The Burning White (100 page)

The holster gave Cruxer the advantage. He finished his draw and pulled his trigger as Ironfist’s gun was still coming on target.

And nothing happened. Wet from the rain in its open holster, the frizzen didn’t spark. Cruxer was cocking the jaw again when Ironfist fired. Powder roared in a burning-white flash that blossomed into a black cloud between them.

But Cruxer didn’t stop. Ironfist had missed. Cruxer cocked his pistol and aimed deliberately.

Ironfist threw himself down again as Cruxer fired.

The concussion deafened Ironfist, but Cruxer missed.

At least as far as Ironfist could tell. Battle was like that. Sometimes you could be dead ten seconds before you realized it.

Ironfist stood, blood gushing from his arm and side. He felt suddenly faint.

He collapsed at Cruxer’s feet.

Tossing his pistol aside, he fumbled toward his bag. He wanted his protégé to know the white luxin was real. He wanted Cruxer to know it was all real. Maybe, maybe Cruxer could save Gavin. Maybe Iron-fist’s lies hadn’t doomed them all.

But with one foot, Cruxer flipped Ironfist over onto his back. He must’ve thought Ironfist was going for another weapon.

Ironfist looked up into the judgment that stood over him.

Then Cruxer tottered. His face twisted with irritation.

Then he collapsed beside Ironfist.

The young warrior gasped bloody foam a few times, a bullet hole in his chest sucking air as his lungs filled with blood.

Ironfist hadn’t missed.

Cruxer made no gestures. Said no final words. And Ironfist couldn’t read the expression in his eyes.

“I tried . . . Oh God,” Ironfist said. “I tried.”

But there was no absolution here.

He pushed himself up to his knees, fumbling to show Cruxer the white luxin—to show his dying eyes that it was true, it was all true. But Ironfist stumbled, couldn’t stand. Suddenly weak, he fell face-down again.

There was a lot of blood. His blood.

It was all going dark. He wasn’t going to make it.

I’m dying, he thought.

He was frightened.

Karris lay on her face, her body surrendered to the ministrations of Rhoda’s magical hands. It was good to be reminded that the body could be a temple of joy. That there was dancing, and hugging, and pleasing touches, and that life was not only war and death and unconscionable choices.

She wished she could lie abed with Gavin one last time, holding each other and speaking softly, or making love, either would be her choice of how she would spend this evening that would end in a night of blood, a failure that would echo into history. But the world is a broken place. As far as second bests went, a massage from Rhoda was better than most got.

A knock intruded on the pleasure of Rhoda scraping the warm oil from Karris’s limbs with a strigil. “Lord Kip Guile, at your pleasure, High Lady,” the Blackguard Stump said.

Rhoda packed hot towels all around Karris’s limbs and torso. It was a natural break in the massage, as the heat worked in to Karris’s body. Karris sighed, and dismissed Rhoda. “Send him in,” she said.

Kip walked in. He’d obviously never been here, because he seemed surprised to see the massage table, and more surprised to see Karris on it, undressed—though she was covered.

Then there was a tiny expression of anger. If she hadn’t been looking for it, Karris would have missed it. It said, ‘You’re getting a massage, now? What a bitch.’

Good. Karris wanted him angry. Time and distance and high office tends to put blocks up between you and other people. She didn’t have time for horseshit. And she deserved his rage.

“I treated you terribly before you left,” she said.

It was as if she’d written out the painful memory on a parchment, rolled it up, and swatted him across the nose with it like an unsuspecting dog. But he covered it quickly.

“Ah, you mean when my little joke failed so spectacularly?” Kip said. “My apologies again. I didn’t understand the gravity of that subject, and dealt with my awkwardness . . . well, awkwardly.”

She didn’t cut him off. “Kip, when a person in his midteens acts immaturely, that’s entirely forgivable and even appropriate. When a person in her fourth decade does, it’s neither.

“Kip, a long time ago, I abandoned my son, and the guilt of that has never left me. So when you showed up and were so . . . you . . . I felt Orea Pullawr had manipulated me; that she thought the loss of one son could be made up by substituting another—as if I’d misplaced a pair of boots and she bought me a better pair. I was angry at myself and at others I’d trusted and at the world. I wasn’t angry at you. Actually, it was the opposite. I was angry because Orea’s plan was working so well, and I couldn’t imagine how unnatural I must be to allow a child who was not my own to fill the ache I had for the one I gave up.”

Kip said nothing, but she saw she had his total attention.

“I’ve realized a few things since then. First, that last part was horseshit. A parent’s love isn’t a barrel of water to be rationed among those dying of thirst, where more for one means less for another. A parent’s love is a new channel cut through the self to the divine essence, a river that cannot be exhausted or even fathomed, only experienced. You know how Garriston used to have irrigation canals everywhere?”

“I saw where they used to be,” Kip said. “All filled with sand and scrub now.”

“That wasteland was what my life was when I first got to know you, Kip. Opening a new irrigation canal threatened what was working for me. Not working well, granted. But I knew the rules there. I’d adjusted to desert life. I treated you terribly because I was scared. If you’d been here since then, I could have apologized sooner, and . . . well, that’s past now. The second revelation was . . . I don’t like your brother.”

“Half brother,” Kip interjected.

She turned her head so she was facing away from him. She said, “And he doesn’t even seem like that much. He has few of your talents and fewer still of your virtues. I don’t even know if I can love him even in the abstract, and I’ve been trying.” Her throat closed off. She swallowed, but she couldn’t go on.

“And yet you summoned me, not him,” Kip said flatly. “I heard about Ironfist’s ultimatum. Everyone has. He wants a dead Guile. And here I am. I can’t believe he’s really doing this.”

“He’s not taking visitors. The Tafok Amagez wouldn’t even knock on his door.”

“Thanks for trying. I guess,” Kip said.

“Ironfist said he wouldn’t consider Zymun, Kip.”

“He did?” Kip asked. “Oh. The rumor left that part out. Well. That’s too bad.”

Karris snorted. That was putting it mildly. “Andross’s first choice, naturally, was to eliminate the threat at its source. Kill Ironfist, or detain him and forge orders—something. But before we could make plans, we were told that if Ironfist is harmed or doesn’t give the order in person, his men will sail away immediately. His ships have orders to fire on anyone who tries to approach. Ironfist knows how convincing Andross can be, so he’s simply not letting there be communication at all.”

“And what about my people?” Kip asked.

“They’re already here. Which, ordinarily, would mean their fate is tied to ours. But with your skimmers, we know they could leave. But they won’t. You won’t allow it.”

“Even if I’m dead?” Kip demanded.

“Goodness sometimes makes one predictable.”

“Thank you? I guess?” Kip said. “Funny how quickly things change, huh?”

“How so?”

“This morning, Andross wanted me to wager my marriage to save the Jaspers. I thought I was deciding everything with that game. I even thought I won. And now it’s not my happiness you’ll take, it’s my life, and my game didn’t matter at all. Even Andross Guile’s best-laid plans go awry. In different circumstances, it’d be almost enough to make one hopeful, you know? That he didn’t foresee everything. If a peon like Ironfist might disrupt his schemes, maybe I could, too. Not that this is the disruption I would have chosen.”

She lay there, silent, facing away, hardly able to breathe. She didn’t want him to see her weep.

“Hard to believe Ironfist turned into such an asshole. It just doesn’t seem like him.”

“We assassinated his sister,” Karris said. The time for lies and hiding was finished. “Although I never heard a good word about her, he loved her. He always thought the stories that trickled out about her were planted by her enemies. She was his blind spot. After his brother died helping you escape, she was all he had left. We ruined him, Kip. I took away the last thing holding him up.”

She couldn’t see Kip’s reaction, but this was the grandson of Andross Guile, the son of Gavin. “Ah,” Kip said, “I get it: our family took everything from him. Andross cost him his life’s work as commander. I cost him Tremblefist. You cost him Haruru. I guess I can understand that rage. Everyone’s got a limit.”

They waited in silence. Karris’s towels had gotten cold, and her stomach felt tight and uncomfortable. Rhoda would be poking her head in at any moment, if she hadn’t already done so discreetly.

Kip cleared his throat.

“Fine,” Kip said. “My people will fight under High General Danavis’s command, as you asked. I would like time to write one last letter to my people expressing my wishes. And one to my wife. Naturally, I’m sure you’ll read both before you pass them along. You’ll likely . . .” He cleared his throat, having difficulty. Karis was still facing away. Tears poured down her face. She held her body tight so the sobs wouldn’t betray her. “You’ll likely need to imprison Tisis until all this is over, or she’ll do something everyone regrets. I’ll make two copies of the letter—she may burn the first.” He laughed, but it was a short, forced sound closer to a cough. “Passionate woman. You would’ve liked her.”

“High Lady?” Rhoda’s voice came in as she did. The physicker began pulling away the towels, heedless of Kip’s presence.

“When is the execution?” Kip asked.

“Within the hour,” Karris said. She winced as Rhoda put icy-cold hands on each side of her neck. “We need to make sure that High General Danavis has time to integrate and deploy the forces. Even waiting this long is cutting it close.”

“Not enough time to take care of everything,” Kip grumbled under his breath.

“Who among us gets that?” Karris asked. Her stomach twisted.

She heard him take one step toward the door. Then he stopped.

“
Fuuuck
,” Kip said suddenly under his breath. “You’re not getting a massage. You’re being anointed for burial. You didn’t choose me. You chose
you
.”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. She hadn’t been able to muster the resolve to tell him yet, and even now her will failed her. She rolled over and sat up. Rhoda covered her, expertly using first her own bulk and then a robe to maintain her patient’s dignity—such as it was.

“You?!” Kip demanded. “But you’re
needed
!”

Needed?! What did he know about unmet needs? The very word pushed her enough that she could finally speak. “Kip. Do you want to know one of the deepest horrors of life? None of us is needed, not truly. It’s just nicer for those who love us if we’re there.”

“I won’t accept that. That’s horseshit!” Kip said. “I won’t let you die for—”

“For you?”

“For Andross! For Ironfist’s stupid pride!”

“Kip, I’m not doing this for them. Or even for you. Not if I’m being honest with myself. I’m not that selfless. Really, what have I got left? My husband is gone and likely won’t ever return. The friend I admired so much, who became like a father to me in the Blackguard, wants me dead—and I can’t blame him for that. My son Zymun is a soulless manipulator, rapist, and murderer incapable of human feeling. I have only my work, my Blackguards’ love, and my hopes for you and your life. All those things demand I do this.

“How could I live with myself if I asked you to die in my place? How monstrous would history think I was? Would they call me Karris Ironheart perhaps if—after you offered me a piece of motherhood—I not only spurned you and drove you away but then, when you finally came back to save us all, I rewarded you by demanding your death? No. No. This way history at least will be fooled. I’ll become another heroic Karris sacrificing herself for the Chromeria. It’s a lie, but one that might inspire others to do better than I have. I’ve known I was going to die in this battle for some time. This is—this is just like having my Freeing a bit early, is all.”

“No,” Kip said plaintively.

“You won your game. Go enjoy your victory and your life. Both are more fleeting than you know.”

“You cannot—”

But another cramp hit Karris’s stomach, this one insistent. “Now, if you’ll pardon me,” she said. “I decided that defecating as one dies isn’t commensurate with the dignity expected of the White, so I took a laxative earlier. Shitting uncontrollably now seemed better than doing so later, but I’d rather you not watch.”

Get up, whinger. One more lap.

Ironfist woke. He was cold. Freezing cold. His cheek was in a pool of something sticky.

So, not dead. Not yet. He tried to move.

Everything hurt. Two places were utter fire, but his whole body hurt like he had a terrible fever. Everything ached. Lying still hurt marginally less.

I know I’m the fool who chose a team race, but you’re the fool who agreed. Get up.

It was how he’d encouraged his little brother, when they were mere teens in that awful mountains-to-desert race that capped the novennial Philocteian Games. They’d always loved running, but they’d never expected to be among the best. But somehow, the better runners had fallen out through injury, and the young princes had suddenly become the bearers of their clan’s pride.

Clamping his arm tight to his side, Ironfist sat up. He gasped. His injuries tore open afresh, both arm and chest.

Nearby, Cruxer lay dead in the midst of guns and a broken sword and a pool of blood. A lot of blood.

But the spiritual pain was blunted by the physical.

Ironfist blinked until the black spots retreated from his vision.

The Blackguards who should have come to the back gate had never come. Even with the musket shots, no one had come.