The Burning White (102 page)

A hallucination. A bitter memory. Ironfist settled his head against the stones to die.

“You think they cheered only because you carried me?” this phantasm of Tremblefist said. “Do you not remember your own wounds?”

No. He hadn’t been harmed, had he? Hanishu had taken all the brunt of the Tiru fans’ rage.

And then he remembered the blood. He’d taken blows in the face, a broken nose, a sliced forehead. Two or three broken ribs. He’d forgotten those.

By the time he’d crossed the finish line, he and Hanishu had been a gory mess together.

“I begged you to quit. I knew my wounds were temporary, but I was afraid you would die. You said, ‘I don’t know
quit
.’ ”

“I’ve learned,” Ironfist said bitterly.

Hanishu flashed an exasperated smile, exactly as he had done in life, except that Ironfist could see the wall through his form. “This doesn’t happen, you know,” Tremblefist said. “We peaceful departed, we don’t return. And I am at peace, brother. But he told me that uncommon loyalty deserves uncommon rewards. You took a wrong turn, associating with the Order to avenge mother and protect Haruru. But you’re no traitor, brother.”

After Teia had killed Haruru, making himself king of Paria had been the only way Ironfist could get back to Little Jasper safely, and become too important to be killed or simply sent away by the Order’s people or Andross Guile’s. Becoming king had been the only way to muster an army and bring it here.

It had been the only way he could hope to get vengeance on his uncle.

The plan had been to relent at the last moment before the execution and say, ‘I’ve changed my mind. Instead of a Guile, I’ll let myself be contented with the blood of one of those most useful to them. That slave, Grinwoody. He’s your right hand. I’ll take
him
. Now.’

Andross Guile would take the deal in a moment, and the Old Man of the Desert would never see it coming. Even if he had Blackguards in his employ, even if they were in the room, they didn’t know Grinwoody was the Old Man, so they wouldn’t know to try to save him.

That was the trouble with keeping your identity secret from your own people.

It had been a good plan. Devious. Very orange. It might have even worked, if not for Cruxer.

But it was all too late now. All for nothing.

At least they wouldn’t go ahead with the execution without him. Would they?

What if they did? Would there be more blood on his tally?

“I failed, brother,” he said, and the tears were hot and bitter.

We all fail. It’s why we don’t walk alone.

And for the first time in a long time, Ironfist didn’t feel alone.

He felt himself lifted in strong arms.

No one had lifted Ironfist since he was a young child.

He clung to his brother like the lost, and wept, and he wept as a man weeps: weak and unashamed.

At some point they had emerged into starlight and moonlight and night and the lapping waves. A figure approached. Voices spoke, Tremblefist’s rumbling through his chest, as Ironfist drifted between consciousness and not.

And then he was handed off. His brother Hanishu took Harrdun’s face in his big hands one last time, and kissed his forehead in blessing, and then was gone.

Ironfist must have been delirious, because he felt like the man now holding him was not nearly large enough to hold him, but the little round Parian managed not only Ironfist but also his own bags and jugs, and was also carrying him very quickly. They passed people, and everyone they passed seemed to be turning their backs or suddenly inattentive, yawning or rubbing their eyes.

And then the man set him down on his feet inside the lift that could take him to the level of the audience chamber, where there would be many Blackguards. Ironfist tottered, eyes bleary. His side had been bandaged; he couldn’t remember when.

“Do I know you?” Ironfist asked. The man smelled of . . . kopi?

The man smiled, and his face shone. “Come now, she’s almost here. ”

“Who?”

“The one who’s gonna save your life.” The round little man squinted. “Probably.” Then he seemed to flit out of and then back into the space he was standing, his jugs and cups clinking. Ironfist must have blinked or something. “Hmm. Well, if anyone
can
save you, she’s the one.”

Don’t hit him in the face, Kip. That is not how adults solve problems.

“We need to go ahead with this,” Zymun said. “I mean, I don’t want to any more than any of us. But I don’t think we can afford to wait.”

But if he
were
going to hit him in the face, Kip had a coin stick in his left pocket that fit in his burn-scarred left fist perfectly. No sense breaking your hand on the eve of battle.

The most important people in the Seven Satrapies had gathered in the audience chamber tonight: the High Magisterium, the Colors, nobles, the Prism-elect, the promachos, the White, Kip, at least twenty Blackguards, a veritable army of scribes who served them all, and one chubby little Parian ambassador, who looked like his heart was going to fail him.

Carver Black said, “We all agreed we need to give the signal by midnight or the soldiers won’t have time to deploy before dawn.”

“Midnight is the deadline the king has decreed,” the ambassador said timorously, then swallowed and sank back into himself.

“We know what he said, traitor,” Caelia Green snapped. “And believe me, we’re going to interpret whatever amnesty comes along with this deal for Ironfist as narrowly as possible. It may not cover
you
, for instance.”

“Midnight’s in four minutes,” Zymun said, as if he were just a clock, uncaring of the outcome, merely reminding everyone.

Uppercut, right in the jaw. Maybe I’d break some teeth that way. I could be spared the sound of his insufferable voice for a while.

“I’m ready,” Karris said, coming back from the side, where she’d been talking one more time with the luxiats; praying, Kip guessed. She’d already said her goodbyes to all the Blackguards earlier. “I don’t feel the need to scrounge about desperately for a few more minutes.”

She was radiant, not just with her normal beauty and resolve, but there was an inner light, a deeper strength to her. There was nothing grim about her determination. She was, suddenly, a rock. All these events swirled around her, the stream diverting, but the rock unmoved.

Only Kip stole a glance away toward Zymun, to see if even this could affect him. But Zymun flashed a wink at Kip instead, and then while pretending to blow his nose, he poked himself in each eye.

The hell was that about?

“I’m ready, too,” Zymun said. He moved forward, blinking, mistyeyed, his face lacquered with sorrow.

The little piece of shit.

“You can’t possibly be serious,” Kip said. “Ironfist isn’t even here yet. You’re not going to wait to see if he’s changed his mind?!”

“He gave us the ultimatum,” Zymun said. “Time is of the essence. If we wait, we endanger everyone. You heard the scouts! The White King’s ships are within a league now, and not stopping for the night. By dawn they’ll be setting up the siege. If we don’t get those soldiers—”

“Enough!” Karris said. “I said I’m ready. I don’t want to see hatred in my old friend’s eyes again anyway. There is no yielding in him once he’s set his course. Maybe it’s better this way.”

Zymun grinned at Kip, and Kip saw that a few others caught the expression and bristled at it. “Very well, then,
daughter
. To your place.”

“One of her beloved Blackguard kin has agreed to be the one who—” Andross began.

“I’m the Prism,” Zymun said firmly. “It has to be me. This is my duty and should rest on my soul. Mine is the protection of this empire, and mine is the shepherding of this flock. Even in this. Right, mother? You wouldn’t deny us this last, holy moment together, would you?”

Kip’s knuckles popped, he was clenching his fists so hard. He’d come here tonight ready to die. Because even if you think you know what’s going to happen, when death is in the offing, and Andross Guile is in the room . . . well, he’s Andross Guile.

“Of course not,” Karris interjected. Her face twisted as she added, “son.”

Zymun grinned in victory, changed his look to unconvincing sadness an instant later, and took the spear-point-bladed knife from Blackguard Commander Fisk.

There was a kneeling pillow at the front center of the podium. Zymun extended his hand to Karris. “Come, daughter,” he said. As if he were Prism already.

Kip looked at Andross and found Andross staring back at him, but his eyes were inscrutable.

He was really going to let this happen.

They all were.

Though Kip had shown up ready to die, Zymun, of course, had never once thought that
he
might be the Guile to die. To him, this was all a game, a show for his entertainment.

To Kip, it was a nightmare he couldn’t wake from. He could see why Andross didn’t want to depose Zymun today: he was a figurehead without any real power, but for the people of the Jaspers, losing another Prism on the very eve of a battle for their survival would be a devastating blow to morale. He was handsome, and the son of the beloved Gavin Guile—that’s all most of the people knew. Andross wanted Zymun to strut through whatever of the Sun Day events they could manage, maybe read a speech Andross had written for him, and then quietly go away right afterward. And Kip was needed for the islands’ defense.

So it had to be Karris.

She made a sign of benediction to the crowd. “My faithful ones,” she said, “I’ve run my race. I pass my light on to you, my friends. You fight like hell. Orholam be with you. And please, when we are victorious over the pagans—
when
we are, for I have no doubts of that—do not hold the shedding of my blood against Ironfist or the Parians. I am not without blame in this. Take no vengeance for me, but stitch Paria back into these Seven Satrapies with grace and mercy, as Orholam would will it.”

There were quiet sobs in the room. The Blackguards were all stony-faced sorrow. Karris took a few moments to make eye contact with them one last time. Many in the crowd looked on with abject horror, while others simply seemed titillated.

This is not happening.

Karris looked at Kip, and her mouth pursed with regret. She nodded to him in farewell.

Then she knelt on the pillow.

“We’re not doing anything yet,” Andross said loudly.

Usually, that would have been the end of it, but Zymun didn’t move. He’d put his hand on Karris’s forehead, ostensibly in blessing, tilting her head back to expose her throat.

“Grandfather,” Zymun said, his voice dripping contempt, “this is now a matter between the Prism and his faithful. This is sacrosanct. For the sake of the Seven Satrapies, I’m afraid I can’t allow you to—”

Kip had been with the Blackguard long enough to recognize the small move with his right hand backward, drawing the knife back to get space to apply more force to ram it home.

All the tension in Kip’s muscles exploded at once. Sweeping in from Zymun’s left side, he caught the young man’s right hand just as the knife swept forward. Kip pushed the knife wide as his own mass collided with Zymun, driving him away from Karris. Then Kip’s right elbow flashed up, cracking across Zymun’s head as Kip blocked his heel with his own foot.

Zymun went down, boneless.

The fight was finished before the gasps were.

Kip could tell suddenly that a lot of the people here hadn’t seen the telltale twitch that foretold murder. To the untrained eye, his action must have looked like an unprovoked attack.

“He was moving to kill her,” Commander Fisk announced sharply. “We train constantly to see tells of such a move, and Kip trained with us. He saw it, too. This was defense of life, not an attack. I know what I saw, and I swear this to be true.”

Twenty Blackguards gave silent affirmation. Kip hadn’t even thought of the Blackguard, but he realized why he was the first to react: they were trapped between their next Prism, a White who’d abdicated her protection by them, and a not-quite order from the promachos. Their loyalties and their oaths of obedience had tangled, slowing them.

“You dare? You dare lay your hands on me?” Zymun hissed at Kip from the floor, blinking his eyes.

“Grandfather,” Kip said loudly but without turning from the snake. “May I remind you of your earlier promise?”

Irritated, Andross announced, “Blackguards, Kip is under my full protection. Act accordingly.”

Zymun lunged at him, scrambling to draw a pistol, but the Blackguard—happily absolved of contradicting loyalties—restrained him quickly and with more force than strictly necessary.

“Take Zymun to his apartments. Our Prism-
elect
has much to pray about this night,” Andross said.

Zymun was dragged out, spitting and trying to bite the Blackguards, who had no trouble handling him.

“One minute to midnight,” Carver Black said.

Karris hadn’t moved from where she knelt on the pillow. “Commander Fisk?” she asked. “Will you do me the honor?”

“That is your will?” he asked.

“It is.”

Quietly Fisk added, “I wish we could lose a different Guile.”

“I know,” she said. “You’re a loyal friend, Commander. Thank you.”

Commander Fisk looked at Andross, but the old man made no gesture one way or the other. So then Fisk looked at Kip and extended his hand for his knife.

Kip hadn’t even realized he was still holding it. “Hell no,” Kip said. “This is insane. You
know
Ironfist! He would never do this! This isn’t his heart. We wait!”

“My lord has the luxury of disobeying orders,” Commander Fisk said. “I wish I had the same.” He took a knife from another Blackguard. “Karris, Archer, sister, High Lady Guile, forever our Iron White,” he said, “it has been my honor to serve with you, and to serve you. May Orholam reunite us in gentler lands.”

“And may He bless you with light and warmth, Commander. Now, stop delaying, old trainer of mine. It’s taking everything in me not to try my hand at fighting you one last time, to see if I could win now, as I couldn’t so very long ago.”