“I remember Karris Shadowblinder, Lucidonius’s wife and widow, and a Prism. Though our order wasn’t established until after her death, it was built on the foundation she laid. Dancer, poet, theatre mummer, and, when times demanded it, finally a warrior-drafter of unmatched ferocity, she swore an oath to marry no man who couldn’t beat her in will, wit, and weapons. Lucidonius failed twelve times, on twelve successive months, until she admitted he at least equaled her in will. He cheated at the contest of wits, drugging her beforehand, which she agreed showed a wit of its own. And last, with weapons, she lost—though some argue that was intentional.
“Karris Shadowblinder would later save Lucidonius’s life three times, and fail on the fourth. Karris is precious to me because the heart of the Blackguard is love. Love for the Seven Satrapies, love for this brotherhood, and in the best of times love for the leader we protect. Karris Shadowblinder reminds me that in this mortal realm, even if we love perfectly, we may fail still.”
The White stepped back.
A tall, shaven-headed Blackguard named Asif stepped forward. “I remember Finer. He was a Blackguard during the time of Prisms Leonidas Atropos and Fiona Rathcore. He struck down the Bandit King in the Battle of Ghost Flats. Handsome, funny, and loved by everyone, it was widely expected that he would one day be the commander of the Blackguard. Instead he went wight and fled. He killed four of his brothers before he could be put down. Finer reminds me of the importance of duty, and that all fame and renown count for nothing if we don’t uphold our oaths.”
His cousin, Alif, stepped forward next. “I remember Commander Ayrad, who sat quiet, judging until the time came to act. In his testing fights, he placed each time last. Forty-ninth at the end of the first week, then thirty-fifth at the end of the second, then twenty-eighth, then fourteenth, and on the last week, he fought from place fourteen to thirteen, thirteen to twelve, twelve to eleven, then to ten, to nine, to eight, to seven, to six, five, four, three, two, one. Never in our history has man or woman fought so many times or won so authoritatively. Because of his intelligence, Ayrad didn’t fight harder, he isolated the weakness of each opponent, and took him or her out efficiently. Later in life, that intelligence would raise him to commander of this hallowed body, and it would save the lives of four Prisms.
“And yet,” Alif said, “yet Commander Ayrad himself would fall to poison. The culprit was never found. Even Ayrad with all his intellect had blind spots, as do we all. I learn from him that we can never, never be off our guard.” He took a step back.
Tlatig, an Archer, stepped forward. She was not a handsome person. Her mouth turned down, eyes squinted, skin blemished, body with fewer curves than the seven towers, only when she picked up a bow did a grace came upon her. She was then a wonder as is a swallow in flight. Surreal, prescient, a walking miracle with a bow. On the training field, Tlatig wore a tiny chemise, tied tight, to show off the knotted muscles of her shoulders and the V of her back.
“I remember Commander Dauntless. She gave up her noble connections and her family’s aspirations in order to serve the Seven Satrapies. She had two dreams, to be a Blackguard and to be a mother, and she sacrificed the latter to be the former. When she retired after a long and storied career—whose details I would tell you had not Commander Fisk asked us to be brief today—she tried to have a family, and, that late in life, she could not. She reminds me of the heavy price of duty, and that our forebears paid it, and lived in honor. Commander Dauntless lived in duty, and died with honor, though it cost her grievously. I remember her, and strive to meet her standard.”
Teia looked at Tlatig with new eyes. Tlatig wanted a family? That was her greatest longing, and the price she was willing to pay for this family? Tlatig had never seemed like the mothering type. On the other hand, from Tlatig’s slightly embarrassed look, Teia could tell that she felt exposed from having shared so much—but that she shared anyway, when sharing made her feel so awkward, told Teia that she was being given something precious.
Another Archer, Piper, stepped forward. She wore her hair pulled into a knot at the back of her head, and had the straining halos and lined face of a woman on her last year before Freeing. “I remember Massensen, and Ikkin, and Gwafa, and Mennad. Massensen defeated three great-horned iron bulls on the Melos Plain in the Jadmar Rebellion. Ikkin Dancing Spear killed the Jadmar’s war chief, the giant Amazul. Gwafa demolished the Nekril, the will-casting coven that laid siege to Aghbalu. Mennad gave his life saving the Prism in Pericol when he was there to sign the Ilytian Papers. All these heroes were one man. Massensen took a new name every time he performed another act that would make any other man a legend. Where others would take a name that celebrated their heroic act to remind people of it forever, Massensen did the opposite. He took a new, plainer name each time, and refused to become even a watch captain. He believed that all glory should be reflected to Orholam, and that his own fame should be shared with his companions and his Prism. He was simply a Blackguard, and any Blackguard was his equal.
“Massensen reminds me that we wear black that we may serve in obscurity. We wear black that the light may shine the brighter. Massensen reminds me of duty with excellence.”
For some reason, it was only as Piper spoke that Teia finally stopped thinking about her bladder and was pulled into the words. These were some of the greatest heroes in history. These were people who had altered the course of satrapies, crushed kingdoms, saved Prisms and Colors, and fought monsters out of legends. This was the company she was being invited into. As an equal.
This was what she’d wanted since she could remember. All the misgivings and questions about herself faded. They would call her a slave, but she is not a slave who chooses to serve.
As she thought, heart swelling, a tear cold in the wind on her cheeks, the normally quiet Nerra had stepped forward. She smiled shyly. “I remember Thiyya Tafsut. She served all her days quietly, and was to retire at Sun Day on her fortieth year. She sought and received permission to become pregnant, as there was little light left for her. Pregnant, on the day before Sun Day, she hurled herself at a wight attempting the murder her Prism. She was killed, and she did not kill the wight in turn, but she slowed it enough that others did. Others in those circumstances would have hesitated, saved themselves, saved their baby. She did not. She reminds me that even those who are not great themselves can, through great sacrifice, change history.”