The Burning White (122 page)

Five of the twenty Blackguards got off the lift, muttering, and six Lightguards pushed their way on.

“It was crazy,” Fisk said as they finally set the weights. “I was watching his eyes. He went from nothing to pressing the halos in every color. He doesn’t have much time left.”

“That’s nice,” Karris said as the lift came to stop on a residential level. “Except that it doesn’t seem I do, either.”

There were a dozen Lightguards waiting here. Obviously killers. “We need to get on,” one of them said. “Prism’s orders. You all get off.”

Karris wasn’t being taken to a cell.

Fisk pushed against the Lightguards in front of him. “Sure. Fine, but can you get the hell out of the way so we can get off?”

As the last to have entered the lift, the Lightguards on the lift had to exit first. Several stepped off before others hesitated.

Fisk clicked his tongue twice, and suddenly Lightguards were flying out of the lift into their murderous compatriots, kicked or thrown out by the Blackguards. Someone threw the counterweights, and the lift dropped like a stone.

Only one of the Lightguards held on to the Blackguard who’d pushed him. He tottered at the edge of the rapidly growing height above the descending lift.

But someone grabbed his arm, and he didn’t fall on them.

They slowed the lift, and Karris looked at Fisk.

“You didn’t think I was going to side with that little shit, did you?” he asked, unlocking her manacles.

“I . . .”

“We’re with you, Iron White. Blood and bone.”

“I know you all loved Gavin, but you don’t have to transfer any oath of—”

“We loved Promachos,” Fisk said, using Gavin’s Blackguard Name. “Still do. But this has got nothing to do with him. We’re yours, blood and bone.”

“Blood and bone,” the others swore.

She compressed her lips tightly and nodded, looking quickly at each, eye to eye. “Thank you. Thank you. All right. We’ve gotta get off Little Jasper completely,” Karris said. “We’re not safe as long as—” She cut off as they reached the ground-level grand atrium, and the lift stopped, revealing a semicircle of at least forty Lightguards, all of whom were pointing muskets at the lift.

One of the Blackguards muttered, “That’s unfortunate.”

Say this about Blackguards: facing death, they still guarded their tongues.

Several hundred people who were sheltering in the grand atrium or who had business with the Chromeria on this fraught day stood watching, confused and then aghast that people they’d thought were on the same side were pointing muskets at one another.

Gill Greyling murmured, “We can take ’em.”

Say this about Blackguards, too: facing death, they still never said die.

It made them excellent people not to listen to in certain situations.

A young Lightguard with a brace holding his leg straight and a crutch with a blade along the front edge announced loudly enough for the whole crowd to hear him, “Commander Fisk! I have to say I warned our High Lord Zymun that you would betray him. He wanted to give you a chance. So hard to find loyal commanders for the Blackguard these days. But we do have an admirable replacement. Gentlemen, it’s my honor to introduce you to your new Blackguard commander: me. You may call me Commander Aram. Brothers, sisters, all of you, surrender your muskets. Now.”

No one moved. The crowd murmured.

“That’s an order,” Aram growled.

Fisk was tense as a drawn bowstring, but he growled, “Do it.” He drew his own pistols, careful not to point them toward the jittery Lightguards. But instead of sliding the pistols to the any of the Lightguards, he slid them hard down one of the gaps between their lines.

You never arm your enemy.

The rest of the Blackguards followed in quick succession, doing the same.

“High Lady,” Aram went on, annoyed, “I’m afraid to say that I’m under orders from our new emperor, the High Lord Prism Zymun Guile, to take you into custody on charges of treason.”

“Treason?” Commander Fisk said loudly. He wasn’t addressing Aram, though. He was speaking to the other Lightguards, and the whole room. “High Lady Karris Guile, treason? Our Iron White is heading out to do battle for us all. She goes to join the Lightbringer himself. Are you telling me you’re gonna
murder
her? For that spoiled boy up there? What is he offering you Lightguards? Money? She goes to fulfill prophecy. She goes to save our island, our empire, and our very lives. If she doesn’t go, we all die! Hard to spend your bribe money when you’re dead. And after you discharge those muskets, consider this: what happens to you?”

“What do you mean what happens to—? Look,” Aram said, “we have our orders, and we obey them, unlike—”

“Here’s the thing,” Commander Fisk said. “We Blackguards are better trained than you are. But the
damnable
thing about muskets is that they wipe out most of the advantage of training. At least for the first volley, especially close up. That works against us today. But it works against you, too.”

“Huh?” Aram asked.

A young man in the crowd beyond the Lightguards had picked up one of the Blackguards’ discarded pistols. Now, swallowing, he pointed it at Aram.

“I think you should let the Iron White go,” he said, his eyes wide, his voice squeaky. He looked like he could hardly believe he’d found such courage in himself. He blinked, then, embarrassed, he cocked the pistol.

In an instant, others were picking up the muskets and pistols near them, as well, and pointing them at the Lightguards.

And then dozens of other people around the atrium produced muskets—with the threat of an invading army, everyone who owned a weapon was carrying it today.

In moments, the semicircle of Lightguards found themselves goggling as they were encircled by civilians and diplomats, bristling with dozens and dozens of muskets.

Gavin gasped, jerking his hand away from the old man. “What was that? A vision? You’re a
will-caster
?” he demanded. “You might have told me! That could’ve come in handy a few times in the last few years, you know. And what the hell was that? Some slave kid? Mirrors? Why show me—”

The old prophet said nothing.

“Wait, that will-casting
has
come in handy, hasn’t it? You’ve been twisting me to your will for this whole climb, haven’t you? Was this all a deception, then? Have I actually seen any of this?”

Orholam sighed. “We know ourselves by how we see ourselves mirrored in others’ eyes. So when a man lies habitually, he distorts the mirror he holds up to the world. In fooling others, he loses himself. Those who praise him? Those who love him? He knows they must simply be fools. He hates himself because there’s a gap between what he is and what he believes himself to be. If the gap grows too large, it becomes a tear, a schism. A man torn asunder lives in madness. So, my friend, do you know who you are?”

“I’m a guy trapped on a tower in the middle of nowhere with a lunatic.”

“You’ve tried to be the Trickster. It doesn’t fit you. So you failed at trickery, and it made you fail at what you
are
made to do, too. Some try to blot themselves out with drug or drink, but you needed stronger stuff. You sought to unmake that which God Himself hath wrought. You used black luxin. You were afraid to be who you are. Ever in front of thousands, you thought you could stand alone, all while you secretly tried to buy redemption on the cheap. It’s why you took the pilgrimage seriously, but utterly wrongly.”

“Is this about the
blade
?” Gavin asked.

“There are many reasons to make a pilgrimage, but the most common is believing a pilgrimage is a shortcut to redemption. It’s also the worst reason to make one. As if one might carry a rock for a while and be finished with pride. Carrying a burden so heavy it hobbles you is a good metaphor for sin, but it’s only a metaphor. Confusing the image of a thing with the thing itself is the root of all sorts of trouble.”

“Let me guess: life itself is the pilgrimage?” Gavin asked.

But the old prophet hardly slowed. “You Guiles are eagles watching a sunset in a still mountain lake. You dive into it instead of soaring as you were made to do, and flap your wings in the water and curse the world because you can’t fly and you find it hard to breathe—and with your splashing you destroy the image of the sky, too.”

“Thanks,” Gavin said. Asshole. “So if I’m not who I think I am, then who am I?” He was trying to be flippant, but he was too exhausted. The day’s long fight had taken it out of him.

“You like to figure things out. Figure it out. Besides, I’ve already told you.”

No, you didn’t. “What does this have to do with that slave Alvaro?”

“Who’s asking?”

Ugh! God! Gavin
hated
prophets!

Dazen
. Dazen hated prophets. Dammit! He still thought of himself as Gavin. Half the time. It was excruciating, holding himself together. “I’m Dazen Guile,” he said. His voice came out firmly. A strong, steady statement of fact. Mostly.

“No, you’re not.”

“Well, shit. A one-in-two chance, and I still blow it. What, then? I’m Gavin indeed?”

“You’re asking me?” the old man said. “And you’re going to listen?”

“Yes!” Gavin said, exasperated. This was surreal, infuriating. He’d stepped into a circus world, a hall of mirrors. Up was down, left was right, and though he could finally remember everything he’d lost to black luxin, he couldn’t even firmly pin down his own name?

Orholam said quietly, “You’re not a trickster. You’re a protector. You’re the one who goes out before his people into battle. Is that enough, or do you need more hints?”

“Promachos?” Gavin asked, but something in him cracked. “That’s what Ironfist called me. I come all the way up here just to get my Blackguard name a second time?”

But he was being defensive, holding the prophet off mentally. Stalling. It had felt good when Ironfist called him that. It had felt real, and strong, and true. And that had been a treasure. He’d held off the name then, too, even as he’d craved it. ‘I’m not the man you think I am,’ he’d told Ironfist. Ironfist had replied, ‘Are you not the man I’ve served these past ten years?’ ‘I am.’ ‘Then perhaps, my lord, you’re not the man you think you are.’

Orholam went on. “Harrdun saw what you did, for decades, and at Garriston you gave him undeniable evidence, no matter his other feelings about you.”

Dazen cocked his head. “At Garriston? What, making Brightwater Wall?”

“No!” Orholam laughed. “That part
infuriated
him, how seemingly effortlessly you could create such a wonder, and how you so easily turned people’s hearts to you. I mean at the gate.”

“I got his people killed at the gate,” Gavin said. “I should’ve finished it faster.”

“You laid down your life for your friends at that gate, and in so doing, you drafted white luxin. He found a piece of it. He wears it still.”

“White luxin? Me? That’s not—”

“Dazen or Gavin, you have been what you thought you needed to be in order to be Promachos. It’s who you are. And you are at your most powerful when you stand for those who have no one to stand for them.”

The words smote him like a giant’s fist crashing down around him.

But instead of crushing him, he felt his dead heart stir once more, pounding for at least one moment again within its dark and thorny cage—life in him pulsing against the death garrisoned in his body. It was truth, smashing him as painfully as a man pounds a drowned swimmer’s chest, breaking ribs to save his life, making him gasp in pain in order to help him breathe at all.

But he knew this was nothing more than one last skirmish in an old, losing war. It was too late. He’d not drowned in water that might be spat out, leaving his lungs clear. He’d drowned in blood. Rivers and seas of it.

And yet . . .

Tears coursed from his eyes.
Promachos
.

His mind cast back to a thousand times he’d thrown himself into danger to save those who couldn’t save themselves. The best times of his life had been when he’d saved others, whether by going after wights, sinking pirates and slavers, killing bandits, stopping the Blood Wars. And the worst times of his life had been the times he’d failed to protect those he’d loved: He’d failed to protect Sevastian. Failed to protect Marissia. Failed to protect Kip. Failed to protect Karris—because he couldn’t do it alone. And he’d always been alone.

“I stand for them,” Gavin said. “Well . . . stood.”

And then his voice lowered to a low, piteous tone utterly unbefitting the Prism he’d once been. It was the voice of that helpless boy, in an empty, beautiful mansion in a storm, holding the lifeless body of his little brother. With a voice shot through with tears and weakness, he said, “I stood for them. Who stands for me?”

Gavin looked away. He didn’t dare see what might be in the old man’s eyes now. He couldn’t handle pity, and one I-told-you-so and Gavin was going to throw himself off this goddam tower.

He didn’t need an answer. When had he given anyone the chance to stand for him? Or even beside him? When had he asked? No, Gavin had wanted to be the big hero, partly from vanity so he’d be
seen
as a hero, and partly from pride that only he could do whatever was required, but also partly from fear at losing whomever he might have asked.

Gavin said, “I failed everyone I love, and I’ve not loved those who deserve it and needed it. What do I . . . what do I
do
with that?”

When Orholam didn’t answer, Gavin began to lift his gaze to the old prophet, when he saw a tear splash in the blood between them, a momentary pinprick bleaching the red stream. “Love as you are, Dazen. Sometimes a broken mirror serves best.”

“Ha! Oh yeah? When?! When bits of it are tied into a cat-o’-nine so it can tear flesh, like with that little shit Alvaro?” Gavin turned away. He couldn’t look at Orholam’s face. “Besides, I wasn’t looking for an answer.”

It was a lie, though. Of course he was.

“Your dark night was lived every day in the sun. And was darkest on the brightest day of the year. In the full view of unseeing thousands, you felt alone.”

Gavin grunted an assent.