The Blinding Knife (Lightbringer)

by Brent Weeks

“I don’t even know that they’ll declare war, but if you think they’re going to declare you promachos again, you’re insane,” she said as he applied the brake. He stopped them perfectly even with the level so that her wheeled chair could exit smoothly.

  He strode ahead, not waiting for her.

  “They’re too afraid of you, Gavin.”

  Too afraid? They’re not afraid enough.

  Gavin stepped into the meeting room and took a seat on the far side. The table around which they met was a circle, but Gavin wanted to be able to see who came in the door. A few of the Colors were already seated. Sadah Superviolet, representing Paria, sat next to Klytos Blue. Sadah was from minor nobility in a clan that wielded little clout in Paria. Mountain Parian. She’d attained far more in her life than anyone would have expected through cold intelligence and fierce ambition. Indeterminate age, limbs lean, hands as gnarled as a yucca palm branches, skin as psoriatic as a yucca palm’s trunk. She wore her kinky hair gathered in small knots and wore a tight-fitting cap of woven gold that sat tight against her scalp, with little gaps for each knot of hair. An odd style that, so far as Gavin knew, had originated with the woman herself. Like the superviolet she was, Sadah brought a dispassionate perspective to all her votes, and was often the swing voter because she was immune to any pressure but that of logic. Hated lies.

  Klytos Blue was Ruthgari through and through, but represented Ilyta. He was a coward. Intelligent, but lacking substance, no gravitas. He did what Andross told him on most matters. Gavin sat next to Klytos, greeting him as if he didn’t despise him. He was happy to sit next to the man—not for his company, but because it’s hardest to surreptitiously study the expressions on the faces of those who sit right next to you. Klytos didn’t matter; Gavin didn’t have to be able to study his face.

  Jia Tolver, the Yellow, nodded to Gavin, smiled. At the center of the color spectrum, yellows could be truly fearsome: great souls who brought under their power the appeals of emotion and reason in perfect balance. Jia was no great soul, though she liked to think she was. In truth, she really just ended up being perfectly susceptible to appeals of reason and emotion both. She was Gavin’s, almost always. She’d been infatuated with him for years. His smile was enough to get her vote, though it had been a delicate act to keep her from trying to get into his bed. She tried her wiles on him every so often, and he deflected her propositions rather than rejected them. Vain creature. Good enough looking, but too much makeup, though she had cut back on the perfume after Andross made numerous explicit references to rooms smelling like cheap whores whenever she entered. She was proud of her unibrow, kept it perfectly coifed.

  As he sat, Gavin smiled at the hairy caterpillar perched on her brow. Jia beamed.

  The others came in together, chatting. They were friendly, but tense. Delara Orange, the red/orange bichrome whose bosom was so large it ought to have had its own vote, looked drawn, grim, older than Gavin had ever seen her. She represented Atash: her country had been invaded by the Color Prince, and doubtless she would advocate war. Doubtless, she had been advocating war since she’d first heard of the invasion.

  The Sub-red was Arys of the Greenveils. She was perhaps eight months pregnant now, serially pregnant always. In her, the passions of sub-red were wedded to a cultural imperative for drafters to breed so as to replace the dead for the once-interminable wars between Blood Forest and Ruthgar. She was, Gavin thought, perhaps thirty-five, and she had twelve children. Not a one, if rumor was correct, by the same father. She had a curtain of straight red-red hair, freckles, and blue eyes sparkling with the crystalline detritus that marked a longtime sub-red. She had perhaps two years left. Her thirteen—or by then probably fourteen—children would grow up honored in Blood Forest. They would also grow up without a mother.

  “Where’s Lunna Green?” Gavin asked Klytos.

  Klytos blanched. “I’m so sorry, Lord Prism…”

  Lunna, despite being Ruthgari, was Gavin’s. He’d carefully built up enough credits with her that if he called them all in, she would do almost anything for him.

  “What?” Gavin asked. Oh no.

  “She had a stroke. She died.”

  “She wasn’t even forty-five,” Gavin said.

  “I’m so sorry, Lord Prism. She was right at the verge of breaking the halo for some time, and…” Klytos lowered his voice. “There were rumors she wasn’t going to take the Freeing. You understand?”

  That she was trying to become a green wight, and she’d failed. No, she wouldn’t. Would she?

  But that was the thing about facing death and insanity, wasn’t it? You never knew what a person would do. Gavin had seen all sorts over the years.

  This was a disaster. A declaration of war required a simple majority. Eight votes were possible—one for each Color, and one for the Prism. In case of ties, the White got a vote. Gavin’s count had included Delara Orange, who was Atashian and would definitely vote for war, and Arys Greenveil, whose Blood Forest was directly on the warpath and who wasn’t averse to war regardless. His own vote, with Lunna’s, would bring it to four. That would kick it up to the White, who he thought would vote for it. She wasn’t a fool.

  But without Lunna, Gavin would have to sway Jia Tolver or Sadah Superviolet. Jia voted with him often, but the Aborneans had no stake in a war, and wouldn’t mind seeing Atash burn for a while as they pretended that their reluctance to help put out the flames was born of pure, high-minded pacifism. Sadah Superviolet was even harder to judge. Paria was also far away from the fighting, and wouldn’t want to send its young men or its wealth—but Sadah would do what was right. He hoped.

  Gavin would have to move fast if he was going to have a chance.

  Perhaps the new Green would be amenable. If she or he wasn’t, Gavin could structure the vote. His father would have already sent in his vote on war as a no, but if Gavin was tricky and quick, he could make there be votes on issues that the Red hadn’t sent his vote down for. By not calling a straight up-or-down vote on declaring war, Gavin might be able to outmaneuver the old spider. Difficult, but possible. He would turn the old man’s proud disregard for the Spectrum on its head.

  For all the satisfaction you get out of despising us, father, there are costs.

  Lunna Green, though? She wouldn’t have gone wight, would she?

  But if she hadn’t… Dear Orholam, the murder of a Color? Surely the Order wasn’t that good.

  This wasn’t the right way to do this. He knew that. He wasn’t prepared for this meeting. Not that it was his fault—they’d called for an emergency session weeks ago, to be held as soon as he got back. So he couldn’t wait, couldn’t put it off. The longer he spent with these people, the more opportunities they had to notice that something was wrong with him. His eyes had still looked prismatic when he’d only lost blue—he’d asked Corvan. But then, his eyes’ natural color was blue. Now that he’d lost green, wouldn’t his eyes start changing color?

  This was all madness and stumbling in the dark.

  There was conversation from the hall and, wearing a luxurious green silk cloak, in came none other than Tisis Malargos, the astoundingly beautiful young green who’d sabotaged Kip’s test. The woman who hated Gavin, because her family had reason to hate the real Gavin. The woman whose father had been murdered on Felia Guile’s orders, because he could have exposed that Gavin wasn’t really Gavin.

  She laughed at something her interlocutor said outside, then shot a look at the Prism. Hazel eyes, heart-shaped face, pale skin, the preciously rare blonde hair, generous curves. An exotic beauty who hated him for nothing he had actually done. Perfect. Very, very young to be on the Spectrum, though. How had that—

  And then her interlocutor stepped into view, wearing large blacked-out spectacles under a crimson hood, and robes the color of blood.

  “Father,” Gavin said, his heart icing over. “What a surprise.”

  Chapter 75

  Trainer Fisk was running the scrubs through takedown drills when Karris White O
ak came in. Teia immediately took notice. For one thing, she wasn’t very good at the throws they were practicing—it was one area where her lack of body weight made things much more difficult for her. She could still throw a boy who weighed twice as much as she did, but she had to get the leverage perfect. Getting things perfect seemed beyond her right now.

  Second, Karris was her hero. Everyone respected Karris. She was known to be one of the best fighters in the entire Blackguard. Fast and tough, mentally and physically and magically. Smart, confident, and beautiful on top of it all. She was everything Teia hoped to be, even if some of those last things were out of reach.

  Third, learning that Kip was a full-spectrum polychrome had kind of frightened her. And it had scared Kip, too. Attending Blackguard training? That was normal. She could handle that.

  “Watch Captain White Oak, it’s an honor to have you come,” Trainer Fisk said.

  “I wish I could visit more often. I hear this is a very talented class.”

  She had? They were? Everyone perked up at that, even Kip.

  “I wonder,” Trainer Fisk said. “Would you be willing to show us a quick takedown? Some of the girls have been very quietly grumbling that these drills are too hard because they don’t have the body weight.”

  “Really?” Karris said. “Very quietly, I might imagine. Or at least I hope.” She arched an eyebrow at one of the girls, who withered. “I’d be happy to. Who’s the best fighter in the class?”

  “Cruxer,” someone said. The rest of them mumbled agreement.

  “Cruxer, defend yourself,” Karris said.

  She walked toward him and he got in a ready stance, one foot forward, hands lightly balled and held up. She snapped an attack, a knifehand, right at his eyes. His hands shot up to block, palms out.

  Then his hands and hers entwined, and Cruxer dropped to his knees as fast as he could, yelping. He had barely touched them to the dirt before she was moving in, sweeping him off his knees to the ground, rolled over, facedown, one of his hands still clasped in hers, her knee on his neck.

  Unhurriedly, she drew a pistol from her belt and put it to the back of his head.

  It was over that fast. Against Cruxer. Teia looked over at Kip. He had the same wide-eyed look she did.

  Then Karris tucked her pistol away and got up. The class started breathing again. Karris made it seem so effortless. She hadn’t even gotten dirt on her knees.

  “It’s one of those tricks that works well against those who’ve never seen it,” Karris said. “It’s instinctive. You go for the eyes, and your target will open his hands to fend off the strike. A quick fingerlock, and you can drop him. From there, you’ve got all the leverage you need. Less weight and less strength just means you need to be smarter.”

  “Nicely done, Watch Captain. I haven’t seen that one in years. I’m afraid it would have worked even on me,” Trainer Fisk said.

  “Mm, maybe,” Karris said. She smiled. “Although I’m not too eager to reenact our last fight.”

  He shrugged. “Extenuating circumstances,” he said. “You were tired. Not many people trade five fight tokens.”

  “Can I take one of your students for the afternoon?” Karris asked. “I’ve got some private training to brush up on.”

  “But of course.”

  Karris looked around the room. Then, finally, she pointed at Teia. “You, you’ll do.”

  For some reason, Teia was sure that she hadn’t been picked randomly. But that night, Karris just trained. She said nothing except to give instructions about how to hold the kick bags or which exercises she wanted Teia to do with her.

  “Excuse me, Watch Captain,” Teia said finally. “But why are you training with me? I can’t hold a candle to a lot of the fighters you work with every day.”

  Karris said, “Sometimes it’s good to fight people who don’t know what they’re doing. It reminds you how most of your opponents in real life flail. It’s less predictable.”

  Oh. Well then.

  Neither of them said anything else.

  Chapter 76

  Gavin had almost forgotten the visceral effect his father had on people. Andross Guile had sequestered himself by degrees starting almost a decade ago. Most men would be diminished by their absence. Andross had grown in people’s minds, in their dread. He’d become the bloated spider at the center of the web. And now, returning, weak, near blind, somehow he was still a titan. He was old. Drafters never got old. Becoming old meant you’d done the impossible. The casual destructions of age—the sagging translucent skin, the liver spots, the frailty—these had become badges of honor, proof of godlike will, self-discipline, power.

  With the assistance of his lapdog slave Grinwoody, Andross Guile sat. He ignored the greetings of the other Colors and lifted his chin as if staring in the direction of the White, who alone seemed unmoved.

  Well, if Andross Guile’s presence swayed everyone else in the room against Gavin’s proposal, at least it swayed the White toward it. But though her instinct would be to oppose anything Andross wanted, she wouldn’t let that override her concern for what was right, what was best for the Seven Satrapies and the Chromeria. Even she couldn’t be counted on.

  Trying not to let how utterly furious he was show on his face, Gavin looked at his father. The bastard sat there, basking in his own excellence. The rules didn’t apply to Andross Guile. He was above them. The world bent to his will. Ridiculous.

  Gavin chuckled.

  “Is something funny, Lord Prism?” Tisis Malargos asked.

  “Just had a small personal revelation.” He smiled indulgently, and didn’t tell her more, just to infuriate her. You’re playing with the big guns now, Tisis, are you sure you’re ready?

  “And that is?” she asked, insincerity oozing down her chin.

  “Why you don’t like me. Which isn’t the reason you shouldn’t like me.”

  “Perhaps we should get started,” the White said quickly. Ever the peacekeeper, if not always a peacemaker. “Andross, it is so good to see you. It’s been too long. Would you like to lead the invocation?”

  “No,” the old man said. He didn’t elaborate, excuse, or apologize.

  The White tented her fingers. Waited a long moment.

  Klytos Blue couldn’t handle the tension. “I—I would be happy to—”

  “Are you feeling unwell, Andross? Too feeble for a prayer?” the White asked.

  Gavin saw where that was going. Implied weakness, implied unfitness to remain on the Spectrum. It was unusually blunt for the White, who preferred a gentler hand. But she also didn’t suffer rudeness.

  Andross cocked his head, as if admitting a point scored by his opponent. “Of course not,” he rasped. “My voice is no longer a thing of beauty. The ravages of many years in Orholam’s service. I thought perhaps the mellifluous tones of Tisis Green’s voice might be more uplifting for us all.”

  “Orholam judges the hearts of men, not their voices,” the White said. “He hears any prayer lifted to him in humility.”

  So my father might as well save his breath.

  Gavin let his bemusement show on his face. His father, his eyes shuttered even beneath his blacked-out spectacles, was literally playing blind. Taking on the whole Spectrum, without being able to see anyone’s facial expressions? Balls.

  Perhaps it was handicap enough to help Gavin.

  But his father’s words actually cast doubt into Gavin’s mind. Why would Andross point to the new Green? Of course she was young and beautiful, and she did have a pretty voice, all things that Andross did appreciate, Gavin knew. But by singling her out, Andross suggested that Tisis was his.

  Gavin had assumed she was. But why would Andross need to point it out to everyone, unless perhaps she wasn’t? Or wasn’t fully.

  The tightness around Tisis’s eyes, above her phony smile, told Gavin his father was pushing it. Greens hated to be bound, hated to be controlled. Careful, father. I might just pull that jewel away from you. Despite everything.

&nb
sp; Relaxing his eyes into sub-red, Gavin looked at each member of the Spectrum in turn, doing his best to be subtle about it. In sub-red, the nuances of a person’s facial expressions couldn’t be seen: that spectrum of light was too fuzzy for fine details. What he could see was the temperature of each person’s skin. It varied from woman to woman, of course, depending on their natural temperature and how close their blood vessels were to the surface of the skin, but if you could establish and remember a baseline for each person—and Gavin had very carefully done that over the years for everyone here except Tisis—you could tell when someone was feeling unusual stress. As their heart pounded faster, even if they were able to control more overt signs like swallowing, fidgeting, or clenching their jaws, they would glow hotter in sub-red.

  Of course, a person could be nervous for dozens of reasons, and their temperature could be affected by any number of factors from drinking a glass of wine to wearing heavy clothes, but every once in a while it would give him a clue that nothing else would. With this group, he needed every advantage.

  Andross Guile prayed. “Father of Lights, we humbly beseech you attend our supplication.” Andross despised prayer, Gavin knew. He could do what he had to do, of course. He knew all the rituals backward and forward, and in front of the common folk was capable of all apparent sincerity. Here, among those he could almost consider peers, he had more trouble hiding his contempt. To him, the entire religion was a con, but a con on which all their power rested. Thus the faux-archaisms, delivered deadpan enough that one couldn’t quite be sure if he was devout and old, or mocking them all: “Prostrate before you, we fall, O Lord. May our pretensions wither in the heat of your glory, may our presumptions fade in the light of your truth. May you bestow upon us clarity in counsel, obscurity in obfuscation, ocular acuity in action. Thus, in our wretchedness do we implore. May our young defer to old and our old defer to the grave. May our labors flower in your sight, with peace and truth and long-suffering.”

  Crotchety old bastard.