The Burning White

by Brent Weeks

  How could you become the White, and look into the eyes of a good man who was dying for you, and blink?

  The Iron White, they called her.

  It was a bitter taste in Teia’s mouth. A mock.

  Teia felt the darkness all around her like dead, cold fingers touching her cheek; cold, wormy breath blowing down on her hood, wheezing. But as she drafted paryl now, she couldn’t say any more that the darkness was merely a cloak around her than you could say the air was merely around you once you breathed it in.

  She opened herself to darkness and it took her. It gave her power, but it changed her, too.

  Darkness tore the hem of its robe, and that flapping hem became a fluttering raven that took a perch on her pallid heart.

  The winsome, goofy smile of Gav Greyling was no more. And nevermore would be.

  Teia would give Karris her report. Not today. But eventually. Teia would do her duty. She always did. The monsters she fought were still monsters. Her friends still her friends. Her commanders still, unfortunately, her commanders. Doubts are for old warriors, not young ones.

  But on a personal level? Fuck you, Karris.

  You’re making everything you put me through, everything you made me do, be for nothing. Now you’ve given me a dead friend. Why would I give you a live husband?

  You took my Gavin. Why should I give you yours?

  Teia waited until morning. As the Iron White slept in her soft bed, Adrasteia’s mind never wavered, her determination never faltered, her focus never flagged, her will never failed. Witness to weakness, she was implacable.

  When the morning shift came in, she slipped out the door and got to work.

  Chapter 9

  Kip was following Tisis through the verdant vibrancy of the forest. The air was thick as hot soup, the ground spongy underfoot with mosses and fanning ferns, but there was no trail. The clouds broke overhead with the kind of downpour that could last a few minutes or all morning. Kip was drenched in warm sky spit within seconds.

  It was kind of miserable being out here, actually. And a total relief.

  His Nightbringers only nominally controlled this land, not even a league from Greenwall. It should be safe—aside from the snakes. They had scouts farther out, after all, and this was in the direction least likely for them to be attacked by Daragh the Coward’s bandits, or any unlikely sneak attack from Koios. Cruxer was still nervous, of course. But this had to be secret, so only Kip, Cruxer, Ferkudi, and Tisis had slipped away.

  “What’s your read on this?” Tisis asked.

  “This?” Kip asked. They’d already agreed he couldn’t make a decision until he learned more. That was the whole point of actually hiking out here rather than just sending orders. “You mean…”

  “Daragh,” she said, gesturing to the scroll case at her belt as if doing so again.

  Oh, that. He’d missed it in the rain and with staring at his footing. Daragh the Coward wanted to meet with Kip.

  Kip first suspected he was trying to gain time to spread his forces out to shut down supply or reinforcement, but Daragh had asked to meet in person, in neutral territory.

  As if there were any such thing.

  They’d sent a message back saying that if Daragh didn’t trust Kip would honor a flag of truce, then he obviously wouldn’t trust any deal he might make with Kip, so a meeting was pointless. Thus Daragh could meet him in the city or not at all.

  “There’s a reason his bandits haven’t attacked us directly all this time,” Kip said.

  “Depends how you define ‘us,’” Tisis said.

  The bandits literally lived by enslaving and pillaging, with raping thrown in for good measure and murder as their primary tool. That Daragh the Coward hadn’t attacked Kip’s forces per se was incidental to her: their victims were Foresters, and that by itself made them Tisis’s people.

  “I’m trying to see it—for the moment—as he does,” Kip said. He’d explained this already. In Daragh’s mind, he had avoided attacking Kip’s people, even as Kip had passed through territory he considered his own. That didn’t happen by accident, not with men like this. So to him, that should mean he and Kip could still work something out.

  Tisis would rather fight. Regardless. To her Koios was an invader, but Daragh the Coward was a traitor, which was worse. She might not forgive Kip if he fought the invader but forgave the traitor.

  Which made her right morally but wrong strategically.

  That was tomorrow’s problem.

  They came to the small encampment suddenly, set in a hollow hidden by a hill. General Antonius Malargos greeted them outside the longhouse.

  The year of being in authority had transformed Antonius. He’d been the gawky young red drafter, terminally the little-brother figure to his cousin Tisis—whom he still adored. He was still lean, but there was a focus to him now, a strength that knew itself and hadn’t given up its striving to grow more. His people loved him because he loved them, and because he was bold. That he had the Malargos good looks didn’t hurt, either. He had an intuitive grasp of tactics, and would throw himself headlong wherever he sensed weakness.

  This was, after all, the young man who’d leaped from his own ship as it was being captured by pirates to steal the pirates’ own ship—and in so doing saved Kip’s father.

  Oddest of all for a man so bold, Antonius accepted instruction from those he respected.

  He himself had no sense at all of strategy; his eyes glazed during those discussions, but he was young yet. Logistics were beyond him completely, but he could have others attached to him to help with those—though it would always have to be someone with a steel spine, because Antonius had little patience for those who said things couldn’t be done.

  Kip liked him a lot.

  “My people here will keep quiet,” Antonius said.

  He had only ten men here. Even at that, Kip wasn’t certain he was right. Antonius’s total faith in his people inspired deep loyalty in return. But Kip knew that the same person might show different kinds of loyalty in different kinds of fights.

  And this was not a fight Kip or anyone wanted.

  “They know what has to be done with deserters,” Antonius said. Either because he was just that obvious, or to put some backbone in them. So maybe he wasn’t that certain of how quiet they would keep, after all.

  Ferkudi took up a position outside the door. Cruxer stepped inside first. Kip followed, bracing himself for what he might have to do.

  In the shadows of this longhouse with no fire burning at its center, stood a pygmy woman, dirty, her eyes exhausted red: Sibéal Siofra. Next to her, chained to great stakes driven into the ground, smeared with ash and grease such as hunters employ to melt into the forest, but also dirty and disheveled from hard days and nights, knelt an enormous bear of a man, his every jutting muscle covered with red hair, the bereaved deserter and Kip’s former second-in-command, Conn Ruadhán Arthur.

  “My lord,” Sibéal said, “there’s no need for the chains. The conn here got into some booze while foraging. Just lost track of time. Got lost on his way back. But we’re back now and reporting for duty. With all apologies for our absence.”

  She was floating the possibility for the lash, not the noose.

  But Conn Arthur snorted, shaking his head. “You spent days dragging my ass back here, and that’s the best you could come up with, Sibéal?”

  Kip ignored him, turning to Antonius. “It’s my understanding they came in of their own will. That they were returning, not captured. That right?”

  “She was certainly returning of her own will…” He hesitated. Antonius could tell that Kip was trying to point him in some direction, but he couldn’t see what it was.

  “And he was with her—when she returned voluntarily,” Kip said. “So that’d be dereliction of duty, not desertion.”

  “That’s, uh, that’s right,” Lord Antonius said, relieved.

  The law was the law, but Kip didn’t want to hang his friend.

  “So that�
��s what happened?” Kip asked. “I’m very disappointed in you two.”

  “That’s not what happened,” Conn Arthur growled at the floor.

  “Stop!” Sibéal shouted at him. “Think about what you’re doing!”

  “I’ll not let you be whipped for what I’ve done,” he said. He lifted his shaggy head to look at Kip with heavy eyes. “My lord, I told you I was going to desert. I did. It’s not on her. She came and dragged me back.”

  “Damn you,” Sibéal whispered.

  She deflated, and Kip’s heart fell too. She’d risked her life trying to save her friend, but some men don’t want to be saved.

  It wasn’t her fault. It was Kip’s. Conn Arthur had tried to resign, but Kip had thought without their work and the company of people who loved him that Ruadhán would die, so he’d forbidden it.

  Ruadhán had left anyway.

  “You tried,” General Antonius told Kip. “We all did. There’s no win here. He doesn’t want to live.”

  He was right. This was bigger than one bereaved man who couldn’t bear to fight anymore. If Kip let his friend off now, it’d destroy morale. People would say there was one rule for Kip’s friends and one for everyone else. To save a man sunken in self-pity and ungrateful for his second—no, his third—chance would make that even worse. It would cast doubt on Kip’s judgment.

  But hanging him? Did Kip want to be known as the man who hanged his own friends?

  Andross Guile would do it. Hell, Gavin would probably do it, too.

  Antonius said, “Sibéal doubtless noticed things wherever it is they went. She reports on it, and we say she was out scouting. I don’t think any punishment’s necessary for her.”

  Kip looked at the others for any ideas and saw only grief.

  Cruxer said, “Not all the soldiers killed by war die on the field. It’s no one’s fault.” He cocked his head at a thought. “Well, it’s the White King’s fault. May he burn in hell. But it’s not yours.”

  No one else had anything to say. No plans. No ways out.

  “You go,” young General Antonius said. “I’ll handle it.”

  Kip looked to Conn Arthur, but the big man didn’t even meet his gaze.

  “Everyone out,” Kip said.

  They looked at him, and saw the resolve in his face. Tisis went out first, then the Blackguards, except Cruxer, who stood guard impassively. He wasn’t going to leave no matter what Kip said, not with a man as dangerous as Conn Arthur might become if he’d gone truly mad.

  Kip stopped Antonius, though. “General,” he said. “I’ll need your dagger.”

  The general nodded grimly and passed Kip a big, ornate dagger he’d gotten from his aunt Eirene Malargos. It was a showy piece, but very fine, too. The woman had an eye for quality.

  Then they were alone in the damp and the dark and the smoky close air of the longhouse. It felt close to the earth in here. Real, solid, and dirty. Here, with clan and family tight around them, people made love on just a few blankets and rushes on the floor, and they gave birth on the same floor, and played with their children, and bickered, and ate, and died, all here, packed close. It was still sometimes shocking to Kip’s Tyrean sensibilities, but such a life felt connected, too. Unashamed.

  He breathed in the heavy air and let it flow through him.

  “You remember that time we did the survey after that raid went sideways?” Kip said. “You know, at Three Bridges, to see how many of us were hurt? What was the number?”

  Conn Arthur squinted up at him for a moment. “All of us.”

  “All of us,” Kip said. “But the main force of the Blood Robes was moving on to Yellow Top, where all the women and kids had been sent. We knew they were looking for vengeance. We were already overextended, but no one else could get there. You remember what we did?”

  Conn Arthur stared belligerently at the ground, but the thews in his neck were tight. “With all due respect, my lord, I need a noose, not a pep talk.”

  Sibéal Siofra made to speak, but Kip flashed her the scout signal they used in the woods that she should be silent.

  “We busted our asses to get there first,” Kip said. “The healthiest of us scouting ahead to make sure we didn’t fall into an ambush—and we got there in time to save those people. And that story spread, Ruadhán. It’s a huge part of why people joined up, because they saw what we would do at our own cost to save strangers. Because to us, those women and kids and old people weren’t strangers. They were our people. And we’d be damned if we let them die without a fight.”

  “Some fights you can’t win,” Ruadhán growled, and Kip felt Cruxer go tight despite the big man’s chains.

  “We’re all wounded,” Kip said. “And we’ve got work to do. I need hands. I need your hands. We need your hands. The men who lie down and die do no good for anyone. Don’t get me wrong; I want you to live because I love you, but I also want you to live so you can fight for us. This is bigger than you, bigger than your griefs, your failures, your brother. It’s bigger than him. He helped us. He saved hundreds or thousands of lives. He was heroic at the end, and that makes a huge difference. It matters.

  “But he’s dead, man. He died saving lives, and now you won’t live to do the same. I don’t feel sorry for you, Ruadhán, I’m pissed off you won’t help when we’ve got work to do.”

  “I’ve got nothing left,” Conn Arthur said, as if Kip was refusing to see the obvious.

  “When it serves life, there’s a time to choose death,” Kip said. “Absolutely. And your brother made that choice, but he took too damn long to make it. He was selfish, and he got other people killed.”

  “Don’t talk about my brother.”

  “There’s a time to choose life, Conn, and you’re taking too damn long to make it,” Kip said. “You’re in a pit, so I’m throwing you a rope, but I ain’t gonna fuckin’ climb for you. You dyin’ today? It hurts me more than you. But if you choose to live, I want you to live for one reason—because you’re going to make yourself useful. You’re worried it hurts our traditions for me to let you live? Yes. It does. People will think you got preferential treatment? Yes, they will. Because you are. Not because I love you, but because I think you can do what others can’t for this people, this satrapy. I think you’ll be more help than harm. A lot more. If you climb out of this pit, you’re on the hook to prove me right. You’re on the hook to work every day to show you’re worth the third chance I’m giving you, and someday, when it’s your turn, when it’s wise, you’re on the hook to give that chance to someone else.” Kip blew out a breath in exasperation. “Look at your fucking shoulders, man. You were made to bear burdens. You are strong as fuck, and you’re not acting like it. So, if you want to stay and curl up and die? Then fuck you. You’ve already wasted too much of my time.” Kip turned away, but then paused.

  He pulled a knife from his belt and stared at Ruadhán, eye to eye.

  “It’d tear up the men to hang you,” Kip said. “So you want to die? Have the goddam decency to think of someone else a bit, would you?”

  Kip dropped the knife and the key, outside the cell. Ruadhán would have to strain against his chains to get either of them.

  Kip gave Sibéal the signal to get out of the longhouse. Stony-faced, silent, she went, not daring to look at Conn Arthur, who was still staring at the ground anyway.

  Then Kip strode out as if it weren’t tearing out his heart not to offer soft words to his suffering friend.

  But Kip knew all about the slimy, steep-sided pit of self-pity. Sometimes, a hard kick in the ass can do what a soft word in the ear can’t.

  Or so he hoped.

  Outside, the men searched his face for any clue of what they must do, but none dared ask him anything. Kip found Sibéal. “You’d already said your goodbyes?”

  “Yeah, I didn’t know how soon you’d hang us. It was like he was already d—”

  “You know it’s better for you if he takes the knife.”

  A guilty look flashed over her face, then was
hidden by anger. She knew. “Why the hell would you say that? He’s my best friend.”

  “You could finally move on.”

  She moved to angrily deny it, but words fell dead with no spirit to give them life.

  “Is it so obvious?” she asked.

  Kip suddenly remembered glances he’d seen others exchange about the two. He’d never spoken of it to anyone. He’d only realized Sibéal loved that big idiot minutes ago. Others had, he saw now, known it for much longer. He said, “Obvious enough to a few who love you.”

  Her people’s uncanny smile on her lips twisted bitterly. “I’ve made myself a laughingstock.”

  “No one’s laughing.”

  Sibéal got quiet. They breathed the forest air together. “I’m pretty sure he loves me, too, and just hates himself too much to see it.”

  Kip said nothing. It was a poison that had to be drained, that she’d held in for too long, and that had spurred her to actions that could well have cost her her life.

  “It wouldn’t all be so bad if I didn’t want kids,” she said. “I mean, we have ways to know when not to take a man to bed, to avoid his seed taking root. But… all that effort to fix the problem doesn’t fix the problem when you want the problem, does it? I want a child. Hell, I want lots of them, if this war ever ends. I want loud, shrieking, giggling, climbing-over-me-and-clinging-to-my-legs life everywhere. A house bursting at the seams with life after all this…” Her voice fell off. “But I want him.”

  Kip hesitated, but then said, “Do you think it’s a coincidence that you’ve chosen to fall in love with a man in an impossible situation that he himself created?”

  “What do you mean? What do you mean I’ve chosen to—”

  “You’ve done exactly the same thing he has. You’re in a pit, too, Sibéal. And if you want to, even if he dies, you can stay in yours. You can curl up in grief around your sweet, doomed love. You can take that tragedy and wrap yourself up in it like a blanket to keep you feeling warm and self-righteous, because this world done you wrong. You could’ve gotten out earlier, and if so, sure, what happens in there today would be a terrible blow—losing a dear friend is always tragic, but people lose friends in war, and still go home and have those babies and that full house. You could’ve gotten out earlier and easier, but you didn’t.