The black prism l-1

by Brent Weeks

"Moments of beauty sustain us through hours of ugliness," her father said. She watched him as he watched the sun rise. His blue eyes-outside the red halo, of course-looked tired. Corvan Danavis had always had the capacity to survive on less sleep than anyone Liv knew, so she knew it wasn't the early hour that had him weary. It wasn't the first time she'd seen this look on his face, but she thought it might be the first time she understood it.

  All those times she'd seen this look pinching his eyes and squeezing the joy out of her usually jovial father, he was reliving battles. Today, he was preparing to see more men die-and fighting for the very man who'd killed his people in the past, Gavin Guile. It must be tearing him apart.

  The sun rose in magnificent pinks and oranges mirrored in the waves, and slowly the tension leaked out of her father's eyes. She could see the freckles under his caramel skin around his eyes, and the faint red highlights in his hair were set afire by the sunlight. She'd inherited neither, nor the blue eyes that would have helped her be a more powerful drafter.

  Corvan's lips moved faintly, mouthing words. Oh, he was praying, she realized. Finished, he made the triangle, splaying three fingers: touching his thumb to his right eye; his middle finger to his left eye; and his forefinger to his forehead, the spiritual eye. He completed the gesture by touching mouth, heart, and hands. The three and the four, the perfect seven, sealed to Orholam. What you behold, what you believe, how you behave.

  He didn't turn from the risen sun. "You came to demand how I can fight for my old enemy," he said.

  "He killed mother." Liv's voice was icy.

  "No, Aliviana, he didn't."

  "His people did. Same thing."

  "The situation is more complicated than you realize."

  "What's that supposed to mean? Don't treat me like I'm a child!"

  "I'm sorry, Aliviana, I have to protect-"

  "I'm seventeen. I've been surviving without your protection for three years! You don't have to protect me anymore."

  "Not protecting you," Corvan said. "Protecting others from you."

  What? It hit Liv like a shot in the stomach. Her father didn't trust her?

  "You know who was seventeen when he upended the world?" Corvan asked. "Dazen Guile."

  "But-but-that's not even close to the same thing."

  "Aliviana, I'm asking you to trust me. I've seen fathers who abuse their position and demand slavish obedience of their children. I've never done that with you, have I? When you wanted to go to the Chromeria and I didn't want you to go, when I told you that I could teach you everything about drafting you needed to know, what happened?"

  "You let me go." Eventually.

  "And it was awful for you there, but you showed me how strong you are, and here you stand. I'm proud of you, Aliviana. You swam with sea demons and survived. But I'm asking you to trust me on this. I'm doing the right thing. I promise. I haven't forgotten your mother. I haven't forgotten you."

  She couldn't maintain the eye contact or her righteous indignation in the face of her father's open, honest refusal to be more open and honest. He was standing on his record, and more than anyone, she knew that his record was unimpeachable. She also knew that he wouldn't be moved once he made a decision like this. If she was stubborn, she'd come by it honestly.

  She gave in. "It was so much easier to admire him when he wasn't making war in our country. I mean, I didn't even think about the war when I was around him."

  "A little infatuated?" her father suggested.

  A flush crawled up her cheeks. "Maybe a little," she grumbled.

  "I'd wonder if you weren't. He is what he is," Corvan said, shrugging.

  "He really isn't responsible for mother's death?" Liv asked, feeling weak.

  "Responsible? That's tricky. If the Guiles hadn't gone to war, would your mother still be alive? Probably. But I can tell you two things: Gavin didn't order or desire your mother's death in any way, and he is utterly and forever besotted with one woman, and that's not you."

  "That's three things, isn't it?" Liv asked, shooting her father a grin.

  He grinned back. "You get one free for being my daughter."

  "What's he doing here? The Prism's men burned this city, killed tens of thousands. He's showed no interest in Garriston since then, so what does he want now? Like it didn't matter when no one wanted it, but now that someone does, he can't lose it?"

  "There weren't two Guile brothers, there were three. The youngest one, Sevastian, was murdered by a blue wight when Gavin was about thirteen. Gavin's first purpose is to protect the innocent from color wights. Or, if you want to look at it uncharitably, to kill color wights wherever he finds them. King Garadul is using color wights, or at least the Prism believes he is. So he must be stopped."

  "A blue wight? That doesn't make sense. Blues are rational, aren't they?"

  "Liv, people talk about breaking the halo like you go instantly mad, like it's as clean a separation as between living and dying. It's not. Some color wights hold on to something like sanity for weeks or even months. Some are fine during the night, but in light, they're fully in the grip of their color. The madness is different every time. A blue can go into a murderous rage; a red can seem calm and philosophical. It's why they're so dangerous. Now, are you going to help me?"

  "Fine, what can I do?" she asked.

  "Do you know how to make luxin grenadoes?"

  "What? No."

  "What are they teaching you dims at the Chromeria these days?"

  "Hey!"

  Corvan smiled. "You have your specs?"

  "Of course," Liv said.

  "Good, I could use a yellow."

  "I'm not a very good yellow. I mean, I can't make a solid brightwater."

  "That's not what I need," Corvan said. "Do you know what happens when you mix red and liquid yellow, seal it airtight in a blue shell, and then shatter it against something?"

  "Uh, something good?" Liv asked.

  "Boom!" Corvan said. "You could use superviolet for the shell, too, but it makes throwers nervous."

  Picking up an explosive when you couldn't see whether the shell was intact? Liv could see how that might make someone nervous.

  Corvan tossed her a blue luxin ball. She caught it and was surprised that it rattled. She looked closer. The ball had round shot inside it, like small musket balls. For some reason, it stunned her. "These, these…"

  "Those are what make grenadoes kill. That's what we're doing, Aliviana. We're killing people. Right here, right now. We're using Orholam's gift to kill Orholam's children. Most of whom are fools who could be our friends at any other time. It's a hard world. You want me to lie about it? You want to be protected after all?"

  Liv felt the blood drain out of her. Her father's words were a sponge, sucking up her illusions, blotting up the thin joy she'd gotten from being in his presence again, in trusting someone to make her decisions for her. Something snapped.

  "Father, I can't do this," she said. "I can't kill Tyreans, not for the Chromeria, not just because you say so."

  For a moment, she saw keen sorrow in her father's eyes. He looked-for the first time she'd ever seen in her whole life-old, haggard. "Liv." He paused. "At some point, you have to decide not merely what you're going to believe, but how you're going to believe. Are you going to believe in people, or in ideas, or in Orholam? With your heart, or with your head? Will you believe what's in front of you, or in what you think you know? There are some things you think you know that are lies. I can't tell you what those are, and I'm sorry for that."

  It seemed to Liv that this was his long way of explaining Fealty to One.

  "What did you choose, father? Ideas or men?" Liv asked. Though she had just seen him praying, she knew her father wasn't very religious. That part of him had died with her mother. His prayer had likely been something along the lines of: "Well done, sir. This is a beautiful sunset." Her father rejected the idea that Orholam actually cared about individual men or women, or nations, for that matter.

  She saw him b
link. His mouth opened, closed rapidly. Set in a line, eyes pained. "I can't say," he said finally.

  Can't say because you never actually made the choice? How can you lecture me, then? But that didn't make sense. Her father was the best man she knew.

  No, that wasn't it. Her father had lived his life because he believed in certain ideas. That was what had led him to fight against Gavin Guile, to give up everything in that fight. He'd been a man of ideals. Those ideals were what had made him stay away from the Chromeria himself, what had made him oppose his daughter going to the Chromeria. He'd been afraid that she would be corrupted by the Chromeria's lack of ideals.

  A wise fear, as it turned out, Liv thought guiltily. She had been corrupted. She had agreed to spy on Gavin. She was just as bad as everyone else at the Chromeria.

  But that didn't explain why her father was suddenly fighting for the man he should hate. The ideals hadn't changed. If anything, Gavin being here, fighting Tyreans, should have made her father fight him all the more fiercely.

  Orholam, maybe her father had been corrupted too. Maybe he'd been bought. Maybe he'd sold out his ideals just like everyone else. Her heart hurt at the very thought, but why else wouldn't he tell her the answer to what was an obvious question? Because it would make his hypocrisy undeniable.

  The whole swiving Chromeria was corrupt. It defiled everything it touched. Liv had been at the bottom. She'd seen how monochromes were treated; she'd seen how Tyreans were treated. And she'd become part of the power, too. She'd become almost a friend to the Prism himself-and she'd loved it, loved talking with a powerful man, basking in his attention. She'd loved the beautiful dresses and being treated as special and worth attention. And to keep her power, she'd sold herself-so easily, so easily. But that was how things worked at the Chromeria. It had even corrupted her father.

  "Liv," her father said. "Liv, trust me. I know it's hard, but please."

  "Trust you? When you won't trust me?" she asked, pained.

  "Livy, please. I love you. You know I wouldn't do anything to hurt you."

  And then it all became clear and it took Liv's breath away. How could the Prism get her father to betray everything he held dear? Why would her father evade simple questions? Because he loved her. Corvan had been corrupted, but not by money or power or sex. She knew he wouldn't sell his soul so cheaply. So what did the Prism have over Corvan? He had Liv.

  Gavin Guile was using Liv to suborn her father. She didn't know what exactly the threat and the bribe had been, but it didn't matter. Liv was being bribed and threatened exactly the same way, but by the Ruthgari. She knew how the game was played, now. She had betrayed her principles because she loved Vena. Her father was betraying his principles because he loved Liv.

  Corvan had chosen that his fealty would be to his family only. That meant Liv. And it meant he couldn't tell her. Because if he told her, she'd ruin it and make his sacrifices worthless.

  Liv's heart broke. She had to clamp down hard on her emotions to keep from bursting into tears. Cruel. So cruel. How could Gavin do such a thing and then smile at her?

  Because that's how the Chromeria is. Vipers and villains, all of them. And Corvan had done everything he could to try to keep Liv out of the Chromeria-everything short of ordering her not to go, because he wasn't so imperious. It was her fault. Liv swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. Her father had been debased because of her. He deserved better than for her to expose his shame.

  She smiled as bravely as she could, pretending to acquiesce. "I understand, father. I do trust you. Just tell me everything when you can. Fair enough?"

  "Fair enough," Corvan said, his relief obvious. "I love you, Livy."

  "I know you do, father."

  And Gavin Guile was going to pay for turning that love against him.

  Chapter 64

  It's simple, Kip. You're not being asked to draft a pulley or a scull. One little green ball. It's nothing.

  He was sitting cross-legged, green spectacles on, white board in his lap, willing something to happen. He'd been doing this for two hours. And what exactly was he doing? Nothing. How were you supposed to even keep your mind on drafting when nothing happened for hours? His stomach was complaining again. It was constant now as the sun approached noon.

  No food until I draft? It's cruel. It's torture. It's impossible.

  Kip looked up. Gavin had brought them only a few hundred paces outside the Lover's Gate to the ruins of the old outer walls. When they'd arrived, there were already hundreds of men at work, and since then, many of those who'd been stuck in the line that they'd passed had joined them. They were excavating the roots of the wall down to bedrock, which was at least four paces down in the few places Kip could see. The excavation, though, went faster than he would have thought possible, between the sheer number of men working and the sandy soil, with only thin vegetation on top.

  Gavin was poring over drawings with Master Danavis. General Danavis, Kip supposed, and the natural manner with which the general commanded men to do this or that-exactly how he'd told Kip to go do this or that-made Kip wonder why he'd never wondered about Master Danavis before. The man was obviously too big for a little town like Rekton, but Kip had never even thought about him. Children only think about themselves, Kip.

  "It's not good enough," Gavin was saying. "No, the detail's fine. The detail's perfect. But the old wall didn't stop us, so why rebuild something that's faulty?"

  Rebuild the wall? Hadn't Gavin said that King Garadul's army was arriving in four or five days?

  "We'll be lucky if we can get something that's merely faulty," General Danavis said. "We'll be lucky if we can finish anything at all."

  "Bring me the drawings of Rathcaeson," the Prism said.

  "You're seriously going to build a wall based on artists' renditions of a mythical city?"

  The muscle in Gavin's jaw twitched with irritation.

  "Understood, Lord Prism," General Danavis said. He bobbed a bow.

  "Bring your daughter," Gavin said. "I could use a superviolet."

  A slight hesitation. "Of course." The general left, mounting his horse and galloping toward the city, his Ruthgari personal guards trailing in his wake.

  Then, though he'd been speaking nonstop with foremen, Ruthgari guards, and General Danavis all morning, Gavin was suddenly alone. He looked over at Kip. Oops, I think I'm supposed to be drafting.

  Gavin cocked an eyebrow at him. "Not hungry yet, huh?"

  Kip grimaced. "Thanks for reminding me."

  "Kip, more than any other color, green can be summarized in one word. All the others require at least a few, a bit of hedging, some qualifiers. Green is wild. Everything both good and bad associated with wild is what green is. That's why I can tell you that you only need will, because will and wildness go so naturally together. If you were an incipient blue, I'd have to explain the sense of drafting, the harmony, the order, how it fits with the world. That's not you. Any questions?"

  Not about drafting. "What happened to that gunner?"

  "What?" Gavin asked.

  "The one on the Ilytian boat, who nearly killed us. Right before I shot him, his gun blew up."

  "It does happen," Gavin said. "You overcharge your shot, the musket can't handle the charge."

  "That gunner, who nearly hit us from five hundred paces? He misjudged a musket?"

  Gavin smiled. He turned his palm over. There was nothing in it. Oh, Kip tightened his eyes. A superviolet ball rested in Gavin's hand. "See it?" Gavin asked.

  "I see it."

  Gavin extended his hand. A little pop, and his hand jumped back. The superviolet ball streaked out like it was a musket ball itself. "I blocked his musket barrel," Gavin said, shrugging. "You can use any color to do it. Yellow only if you can make solid yellow, of course, but pretty much anything else."

  "Why not kill him?"

  "I may have," Gavin said. "A musket exploding in your hands is no joke." He shrugged. "I recognized him. Freelancer during the war. Sometimes fought fo
r me, sometimes for my brother, sometimes for any captain that would pay him enough. He's a drunk and a scoundrel and the finest artist of the cannon in the Seven Satrapies. Whatever name he was born with, now he's simply known as Gunner. It's everything he is. His first underdeck command as cannoneer was on a ship called the Aved Barayah, the Fire Breather."

  "The Fire Breather? The Fire Breather?" Kip asked.

  "Only ship in memory to ever kill a full-grown sea demon. Gunner was maybe sixteen years old." Gavin shook his head, dispelling a memory. "I've killed a lot of people, Kip. Sometimes you hesitate, and as bad and as dangerous as that is, I like to think it's proof that I've still got some humanity left. Besides, I knew making his gun blow up in his hands would really infuriate him. If I know Gunner, he made that musket himself, and he's probably wondering who the hell overcharged his precious musket." He glanced over to a richly dressed Ruthgari approaching, flanked by guards and slaves carrying a mobile pavilion to shade the light-skinned man. "I'll leave you to your work," Gavin said. "You might want to hurry, the servants should be bringing lunch anytime."

  Just when I'd sort of forgotten my stomach. Thanks.

  Kip pushed the spectacles up his nose-they kept slipping down, and they weren't even close to comfortable-and stared at the white board. Wild. Wild, unbridled, growing. The Ruthgari noble-Kip gathered it was the governor-was complaining shrilly to Gavin about something or other, and he stood as if he was going to take his time about it. Kip tried to block him out.

  Green. Come on, let's suck up some wildness.

  Wild, now there's a word for me. Kip the wild. I was pretty wild when Ram used to call me Tubby, huh? I was pretty wild when he made me back down over Isa. She'd be alive if I'd been a little wilder. To be wild is the opposite of being controlled, and I've been controlled for my whole life. Controlled by Ram, by Ram! A village tough. A boy! Barely a bully.

  If Kip had told Ram to go to the evernight, if he had shredded Ram with his tongue, what could Ram have done except beat him? Ram's muscles weren't half a match for Kip's brain.

  Well, they're not a match for anything now that they're rotting.