“Well, he was. And he, the creator, created light. Light was his joy, his first and favored creation. Light, being first, partook of its creator’s very essence. But light, light isn’t. I mean, it isn’t just is. It doesn’t just be. It, it, it doesn’t sit. Light isn’t passive. Light sitting still wouldn’t be light at all. Light, light verbs! That other kind of verbing than is-ing. It, it goes. It flies. It moves. Even luxin, luxin doesn’t sit. It isn’t frozen motion, it is stable, predictable motion. Like glass. Motion in rings or predictable waves, motion slowed, but not motion stopped. Never that.” He scowled. “You’re getting me off track, making me tell it wrong. Let me try again. Ssschtt.”

He massaged his scalp, rubbing fingers hard through his disheveled red tradesman’s hair. “Ssschhtt. Dammit. Do you know what you’ve done?”

Teia shook her head, silent, submissive.

“You broke my teeth with your fighting.” He stood once again and moved away, carrying the lantern with him. With his back to Teia, he reached in his mouth. There was a slurp as he pulled something free. Teia was suddenly mindful of the drool that had dribbled on her face earlier.

She was going to wake up, wasn’t she? This was surreal. This couldn’t be—oh, no, that felt like a calf cramp coming on.

Sssscccchhhhhhttt!

He spat in a small spittoon. It was a lot of spit. Her stomach churned. He was talking to himself, too, slurring words, and she didn’t want to hear what he was saying. “…new red tabs frohm zhat fief…”

The spittoon accepted another shot, and then his voice drifted closer once more.

“Much better. You’ll be glad to know you just broke the adhesive. Else I would have been angry,” he said. “Do you know, with paryl, I don’t ever have to kill someone with my bare hands? It’s almost disappointing. There are other Shadows out there who let that make them lazy. And then they get captured by some oaf house guards because they can’t break a grip, and there are times when someone having a seizure is a bit too coincidental. This is why I am still a fighter, though I am so much more. Sometimes the meat must sing, and spirit merely nod and clap to the beat. Now where was I?”

“Light,” she said quietly.

“Ah yes.” He sat again. Folded his hands in his lap. “Calf muscle is cramping?”

“I hope n-n-not.” And then it went, cramping hard.

He grabbed her leg and she was spun around on her stomach. He worked her calf like an athlete or chirurgeon, skillfully working out the cramp in short order, and without causing unnecessary pain. Then he spun her back as if nothing had happened. He lowered the lantern light so that the barest ridges of his facial bones could be seen.

“In the beginning, God made light. And he saw that it was good. So he made the First Ones, that they might enjoy the light with him, and each other’s company. But the greatest of the First Ones rose up, and spoke for the Light. He said Light cannot be chained, that to sit in stasis and worship was no fit end for creators so glorious as they. And so he stole a light from the Lord of Light himself, and brought it to earth, and they called him Lightbearer. And he broke this light into colors so that all might enjoy it, so that even if some part were lost or chained again, yet light itself would be free. And he kindled many flames from that one solitary light he stole. And Orholam, in fury at this rebellion, barred the Lightbearer and those who followed him from the kingdom he now called the Heavens. And the Lightbearer and his Two Hundred set up their reign on earth, becoming gods in miniature, and over the course of eons, they bickered and fought, and when Orholam made men, they bickered and fought and used men to destroy men in their games. For God loved men, but men loved destroying what he loved.”

He turned the lantern up. “Tell me, child, is that close to the story you heard?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes.” Her heart was a hummingbird in a cage.

“Then let me tell you: half of that version is lies. A cunning lie, close to the truth, as the best lies are, yes? The Lightbearer did not steal a lesser light. He stole the Light itself. And with it, he fashioned Man. Yes. And he fashioned us not in the image of himself, but instead, in the image of the Lightmaker and the Light, and this is why Man has two natures. This is why we are a mirror of God himself, sides reversed, smudges showing the flaws of the model, not the copies. The Lightbearer and his host are the gods of old. And when we ascend to the bane, it is an ascent to a fraction of the former glory. It is not a usurpation, for we are created in the image of the light itself and are no lesser sons for this. Indeed, in some ways, we are the greatest of all. Though, one must admit, the most fragile. Orholam and the Lightbearer have been at war since, with Orholam using the Prisms to try to chain all light and bring it into obedience to him again. With Orholam stomping out those colors he finds his people cannot control. Like paryl.”

He pulled out a knife. “All of this, Teia, is prelude.” His face twisted through a dozen expressions in two seconds. “What I do, what you seek to do, this has weight. Not the, not the killing. We might as well be harvesting fish from the salmon runs. Necessary, but not worthy of deep contemplation. This … this has weight. Turn over. Look.”

He kicked her, hard, right in the kidney. It took her breath and made her roll over. The sudden savagery—for no reason!—after he had been so calm and steady, pushed her right to the brink of tears again. She had no idea what he wanted her to see. “What?” she said. “What?”

“This, stupid.” He was holding the hem of his cloak?

“The cloak?” she asked. A little muscle in her back started cramping, and she gasped involuntarily.

“Yes, the cloaks. The shimmercloaks, Teia. What are the shimmercloaks? What do they do?”

She wasn’t getting it. Did he want more than the obvious? Was he going to hurt her if she answered wrong? “Make you invisible?” she ventured. She braced herself for a kick.

“That’s right,” he said, amused once more. “And what does it mean to be invisible?”

Mean? What kind of question was that? It just was. “I don’t know. I don’t know. Dear Orholam, don’t hurt me again.”

“‘Dear Orholam,’” he echoed quizzically. But he let it go. “When the First Man and the First Woman first sinned, what did they do?”

“I don’t know. They were ashamed. They were naked. They hid. They, they clothed themselves.”

“They clothed themselves so the light wouldn’t touch their skin. They hid from Orholam. But of course, they couldn’t hide, could they?”

“Of course not, for Orholam sees all.” She stopped as soon as the old maxim crossed her lips.

Murder Sharp squatted on his heels, right next to her head. “To be invisible is the sinner’s first desire. To be invisible is to hide from man and angels and light and the Lord of Light himself. It is to be oralam Orh’ olam, hidden from Orholam. The pagan ancient Tyreans had a myth of a ring that when its bearer twisted it, it rendered him invisible. They didn’t believe in it literally, of course, how would a ring do such a thing? It was a parable for what a man might would do with all temptations laid before him. For, invisible, hidden from the eye of gods and men, what could a man not do? Allowed to do whatever he wished, what would a man do? To be invisible was to show the true condition of one’s heart. To the Tyreans, it was a story to muse upon. To the luxiats, it is more. Wanting to hide, to them, is itself evidence already that one is ashamed, that one’s heart is black. Who else would hide from the light, from truth?”