.

We had made a proper spectacle of the moment, however. The main yard was flooded with Fort Din personnel, and I had even convinced Osman to allow civilian broadcast in. Light, they say, is the best disinfectant. It is an antiseptic as well. With any luck, the scourging of the Irchtani would be the biggest story on Gododdin. Udax and his compatriots would be safe, I hoped, at least so long as I was there. I hoped that was enough, too.

I remained in the yard a long time after the prisoners were led away and the crowd departed. It was the dinner hour, but I did not feel like eating. Alone but for my guards—who kept their distance—I moved to stand among the pillars. Reaching out, I traced the deep gouges in the posts where the Irchtani’s claws had bit into them, careful to avoid the greenish blood drying on the surface.

As I often did, I imagined my old tutor, Tor Gibson, stood just out of sight, interrogating me as he so often had when I was a boy.

“Whose hand directed your would-be assassin?” his imagined voice inquired.

“It could be anyone,” I murmured, putting my hands in my pockets to keep from touching the blood. I was alone in the middle of the yard. The only other people visible were my four guards standing several dozen yards off and a few personnel hurrying about their tasks between the fort’s white buildings. On the wall, a banner bearing the Imperial sun snapped in the mountain air.

I could almost see old Gibson shaking his head. “Not anyone.”

“It’s not the Chantry.”

“You’re sure?”

The same air blew my cape about me and my hair. Face tipped up to catch the last light of the sun I would one day unmake, I answered him. “Why would the Chantry act so flagrantly? Sending a cathar to hire the Irchtani? It’s too obvious.”

“It obviously was not the Chantry. You’ve a talent for making enemies, my dear boy.” I could hear the wry tone in the old fellow’s voice so clearly that it brought a smile to my lips, even in the shadow of those grisly pillars. “You recall the story of Icarus?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“No,” the Gibson part of me replied. “You’ve risen too far too quickly, and too many of the soldiers worship you.” I thought of Carax, of the way Osman threw himself at my feet. “The Empire does not want a hero, and you’re giving them one anyway. They’re finding they’ve lost control of the narrative, and it scares them.”

Bootprints marred the grass about the whipping posts, pale green stalks smashed flat. Human feet and Irchtani. “The Emperor.”

“It is possible, but unlikely. He would not have given Alexander into your care if he meant to destroy you.” I could imagine the way Gibson might tap his cane on the ground to punctuate his remarks, see the wrinkled face just hinting at a smile. “Though he certainly meant to marginalize you by sending you here. To take the momentum out of your flight.” I heard the smile break for true as the words came. “It won’t work.”

“Why?” I asked, watching the shadows and mine run away in the gloaming. I knew why. “Because the soldiers will keep telling stories about me. All the years I’ve been away will be more years for the stories to grow longer, too.” I nodded at the shadows, thinking of just how much longer they were than the pillars that cast them, thinking about the lie built around my victory at Aptucca. The lie that enhanced my legend. “It might be enough.”

“Particularly if you succeed here.”

“There’s no guarantee of that.”

“Kwatz!” Gibson barked, a nonsense word to mark my nonsense. “Nothing is guaranteed, but if you return triumphant, you may find yourself far too close to the sun.”

Too close to my enemies.

I hooked my thumbs through my belt and shut my eyes, faces peering at me out of the darkness. Breathnach. Bourbon. Caesar. The Empress. Others. I saw gaunt Synarch Virgilian, high priest of the Chantry, and Titus Hauptmann. Princess Selene, Crown Prince Aurelian, and Princess Irene. A hundred faces. A thousand. Any one of them could have paid Udax. Any one of them could want me dead.

“Or all of them,” Gibson said, speaking as I moved my lips.