The Broken Eye

by Brent Weeks

  Kip stepped into the aisle, and without waiting to see how the magister would react, walked out of the classroom. He walked directly to the lift and headed to the top floor. He got off and checked in with the Blackguards. He recognized them: Baya Niel, who had helped kill the green god with Kip, and a curvy woman who he thought was named Essel. Teia had liked her a lot. “I’d like to speak with the White, if she has any time today,” Kip said. “Please.”

  Baya Niel said, “We can ask her between her other meetings to squeeze you in. It may be a few hours, though. If you’re late to Blackguard training this afternoon, you’ll bear the consequences.”

  Kip shrugged. Consequences.

  He waited an hour before Baya Niel gestured to him, letting him through. Kip headed to the White’s room, past the Blackguards at the checkpoint and more outside her door. There had been an assassination attempt while Kip had been gone, foiled by the Prism himself, they said. That meant more guards, and more attentive ones. Kip was frisked twice.

  When he got into the White’s office, he was surprised by how healthy she looked. She bade him come to stand in front of her desk, and for a long moment she studied him. She had secretaries and messenger slaves attending her while she saw to her daily business overseeing the Chromeria. Kip stood silent; he knew not to speak until spoken to.

  “Do you know, I expected you to look more like Gavin. You look more like your grandfather and great-grandfather. Do you know you are exactly what so many of the great families were hoping for, treating their sons and daughters like stallions and mares to be bred for this trait or that? The Blood Wars made people who should have known better act like animals themselves, I’m afraid.”

  “High Mistress?”

  “Your eyes blue to gather light efficiently, your skin dark to hide when you draft, a muscular frame for war, and of course, above all, always and forever, your ability to draft seven colors. It’s not so simple, of course, to breed humans. And while some traits can be guessed with a fair degree of accuracy, we know not nearly the complexity of ourselves. I’ve never seen a child with blue eyes who didn’t have at least two parents or grandparents with the same, but I’ve seen a girl darker than you who sprang from parents lighter than me. It almost got her mother killed by the father, jealous fool, who still suspected her patrimony until the girl was old enough he could see she had his nose and eyes both. The world is more marvelous than we know, Kip. But you’re here for a reason. What would you have of me?”

  “A favor,” Kip said. “Actually, two.”

  “I gathered. It’s rare that people come simply for my excellent company.”

  “I’m sorry, have I done something to offend? I don’t know the protocol here,” Kip said. He still had a weight on his soul.

  She shook her head. “Please, go on.”

  “There’s a magister named Kadah. I think she’s requested transfers to other duties. Probably multiple times. Maybe long ago, and she has since given up. I think her transfers were blocked by some enemy of hers. Would you grant her application?”

  The White looked pensive. She lifted a hand and gave some rapid set of signals that a secretary understood. A slave quietly hurried out the door. “An odd way to get rid of a magister you don’t like,” the White said.

  “It’s not for me. It’s for her. She’s miserable, and she’s bad at her work because of it.”

  “I’ll know the truth of it in an hour. I’ll decide then. And the second thing?” the White asked.

  I want you to tell me about the Lightbringer, Kip wanted to say. I want you to tell me about the Blinder’s Knife.

  “I need a tutor,” he said instead. “I don’t mean to sound arrogant, but I have so much to learn. I’m a full-spectrum polychrome, and I can’t sit in a class where I’m only hearing things that I already know. Much less waste my time butting heads with a jealous magister.”

  “You think I can find you a magister who isn’t jealous of a full-spectrum polychrome son of a Prism who’s being given preferential treatment?”

  “I was hoping you would do it,” Kip said.

  She laughed, truly surprised. “Oh, Kip. I’d forgotten how audacious the young can be.”

  “I’m… important,” Kip said.

  She liked that less. Her smile faded, died.

  “In a very narrow sense, is all I mean,” he continued. He struggled to find words. “My importance isn’t—I shouldn’t be given preference because of who I am. I’m important in that I have a vital function to perform.”

  “And that is?” she asked, wary, perturbed.

  I am to save my father, he wanted to say. It was a good purpose. Maybe it was even the purpose to which Orholam had called him. But if he said that, he would be lying. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But the task is what’s important. I am merely the tool by which it will be accomplished, and I ask you to prepare me for it. My audacity is to serve Orholam without fear, believing he will walk with me through fire.” He wanted to be that certain, thought that he should be that certain, so he didn’t realize it was a lie until it was already out of his mouth.

  “Kip, we are all people of will here. Every man and every woman who wrestles light has tasted godhood. We are all important, or Orholam wouldn’t have given us these tools, wouldn’t have trusted us with these powers.”

  “Like he trusted the Color Prince.” The words were out of Kip’s mouth before he could stop them. “I am so sorry, High Lady.” He bowed his head.

  “Don’t you see, Kip, the Color Prince’s insanity and grasping for godhood is no counter to what I said. Power is the ultimate test of a man. The more you’re given, the more opportunities for corruption. That many fail the test doesn’t mean Orholam is wrong; it means that men are free. And great souls succeed or fail spectacularly.”

  “Like my father,” Kip said.

  “Your father most of all.” She hesitated, then waved her secretaries back. They immediately got up and went to stand by the door. One pulled a curtain between them and Kip and the White. Only a Blackguard remained, watching.

  And my grandfather, he should have said. It was a perfect segue to address what he had seen. But what did he have to tell her? Andross was a wight, and then he wasn’t? Oh, and I lied to you and the entire Spectrum about what happened on the ship. Kip was pushing his luck as it was. He was like a novice Nine Kings player. On the boat, he’d prepared one move ahead, and the lies he had prepared had worked spectacularly with the Spectrum. But now he was simply playing whatever card came into his hand. The lies made a lattice, the old moves constrained the new ones.

  How does Andross do it? Does he remember what lies he’s told every player?

  Of course he does. That’s what the Guile memory is for, for him. Here Kip didn’t even know who all the players were. The White liked him, but he didn’t think she would find the lies of a sixteen-year-old amusing or masterful. She was old, and old people want to see young people as refreshingly direct, simple, sweet, and innocent.

  He might be holding exactly the card she needed to play against Andross—for theirs was a game going on decades—but Kip couldn’t give it to her.

  Perhaps, in this great game, there is no giving of cards. Only trades.

  The White rummaged in her desk. She pulled out a small framed picture. “When I die, Kip, I want you to have this. And after you’ve used it, if he still lives, I want you to give it to Gavin.” She turned it around, and Kip saw that it was one of the new Nine Kings cards. “This is the work of a dear old friend of mine—”

  “Janus Borig,” Kip said. He recognized the handiwork. He took the framed card from the White. It was called the Unbreakable. It was beautiful. Janus Borig had clearly lavished attention and time on this work. Where some of the cards were the product of haste and compulsion—though all showed her total mastery of her art—this card was as intricately painted as any Kip had seen. A young woman with fiery hair stood on a hill dominated by an oak, the smoking ruins of an estate to her left. To her right wa
s an abyss. Tiny flecks of blue and green touched her gray eyes. Tears stood on each cheek, but her jaw was set, eyes fixed on some point in the distance.

  “I’d just buried my youngest daughter,” the White said. “Calling me the Unbreakable has felt sometimes like a cruel joke, and other times a promise. I chose to live, to fight, even when fighting meant to fight despair and the taunts of meaninglessness that is the abyss. This card is not all pleasantness, but I should like to be understood, someday.”

  “Damn, you were beautiful. And fierce! And—and I can’t believe I just said that out loud,” Kip said. He’d slipped up in recognizing the art. If he pretended to slip up in another direction, he might be able to distract her before she demanded to know how he knew Janus Borig’s work.

  The White laughed. “Well, thank you. I think perhaps Janus was being kind.”

  “Janus isn’t kind. She’s honest,” Kip said. “That’s what a Mirror…” does. Shit. Can’t hold a thought in your head for six seconds, can you, Kip?

  “Don’t feel bad,” the White said. “I know an artful dodge when I hear one. And I’ve dealt with your father and grandfather for far too long to underestimate you, Kip, even if you are young.”

  “You send satraps out of here crying, don’t you?”

  “It’s happened,” she said drily. “Janus,” she said.

  So Kip told her about his meetings with Janus Borig. He told her that the woman had been working on his card. He told her about the assassins with the shimmercloaks. He told her about Janus Borig dying in his arms.

  He could see it was a blow to the White.

  “Kip, this is vital. Did she save anything from the fire?”

  Kip had been bracing himself for that question for the entire conversation. “She wanted me to grab something, but the fire was so intense, and there were piles of gunpowder everywhere. I was only able to grab the shimmercloaks.”

  The White studied his face. “You’re a good liar, Kip, but I’ve dealt with the best. The shimmercloaks are good for killing people, but the cards are good for a thousand purposes. Janus wouldn’t have let you dawdle grabbing weapons while letting the truth burn. It was her whole life’s work.”

  “She wasn’t conscious,” Kip said, not willing to let a good lie die.

  I thought we were going to go with refreshingly direct. Dammit.

  The White sighed. “I won’t ask more. I hope you’ve put them in a safe place. Don’t check on them often, else spies may find them by luck. Be ware of using them alone. I don’t know what all the new cards are, but I can imagine some of the events of recent history would flay your mind.”

  With his own hand so recently burnt clean of skin, it was a metaphor with some resonance for Kip.

  Kip moved to speak, but realized that correcting her to say that he didn’t actually know where the cards were would be to admit he had been lying. Every way he moved, she gained something.

  “How come when you do this to me, I don’t hate you?” Kip asked.

  “Box you in, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Unlike when Andross does it,” she said.

  “Yes.” Emphatically.

  “Because you can tell I love you and want the best for you.”

  “Love me?” Kip scoffed. “You barely know me.”

  “When you have lived either a very short time or a very long time—if you’ve lived well—you will be able to love easily, too. Broken hearts have fresh places to bond with new faces.”

  Kip wasn’t sure how to take that, wasn’t sure he could believe it. He said, “You had other daughters? I mean, other than the one… Er, sorry.”

  “Had, yes. Grandchildren, too. Had.” She stared at him for a while, inscrutably. She put away the framed card. For a moment, Kip wondered if she’d forgotten what he’d come here asking. Then he saw a twitch of amusement in her eyes. She could tell he was wondering if she was old and senile, and she was letting him wonder. It was a game to her.

  And this woman was preparing for her death of old age? She was brighter than the rest of the Spectrum combined!

  Kip waited.

  “I’m too busy to teach you myself, though you intrigue me, little Guile. I do hope you make it to full flower. You are a boy with such potential.” She closed her eyes for a moment, upbraiding herself. “Your pardon, a young man. I’m afraid that all men under forty are boys to me now. No, I can’t teach you. I will look into the matter of this magister, though. And… you do need a tutor; this much is plain. You will continue with those classes she cannot teach, but in all she can, Lady Guile will be your tutor.”

  “Lady Guile?” Hadn’t Felia Guile joined the Freeing in Garriston? Kip wondered about that sometimes. She’d been in Garriston at the same time he had, and she’d never even asked to see him, her only grandson. Maybe a bastard was too shameful. “Oh! You mean Karris?!”

  “Mmm,” the White said, with a little smirk.

  “That’s great!” Kip said. Even if he was a little scared of her. She clearly knew everything, and she had his total respect.

  “Attend your lectures—your other lectures—as usual until I can speak to her. She may need some convincing.” The White’s smirk faded. “Kip, Orholam walks men through fires every day. I believe that. But before you walk through fire, make certain it’s one he’s asked you to walk through.”

  Chapter 29

  After three days, the storm abated. Gunner had the Bitter Cob drop anchor in the lee of some little island while he waited for the skies to clear so they could find their bearings. The pirates were good enough to feed the slaves before they slept. Gunner was fastidious in keeping his goods performing at their highest potential.

  Gavin slept like a stone, woke, and slept again. He dreamed again, and knew he was dreaming. He was a child, and everyone was gone. Mother and father were at the Chromeria: father for some ceremonies, and mother to be near him. Gavin got to go with them because he was older. Dazen and Sevastian had to stay home with the servants and house slaves. Dazen woke alone in his bed, and thought of calling for his nurse. He was eleven years old, almost. Too old to be afraid of the dark. He wasn’t sure what he’d heard, but he lay in bed, listening, almost too scared to breathe.

  He was eleven. Too old to be such a scaredy.

  Throwing off the covers, he reached from his bed to where his child-sized sword had fallen, trying to pick it up without stepping out of bed. It was too far away. He took his blanket and threw it over the sword, holding on to one edge. He pulled it toward himself, and it dragged the sword a little. In three more tries, he had it.

  Swallowing, he drew the sword out of the scabbard. He heard glass break. It sounded like it came from outside, but he knew that was a trick of how the Guile home was laid out. The doors were huge, thick. Breaking glass could only mean that one of the other windows had been smashed down the hall. Sevastian’s room!

  Dazen forgot his fear and jumped out of bed.

  He threw his door open and ran. The hallway stretched longer and longer. He reached a full sprint, but the walls deformed. He was getting shorter and shorter, fading, fading.

  When he reached Sevastian’s door, his hand passed through the latch. He couldn’t touch anything. Couldn’t change anything. His hand passed through the wood, too.

  He threw himself at the door—through the door.

  The blue wight snarled, standing over Sevastian’s bed, all blue skin and red blood. It jumped up to the window and disappeared into the night. Dazen only saw his little brother’s bloodied, broken body. He screamed. The smell of blood washed over him as he picked up Sevastian.

  He was dead. The little boy had been pierced, a sword stroke or a spear thrust right in the middle of his chest. Little Dazen, wailing inconsolably, had no space for any other thought, but the dreamer saw more than he remembered. That sword or spear thrust had hit Sevastian high in the chest and come out the middle of his back. Sevastian had stood to confront the intruder, and been slain where he stood. A single, sure s
troke. Good-hearted little Sevastian hadn’t even had time to dodge or fight, hadn’t believed someone would come to murder him in the night.

  His own hands smearing blood on Sevastian’s perfect, angelic face, Dazen wailed. Lying there, eyes closed, Sevastian could have been sleeping. Dazen shook him.

  “Wake up! Wake up!”

  Gavin woke to Orholam shaking him.

  It took Gavin long moments for rocking of the ship and the hardness of the wood under his back to sink in. One nightmare to another.

  “These are the dreams you send me, Orholam?” he demanded. “Go to hell!”

  Chapter 30

  “Sailing galley. Ilytian canvas,” Leonus said.

  Gavin thought it was horrible news, but the slaves murmured like it was a good thing. “What’s that mean?” he asked.

  “Ilytian canvas, uh, uh, means Ilytian ship, uh, most like. Fuck. Fuck,” Fukkelot said.

  “Don’t the Ilytians have the best cannons?” Gavin asked.

  “Don’t matter,” Bugs said, across the aisle from Gavin. The man had some sort of condition, made his eyes bulge. It was hard to look at him, even in shades of gray. “Treat their slaves worse than they treat their dogs. Starve ’em, beat ’em so bad they can’t barely row. Ilytian galley can’t run as fast, can’t turn as fast as we can. Not by a long sight.”

  It made sense, Gavin supposed. Ilytians captured more slaves than anyone, refused to be bound by the laws on the taking of slaves that the Chromeria imposed on the other six satrapies. If slaves were cheap, there was no need to take special care of them. The dead could be easily replaced. Ilytians were real bastards.