The Broken Eye

by Brent Weeks

  Janus Borig asked for her brushes when she was dying. Asked for them, because she knew who the Lightbringer was. Had she started that card and never finished the face?

  No. This tattoo isn’t unfinished.

  What it is, or what it can be, is a trap. A trap for Kip—and now Kip’s trap.

  Kip lifts his hand, bunches his fingers, using the periphery of his vision to see how Abaddon reacts. Fear that Kip will touch the Lightbringer. Good. Kip moves.

  “No!” Abaddon shouts. “No!” He twists his cane and a blade flicks out from its heel. He stabs Kip’s arm in the tattoo of the Lightbringer. Power arcs through Abaddon’s cane, and the tattoo bursts apart like a popped soap bubble. Too easily, as if it had been waiting for it.

  Kip flips sideways from the force of the blow, his other hand slapping at Abaddon’s face as he falls.

  When he looks up, Abaddon looks confused. There’s a hole in the illusions hiding his face, his chin and beard plucked off entirely, the rest of the mask shimmering—and dissolving.

  He is no man under that projected beauty. His head a locust’s head. His mouth mandibles, stretching and snapping sideways. His eyes monstrous, inhuman. The wings barely protruding from his back are the clacking wings of an insect god. And the moment he touches Kip, there’s a change in the air of the Great Library. Even Kip, bent and broken, can feel the power gathering, a kind of magic beyond mortal ken.

  By touching Kip, he’s entered Kip’s time, his bubble of causality. And if there’s one thing fat kids understand, after getting beat down into a puddle of blubber and humiliation, it’s being overlooked and disregarded.

  But blubber bounces back.

  Shooting a look at something Kip couldn’t see, Abaddon roared, “What do I care for your rules?! I am I! I am the Day Star! I am of the firstborn, and I. Will. Not. Be Moved!” His turn swept the hem of his cloak toward Kip, almost brushing him with it.

  If there’s one thing fat kids understand, it’s momentum.

  With a roar, Kip leapt onto Abaddon’s back. Every Blackguard lesson forgotten, he was an animal, tearing at his prey. He was the fucking turtle-bear, ready to take punishment as long as he could give more punishment back. His weight nearly knocked Abaddon off his broken ankles, and Abaddon barely caught himself on his cane. Screaming, Kip scratched at his eyes, tore at his neck, and lunged for that precious pistol.

  But the move was a feint. With only one hand free, Abaddon grabbed on to his precious pistol. Instead, Kip tore the cloak off his neck and kicked off. Abaddon fell.

  His masks down, Abaddon was all snarling, shrieking insect. He drew the pistol from its holster smoothly, those great bulbous eyes unreadable.

  At that moment, something seemed to resound through the entire library, a great pulse, a great weight settling—and Abaddon was ejected, utterly, instantly. Not physically, for he merely disappeared, but Kip had the very distinct impression that the psychic shock of it had to be tremendous.

  It was like a child addressing a tidal wave, saying, I will not be moved—and before the words are out of his mouth, all is ocean, leaving no sign; not only no sign of the child, but no sign of his defiance, no sign that anything opposed the crushing sea in the least, no eddy, no swirl, no detritus, only simple, plain, indisputable nothingness.

  From his back, exhausted, immobile, bloody, Kip looked up into those yawning foreign constellations. “So you are there,” he said. “Kind of take a subtle approach, don’t you?”

  The cloak lay shimmering in Kip’s hand. He sat on the ground holding it, wondering what would have happened if Abaddon had shot him here. If he was practically dead anyway, what was the difference? Or was that creature lying about the whole dying-out-in-his-real-body thing? Something felt very wrong in Kip’s chest, so he thought not.

  “Subtle? He’s using you.”

  It was Rea Siluz. She was wearing a green-and-black jalabiya with the hood down around her neck, her halo of black hair fairly glowing. But perhaps that was just the effect of her smile. Kip thought for a moment about what she’d said, then grinned. “Rea. So, you’re some kind of librarian?” He stood, with difficulty.

  She smiled again and shook her head. “Only when… time allows.”

  “You’re what he is… or was, or… something?”

  “I am not nearly what he was, but I am far more than he is. As are you. Evil is darkness. Darkness is the broken eye, the ever-blind unseeing. Darkness is less substantial than smoke, and even a dim mirror is brighter than the void.”

  That seemed pretty deep, so naturally Kip said, “You’re not as flashy as he was.”

  She laughed. “Kip, do you know how beautiful you are? You understand things with your heart. There’s a time to revel in and reveal glory earned and glory given. But vanity is show. In point of fact, I am quite well-known for my love of spectacle. Which is probably why I was drawn to you.”

  “Me? I’m just a dim mirror. And I, I think I’m dying.” He thought suddenly, if you’re addressing some kind of celestial immortal, and she’s actually answering you, you should probably ask some really good questions: like about the cloak he was holding, or heck, if there really was a Lightbringer, and if so who…

  He fell over. Too late. He thought that if he got through all the cards, there was supposed to be some way… out? Did he miss it? He tried to open his eyes to look for it. Nothing. Maybe they were open. Ah well. He was dead at last, but he didn’t mind.

  Chapter 76

  Kip was dead.

  Teia staggered to her feet in disbelief. She felt like she’d been bludgeoned between the eyes with a brick. She felt like she was standing knee deep in the shallows of a mighty river, waters roaring through and past her. Kip lay like he’d been cast out of the current, his body sprawled, mind broken, spark extinguished.

  Kip is dead.

  It didn’t look right. Kip, as meat. Without his animating spirit, Kip was a brow hewn from granite, shoulders to shame draft horses, and staring eyes of many colors. This was a body; this wasn’t Kip.

  Teia could hear nothing but the cataclysmic wind gusts of her own heart, pumping, pumping, as if blowing on a forest fire. Kip dead? It was impossible. And it was.

  I didn’t hug him. Why didn’t I hug him? He staggered back from death’s door, and held me, and I didn’t hold him. I let him down. Why?

  I’m not a slave. I’m not a slave. I tell myself that every day. Why?

  Because I don’t believe it. And despite all I feel for Kip—for all the Kips I know him as—I can’t love him if I’m still a slave. He was my master. If only for a time. If only in word. Kip could think of me any way he wanted to, but it didn’t matter, doesn’t matter, as long as I’m a slave in my own eyes.

  My lenses are bad. My eyes, broken.

  I hate being a slave, because I hate what it has made me, because it has changed me, and I can’t change back in a day. I can’t say yes to Kip, though all my soul longs for it, because I haven’t taken my freedom. Not yet.

  Why do I want so much to be a Blackguard? Because they are the best slaves in the world, with the best masters, with rules that make sense, well rewarded, and well directed. But directed. Ordered. Always, always subordinate. And a part of me craves that.

  Orholam, what would it be like, to be whole?

  Teia blinked, hating and overcome with disappointment at who she’d become—and then she felt as if she were standing outside herself. For one heartbeat, she saw a vision of herself standing before her, as an adult. Only a couple years older, maybe, but she looked totally other. She stood tall—well, as tall as her slight frame could manage—but she stood free, there was joy in her eyes, pride in her stance, and mischief on her lips. And she was beautiful. Not the beauty of curves and men’s desire, a brighter beauty than that. She was a woman fully herself, a woman who had life, and had it in full.

  And then the vision was gone. But Teia knew it was herself as she could be.

  A tear tracked down her cheek.

  I realize
this now? Now?!

  Kip shall not be dead.

  Again, Teia seemed to be standing in that great river, nearly sweeping her off her feet. She had such a strong, sudden conviction that it was some titanic, immeasurable magic that she widened her eyes to paryl—and saw nothing, but she lost not her conviction that it was here, it was true. There was a magic she knew not.

  Not yet.

  Kip was dead, his eyes staring blankly into nothing.

  Kip is dead; he’s left us all behind. I’ve learned from him, but too late.

  Kip shall not be dead.

  His hand was wet with blood from his torn knuckles.

  Life is in the blood.

  Paryl is the master color. Paryl makes us feel all. Barely knowing what she was doing, Teia drafted paryl from her hand to Kip’s blood. She could feel it, and then she plunged the magic into his blood, going after the receding luxin, the receding light, the receding life, like it was a rope trailing out of her reach.

  As soon as her luxin passed the barrier of Kip’s skin, she gasped. The Chromeria didn’t even begin to teach Will magics until late in a discipula’s tenure because it was so dangerous, so prone to abuse. Kip had willjacked an opponent once, though, and it had been described to the Blackguard scrubs then. Luxin had no memory, and Will was where the technology of chromaturgy met the magic of the thing. Teia couldn’t draft any of the colors Kip had inside him, but with paryl using Will to interact with one color was the same as using will to interact with any color—so long as the luxin was open.

  Kip’s entire body was awash in every color of luxin. From her training, Teia knew you wanted to stop the heart to kill a man. She didn’t know much more than that, though. Certainly, she was no healer.

  She found Kip’s heart through his blood, and it was still. She grabbed all the luxin in and around his heart that she could feel. Without any control of each of those colors, it was like grabbing a handful of knots rather than plucking the appropriate threads.

  She simply squeezed, hard.

  Kip’s entire body jumped in her lap, and she almost lost hold of the magic.

  Kip was dead.

  What the hell am I doing? Orholam—

  Again.

  She did it, tears streaming down her face. His body leapt. It seemed a desecration.

  Kip is dead. Dammit, leave him alone. Stop this, stop this!

  Again.

  She jerked so hard, she thought she tore something inside herself. This time, after his body leapt, he seemed to melt into her lap. He was dead. He was really dead.

  Teia’s will drained away. All she’d done. It was for nothing. It was just desecrating his corpse. She should be ashamed.

  “Orholam’s balls,” Kip said, pained. He moaned. His eyes flickered open, and focused on Teia after a moment. “Teia!” he said, surprised. “I’m here, right? I mean, I’m now? I mean…” His eyes lost focus for a moment, and he blinked, on the brink of passing out.

  “Kip?” she asked. She brushed back his wiry hair. Her whole body felt full of light. Her eyes were full of tears, and the tears made the light streak and dance and glow and sing. Kip shall not be dead indeed.

  She couldn’t stop grinning.

  “Teia, Teia, I have something to say.”

  She leaned over him. “Yes?” Maybe it was all drafting, the nearly falling to her death, the escape from Murder Sharp, the fight with Kip, the saving his life; maybe it was touching all the other luxin, maybe it had worked on her even as she’d worked with it, but she felt all warm and soft inside. He was right here. She remembered kissing him, that night after they’d all been out drinking. It had been nice.

  “Teia, I have to tell you,” Kip said again.

  “Yes?” She should kiss him now. What was the harm?

  “You’ve got a booger.”

  “Uh-huh, I—what?! What?!”

  Kip pulled away and sat up. “Sorry, you were all looming over me, I got claustrophobic.”

  “Looming?” She punched his shoulder, while she fished in a pocket for a handkerchief. “I don’t loom.” She started laughing. She couldn’t help it. She deserved it, didn’t she? After leaving him standing there, hugless. It wasn’t like he was retaliating, it was like the universe was. A firm elbow from Orholam himself. She laughed, hard, maybe a little bit out of her mind.

  He seemed puzzled by her laughing, but then he joined her in it. “What are we laughing a—”

  His smile froze on his face and he stopped laughing. He jumped to his feet, staggering, awkward, but never taking his eyes off her face. An odd black-and-white cloak unfurled from his hand, ignored. He tilted his head, studying her. He blinked, like something else was standing in her shoes.

  “Kip?” she said.

  “T?” he asked.

  No one called her T. She only called herself that.

  “Kip, are you… are you well?”

  “You’re sheering off in different colors, disappearing. You’re—no, it’s going. It’s—” He shut his eyes tight as if groping for a memory. “Mist Walker.”

  Her throat tightened.

  He blinked. “It’s gone.” He shook his head then put a hand to his temple as if he had a ferocious headache. “Huh, Mist Walker. You ever heard of that?”

  He’d never heard that term. Not from her. Not from anyone. That was an obscure tale.

  She opened her mouth to lie to him. She heard Karris’s arguments in her mind that anyone who knew this secret only put them all in more danger. And she saw how right Karris had been. Teia hadn’t needed to know Karris’s identity. It had been helpful only emotionally—and hurtful in every other way possible. And yet still the lie wouldn’t come.

  “It’s what I hope to be,” Teia said. And she realized only as the words passed her lips that they were true.

  “Huh?” He was obviously still recovering from the pain in his head.

  “It’s what I’m doing for the White. I’m infiltrating the Order of the Broken Eye, Kip. I’ve already stolen a shimmercloak for them. My master was in the room with us, upstairs, when you said.… It’s why I was… playing dumb? I didn’t want him to have anything over me.”

  He didn’t react. She wasn’t sure he heard her. “Mist Walker,” he repeated. He squinted at her. Then he seemed aware of the cloak in his hand again. She’d never seen it before. To himself, Kip said, “He broke the rules, so that meant I could, too. Doesn’t look like leather here, though.”

  “He?”

  “Mist Walker. Fuck.” Kip stared down at his left wrist, where there was a smudge of color like a tattoo, but fading into his skin. “What the—”

  “Kip, Breaker, what are you—”

  He winced, his mouth open in a silent cry as if she’d just kicked him in the stones. “Oh, oh, don’t! Don’t call me that. No names. Please. You have no idea. Right now…” He blinked.

  “What’s—”

  He slung the cloak out and around her shoulders. It billowed strangely, as if it weighed nothing, but settled on her shoulders firmly. It was the strangest material she’d ever felt. Shimmery like satin, cool to the touch like brass, light as air and as heavy as responsibility. It had a hood that looked familiar.

  He stepped back and squinted again. “Damn,” he said. “It’s perfect.” He looked back down at his wrist, and rubbed it, but there was nothing there now.

  “Kip, what is this?” Teia was suddenly afraid.

  “It’s a gift of light. It’s the Night’s Embrace. The Shadow’s Wing. Portable Darkness. A crutch until you learn to walk. To mist walk? I don’t… it’s all scrambling together. It was all so clear.” He squeezed his eyes tightly shut. “And it’s not for me. Mist Walker. Damn. I should have gone for the gun.”

  “Kip, I can’t take this. Why would you give me such a thing? This is—” She stopped.

  They both looked at the cloak.

  “Am I hallucinating again?” Kip asked.

  The cloak had gone red. Red like passion, or a blush. And Teia knew it was red, to
o. That was no green. It didn’t feel green. Not in the least.

  And now it shot through with blue, chased by orange, by pink, by a violet tinge. Each wave started at the neckline and coursed down to the hem. Now yellow. Curiosity?

  “Oh,” Kip said.

  “Oh?”

  “It’s the cloak all the shimmercloaks were based on. Of course it’s the best.” He rubbed his eyes. “You can probably make it turn any color you—Oh no.”

  He was staring at the cards scattered on the ground around them. He saw that he was standing on one of the cards and he moved carefully, lifting his foot as if the card might bite him. He bent down and grabbed the card as if it were made of rubies and gold, touching only the very edges. “Oh, Orholam, please. Please tell me I didn’t break any of… What the hell?”

  He stared at the card as if it was offending him.

  He grabbed another card.

  “No!” he breathed. His eyes widened.

  He grabbed more and more. Stared at each. What was he doing?

  “No, no, no,” he said as he turned each over. “Teia, was this like this when you found me?”

  “Was what like what?”

  “Were the cards like this? No one came in and stole the real ones before you found me?”

  “Kip, what are you talking about? They were all stuck to your skin. It was like they were poisoning you.”

  “Oh, no no no no. I must have triggered one of her traps. No wonder it almost killed me. Out of all the times I’ve loused everything up…” He cupped his forehead with a hand, aghast.

  “Kip! What are you talking about?”

  He turned and held up a card in front of her. The back was illustrated painstakingly with geometric designs, lacquered with luxin. He turned the card. The face of it was blank. He showed her another card: blank. Another: blank.

  “I’ve destroyed her life’s work! Janus Borig lived to make these cards, and she died protecting them, and now I’ve—” He took a few hurried steps away and retched noisily.

  She came over and put a hand on his back. He was hunched over, hands on his thighs. She’d just saved his life, and this was not exactly how she’d expected him to react. Or at all how she’d expected him to react. Orholam, had she been thinking of kissing him?