by Brent Weeks
“The master key to all the restricted libraries. This is what you came for, isn’t it? You were scheduled to see me before the girl came back from Big Jasper. What is it you’re hunting?”
“A fantasy. A suspicion. Foolishness.”
“But I’ll know first, if you find something?”
He took the key from her and tucked it away. It was acquiescence.
“Be ware, Harrdun. My defenses are stretched thin.”
He walked to the door.
“Harrdun,” she said.
He stopped.
“The ghotra. You’re wearing it again.”
He grunted.
“It suits you.”
Chapter 24
Gavin dreamed after the storm, but knew this was no dream. It was memory. For a brief moment, he fought. No, not this. Orholam, have mercy on me, not—
It was his first Sun Day as Prism. He was in his own apartments atop what was now his tower. It was just after noon, and the dawn and noon rituals were finished. Now he had only to murder four hundred drafters.
There was a knock at his door, and his mother came in. Gavin had barely had time to get home, grab a quick meal, and bathe. His room slave Shala—a woman his mother’s age, whom his mother had appointed in place of the original Gavin’s room slave, apparently trying to keep her second son celibate for the rest of his days—had shaved his chest, and two of the High Luxiats, Daeron Utarkses and Camileas Malargos, had anointed his whole body with oil and myrrh. Having the sister of two men he’d betrayed lay hands on his naked body had not been an experience he was eager to repeat, for they’d anointed his entire body, and when choosing, who would you prefer to have oil your rod and stones: an old man, or an old woman who had reason to hate you, though she might not know it?
A Prism was not his own; a Prism belonged to the satrapies entire, and to Orholam, and to his family, and to peace, and whatever scraps he could collect after all had taken their bites, he might enjoy for himself.
His copper-colored hair was bound back and the High Luxiats placed a crown on his forehead with a single diamond the size of a robin’s egg. He wore a ceremonial shirt of red silk and cloth-of-gold open down the front, with sleeves so short as to be vestigial. His trousers were red silk so tight he thought they’d tear if he moved too quickly. But he was Orholam’s hand on earth; it behooved him to look potent, virile, even sexual. Orholam was, after all, a creative force, a generative being. How much the creative and the reproductive overlapped swung back and forth between which High Luxiats held sway at any particular time. Creation was meant to reflect creator, they argued. As above, so below.
That the worship guided by the Prism often turned into worship of the Prism seemed to bother no one. Or no one in power. To Gavin’s understanding of theology, that seemed a problem, but he was an impostor, and to protest too loudly might expose him. He did what he was told.
Felia Guile dismissed Shala and a young glowering Blackguard named Ironfist. When they were gone, she said quietly, “My son, if you can make it through this, you will be Prism for a thousand years. You’ve done magnificently all day, better than you did when… you were younger.” She meant he’d done better than the real Gavin had done.
“I’ve killed more than four hundred men before. It won’t be a problem.” The dreaming Gavin suddenly separated from the remembered boy. Had he really thought that, or had he been trying to impress his mother? He had wanted so desperately not to fail her. She had been magnificent, and he had known some of what she must have risked to keep him alive. “These ones won’t even be fighting back,” he said with a lopsided grin.
Felia didn’t smile. “Take off your shirt, I need to anoint you.”
“I’ve been anointed.”
“Not with this.” She produced a small jar with a yellowish-orange paste or lotion in it. She began to rub in into his skin carefully, only touching the areas that wouldn’t be covered by clothing, as if the paste were terribly precious.
“What is it?” he demanded.
She didn’t answer the question, saying instead, “Gavin, I know so far you haven’t taken your duties as the Highest Luxiat seriously, but on this night… Your leadership of the satrapies, your balancing for all the world; these are necessities, but distant ones. This night is the one bloody pillar on which all your power rests. It matters not that only you and the sworn one are in each room. When a Prism takes his duties lightly, or enjoys them, or gets blind drunk to brace himself for this burden—word always gets out. Those Prisms never last more than their seven, and many don’t last that long. Sun Day is the death of an entire community, of a whole convocation of peers. This is where our communal worship meets one intense and final personal experience of faith.”
“I wasn’t intending to take it lightly, mother. Merely trying to break the tension.”
She ignored him. “You’ll have only two minutes with each. We prefer to give each five minutes with you, but the sheer number of drafters who’ve burned themselves out in the war precludes that.”
“We could have begun sooner.”
“The High Magisterium and the Spectrum agreed that drawing out this Freeing for days would only draw more attention to the war and all its wounds. They want us to move on. All the drafters understand. Most have already been shrived by the lesser luxiats. Some, however, fear that the luxiats keep lists of their sins to use against their families in the future—”
“That’s strictly forbidden!”
Had he been that young? That naïve?
“Strictly. But it happens. We root such out as quietly as we can, but with so many luxiats coming from noble families, the temptation is often too great for them; they can’t help but pass along some helpful tidbit. As I was saying, some of the shrived will keep their most serious sins to themselves to be revealed to the Prism alone. You will find yourself in possession of many dark secrets. With your memory, it will be a potent tool. That is as it should be. But don’t share those secrets with anyone. Not your father. Not me. He will pressure you to do so. The Prism sharing such things with his own powerful family would undermine your power at a thousand times the rate a mere luxiat leaking such things would.”
“Of course,” Gavin said. He’d had a sudden insight: the kind that now he would not expect such a young man to have. “Some die with sin on their souls, just to keep the Prism from knowing, don’t they?” He’d been young, but not stupid.
“Doubtless. Prism Spreading Oak was worthless, but Prism Eirene Malargos before him had a way of showing mercy to such. She would, after shriving one who had been an enemy, ask if they had any silent sins for which they could together beseech Orholam’s forgiveness. It’s outside of orthodoxy, you understand, for to speak sins is to let them be exposed to the light, and is theologically necessary, but it was also very merciful. Such things get out, you know. She was well loved.”
“Sounds like a good idea.”
“Prism Malargos lasted two terms, but perhaps only because the Spectrum never had reason to fear her. She never advanced her family, nor any of the goals she held dear. She was a figurehead, nothing more. Consider carefully whether you want that fate.”
He turned to look at the gentle woman who had so often tenderly nurtured him. This steel. Was steel her natural state, just hidden, or was it simply that she would do anything at all to protect her last living son? “I’ve given the satrapies ample reason to fear me, mother. A little love might not go amiss.”
She bowed her head. “As you wish, Father.” Ever the Orange, Felia Guile knew exactly when to tinge that religious title with a playful smirk.
This time she did not. She gave him the respect that he still, as a young man, craved from his own mother. The respect of tens of thousands of others was reinforced rather than hollowed, as only a mother could do.
He certainly didn’t get any respect from his father.
She closed the jar. “The lotion I’ve applied to you will be preserved until dawn by the other oils you were anoin
ted with. It’s a mix of tiny particles of imperfect yellow luxin dust and superviolet. You can use a little superviolet to make your entire body glow, even in a darkened room. It makes quite a sight. Use it sparingly, and don’t get too close to the torches or it will break down. It is incredibly difficult for the yellows to make, and it’s a closely guarded secret. If you like, all the gold in your clothing can be lit as well. These are the last and holiest moments of a drafter’s life. Make them special, Gavin.”
No pressure. “Trinkets and magic tricks?”
His mother took a deep breath. “I seem to remember Dazen awarding his army’s highest honor to a commander after the Battle of Blood Ridge who routed the enemy with illusions that, were those enemies thinking rationally, wouldn’t have deceived them for two heartbeats.”
She waited. But he refused to give her the satisfaction of admitting she was right.
“But at certain moments, two heartbeats is an eternity,” she said, quoting him. “I might suggest that at the moment you slide the knife home, you begin to glow, and shine brighter as the drafter dies, to give her a symbol of her eternal reward. But… you are the Prism, Father.”
She could be astonishingly cynical, his dear mother.
“I’m a fraud,” he whispered.
She slapped his face, fury breaking through a veneer so cool he hadn’t even guessed it was there.
Then, instantly, it was gone again. She rubbed the lotion back into place on his slap-stung cheek. Her voice was quiet, but each word was considered, knife-edged: “We are all of us frauds. We are all of us frauds, and we are all of us doing the best we can to hold up a tower of illusions and ill-placed hopes. Do not fail us, my beloved son.”
The dream skipped forward then, through the long walk to the yard, through the cheers and praises and the prayers of another of the High Luxiats, blessing him and his work. Choice foods and rare wines were laid out. In some cases, whole communities had made the pilgrimage to Little Jasper to say goodbye to a beloved drafter who had served particularly well. Which this year meant drafters who’d been particularly heroic in the war.
Though it was a feast, Blackguards wandered the crowds, keeping their eyes on all the drafters who were nearly wights. Every few years, there was an incident, and in the aftermath of bitter war, they were wise to be on edge.
And then Gavin was ushered into a room, a long, thin dagger pressed into his hand. The closing of the heavy door shut out the cheers of the crowd utterly. He would move from room to room. The rooms were arranged in a circle at the base of his tower. Each room was tiny, with only a few simple decorations, a pitcher of wine and a smaller one of poppy liquor for the fearful, and a cushioned kneeler. Some drafters liked to pass the night in prayer vigils. Others relaxed and talked with family and friends in larger rooms or outside until the luxiats summoned them. As Orholam’s favored, all the female drafters were seen first.
The first one was a haggard drafter of perhaps forty-five. She knelt patiently on the kneeler at the front of the room. Her back was to the small door where the luxiats would take her body, her face to Gavin as he entered.
“Greetings, my daughter, may all the blessings of the light be on you,” Gavin said.
The woman made no reply, merely stared at Gavin.
Gavin moved forward, taking the seat in front of the kneeling woman. “I’ve come to shrive you.”
No reply. Usually the luxiat who spoke to Gavin between rooms was supposed to tell him if there were any special circumstances—a mute, or a drafter who might be violent, whatever. The luxiats had said nothing other than the woman’s name.
“Do you have a confession, Vell Parsham?” Gavin asked uncomfortably.
“This,” the woman said. “This is wrong. This is not what Orholam wills. This is a travesty. This screams to me of men and women holding on to power by their fingertips, by making someone else pay.”
“It’s normal to be afraid,” Gavin said.
“I’m not afraid for my life. I fear for your soul, High Lord Prism. Orholam forgive you, for what you do this night is murder.” She pulled the low collar of her blouse aside to give Gavin a straight shot at her heart. “End me now, Lord Prism, but someday, may you end it all or be ended. Know that Orholam is just, and tremble.”
Gavin stood and wet his lips. So dry. He blinked, approaching in a daze. “Bless you, my daughter.”
He looked the woman in the eye as he stabbed her in the heart. Held those un-angry eyes until the light went out of them. Then he pulled the bell string incorporated into the kneeler. Two luxiats entered and caught the kneeling body before it could fall. The side door opened.
“Perfect time, High Lord Prism. There will be water and figs after the next room. Name’s Delilah Tae, a sub-red.”
And then he was in the next room.
The woman at the kneeler couldn’t have been more than twenty-five years old. She’d been weeping.
“My daughter, may the blessings of the light be upon you.”
She dissolved.
Gavin took his seat. “I’ve come to shrive you, daughter, that you may walk clean and pure and unashamed in the light.”
“I have a daughter, High Lord Prism. She’s three. Please tell me I’m not doing wrong by leaving her. I can’t control the sub-red much longer, though. I know it. I—I shouldn’t have used so much during the war. I should have been smarter.”
“What’s your daughter’s name?”
“Essel.”
“Essel will be taken care of, Delilah Tae. I’ll see to it personally.”
“We don’t have any family, not since the war. I grew up next to one of the homes for orphans. Some of the luxiats have good intentions, but… tell me she’ll not go there, High Lord, please. I don’t deserve to ask anything of you, but—”
“I’ll take care of her. I promise.”
The bell rang to let Gavin know he’d spent too long.
She gulped nervously. “I’ve got more to say. I’m so sorry, I know you’ve got others waiting.”
“I’m here. I’m with you. Tell me what you have to say,” Gavin said.
“It was my idea. Garriston. My husband was a red. He and I used to do a trick where he’d shoot a stream into the air and I’d ignite it. We showed our commander, and he took the idea up like it was his… but it was mine. Pollos told me not to tell them about it, that it would be used for ill, but I did it. All those people. The whole city burning. They said eighty thousand died in that city alone.”
She dissolved then, incapable of speech. That wasn’t your fault, Gavin wanted to say. It was mine. My brother’s. We commanded such things. We knew. We knew, and we left the burden on people like you.
The bell rang again, more insistently.
In silent fury, Gavin reached out with blue luxin and ripped the bell off the wall.
He knelt across from Delilah and took her hands in his. “Lord of Light, Orholam, God, see your humble servant. We pray you search us and know us. We pray your healing light would purify us of sins of commission and omission. In the fire of war, we have done unspeakable things. The luxiats may say our commanders bear the weight of those crimes, but Orholam, Father, we feel that weight on our souls. We repent of our rage and our recklessness, of duties undone. Forgive your daughter, Orholam, take her guilt and shame, and let her walk with you, forever.”
Gavin made his countenance glow softly as he spoke, superviolet and will and yellow triggering the cream’s broken crystals, so it appeared he glowed with Orholam’s light. Delilah looked up at him with big, wet eyes full of wonder, but also full of peace. He smiled at her until she shared his smile. He stabbed her heart.
And his own went icy cold.
He had kept his word to her, though. Gavin’s mother helped him find a family to raise the child. Essel was a Blackguard now.
High Luxiat Jorvis opened the door. “Lord Prism. We’re running behind. We’ll have to put off your refreshment until—”
“No.”
“Very
well. Your next penitent is waiting. Her name is—”
“No!”
And as soon as his voice was raised, Commander Anamar of the Blackguards was standing there, threatening, his attention and menace turned toward Gavin. Gavin would ruin him for that.
“It’s not enough time,” Gavin said.
“There’s no choice. The ceremony must be finished by dawn. We agreed—”
Furious, Gavin walked down the hallway, toward the revelers outside. Commander Anamar stepped in front of him, blocking the door.
“If you want to have the use of your knees ever again,” Gavin said, “you’ll get on them now, and get the hell out of my way.”
The man looked to High Luxiat Jorvis, then stepped aside. He didn’t get on his knees.
Gavin went out past him and took the steps up the podium two at a time. He sent two jets of fire into the afternoon air to get everyone’s attention.
He couldn’t remember what words he’d summoned. Oratory had become second nature to him. Something about a momentous year, and a heartbreaking one. Something about Orholam’s heaven becoming richer at the price of those who would miss these drafters. Something about special circumstances requiring special action. Some false humility and misdirection.
“I, who serve as your Prism, I covet the time I get with each penitent in Orholam’s presence. These are the holiest moments I know, and for my sake, I have asked Orholam that he not be too harsh a master with me. And Orholam is merciful! He has given me a special dispensation! I will meet with and shrive each penitent to be Freed for as long as necessary, even if it takes three days! The parties here will continue, at my own personal expense, until we have honored our dear drafters appropriately!”
A roar went up at that. Two minutes, to be shrived? After giving up your life for the satrapies? No one had liked it. Not even the luxiats who’d insisted on it. By claiming this special dispensation was for him and his own weakness, Gavin had come across as humble. Everyone knew, or would figure out in the next two days, that meeting for longer with each meant he’d just doubled his own burden, if not more.