by Brent Weeks
Must be nice.
Kip had that kind of friendship, with the squad. But it was already slipping away. Whatever he did, they were passing inexorably from his life.
The one good thing I have is fading already.
“Let’s do it,” Kip said. He looked at her, looked down at his shoes, looked back up at her. “Uh, how do we do it?”
“It’s too late in the day now. It’ll have to be done at dawn. We’ll meet a luxiat I know at the little temple across from the Crossroads. You know it?”
“I know the Crossroads. It was the old Tyrean embassy. It’ll be enough to find the temple. Wouldn’t it make more sense to go now, and have the ship captain marry us?”
“Yes, but no,” she said. “I need the marriage on the books, official, here, with witnesses, by a luxiat in good standing, otherwise your grandfather might have it annulled.”
“Smart,” Kip said. And it was. Maybe she was smarter than he’d thought.
What a terrible thing to think about your future wife.
She brightened. “Thank you.”
“It—”
“No, really. Thank you. To have my intelligence praised by a Guile? That’s not something we mere mortals often get. I mean, I saw you standing there, thinking, when I asked you that question. You were probably seven forks down a winding road in your mind, weren’t you?”
“Uh. Yes?” Kip asked. He wasn’t sure why it came out as a question. Probably because he was receiving the admiration of a woman. Not used to that. Wow, she was pretty.
Tisis said, “I’ve spent weeks thinking about all this—and trying not to think about it—and I tell you, and you figure it out in minutes. It’d be vexing if it weren’t so impressive. And not only impressive. It’s almost as attractive as these are.” She stepped forward and reached out to lay gentle hands on each of his shoulders. “Can I say that? Or do you think me too forward?”
He knew his shoulders were wide—that was just a function of his bone structure, right? He came from a line of broad-shouldered men. But he hadn’t really thought of them as ‘broad’ in the way that people say ‘a broad-shouldered man’ and mean it as a compliment. Kip was just big. Right? But to have her hands on his shoulders, he couldn’t not be aware of the muscles there, and that she thought he did have broad shoulders in the way that people referred to broad-shouldered men and meant it as a compliment. He felt like his brain was smoking, he was thinking so fast. Wait, she thought his shoulders were attractive?
He hadn’t thought of his shoulders more than three times in his life, maybe. And those had been when he was trying to share a bench in chapel and there wasn’t room to sit next to the other wide-shouldered Blackguard initiates. She thought his shoulders were attractive?
She was standing right in front of him. This close. His mind wasn’t working—shoulders? shoulders?!—and wow, her lips were close, and full, and her eyes were wide and emerald green on green and terrifically distracting, and her eyelashes were long, and her cheeks were pink, but maybe they were always pink, or maybe it was cosmetics? And why couldn’t he, with his Guile memory, remember if they had been pink before this moment? and Orholam have mercy, blood was flooding his cheeks, and, and, and, he was supposed to do something, wasn’t he? Yes. Yes, he was.
He was supposed to kiss her. Oh shit.
He was supposed to kiss her, right now, before the moment passed. But what if she didn’t want him to kiss her? What if he was misinterpreting the signals? He’d never been signaled before. He could well think she wanted him to kiss her, but maybe she’s signaling something completely different. Orholam have mercy, if she did want him to, and he missed the signal, she’d think he was a complete idiot. He was young, younger than her, and she’d think of him as a child again, and then he’d be set back in her regard forever. Maybe she’d cancel the wedding.
Wait, she’d asked him a question, hadn’t she? But what—how was he forgetting everything?!
His ears were hot, and his shoulders were taut as drums beneath her hands. She removed a hand from one shoulder, and he nearly leapt, nervous tension thrumming through him. Embarrassed, he looked down at his feet, unable to bear the eye contact. He’d totally botched it.
Shit shit shit!
And looking down, he saw not his feet, but straight down the front of her dress. Orholam’s—breasts. He froze. Now there was a sacrilegious thought. Not that he’d ever worried too much about sacrilege when he said ‘Orholam’s balls,’ and surely Orholam made balls and breasts both, right? And then, he was aware he’d frozen, looking at her breasts—no, no, not looking. Looking implied that you just looked. This had gone on and on, this was a stare, at least. He’d have a gray beard by the time he tore his eyes away. Maybe that made it a leer. But a leer kind of implies some intent. It makes it seem creepy, and he wasn’t being—it was—
Orholam’s breasts. It had been too long. She couldn’t fail to notice. He looked up at her, wincing.
“Anything I say is only going to make this worse, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Shhh,” she said, smiling sympathetically. “Relax.” She picked up one of his hands, which had been held ramrod straight at his side, and pulled it up to her waist. “I happen to think it’s adorable.”
Adorable. ‘Adorable’ is what you called puppies and poppets. There’s no way to say ‘adorable’ without pitching your voice up, as if speaking to an infant, Oh, that’s adorable. And then you pinch a cheek.
She took his other hand and placed it on the back of her own neck. She sidled in close, pressing her body against his.
I’ve just been emasculated. By my own stupidity and social ineptitude. Adorable. Dammit, Kip, there was your chance and you—what is she—?
And then she pulled his head down and kissed him gently on the lips.
Kip … lost a few moments in the sweet smell of her breath—who has sweet-smelling breath? Isn’t breath, at best, a neutral o— And the sweet soft moistness of her lips, and the sweet soft pressure of her body molding itself to his.
Oh. Oh my.
She released him, and, nerveless, he let her slip away.
“Kip, I know we barely know each other, but I find your quirky mix of innocence and strength … intoxicating.”
Kip swallowed. “Guess it’s a good thing I’m already blushing from, uh, the other thing.”
“And why’s that a good thing?”
Because otherwise my blood would be getting confused which end of me to rush to. “So I don’t have to go to the effort of blushing anew,” he said.
She laughed, and he stole a glance at her cleavage. And then felt weird. Now that they were basically betrothed—they were betrothed now, weren’t they?—was he supposed to stare at her boldly? Or was it leering?
Orholam, I don’t know anything!
He glanced at the door.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Honestly?” he asked.
“Honestly.”
“I was kind of hoping bad people would break down the door, and I’d have to fight them. I actually know how to deal with that kind of thing.”
“The virgin thing, huh?” she said.
He groaned. “Er, kind of hoped I’d buried that in all the words after it.”
She pursed her lips, eyes twinkling. “There might have been another hint or two.”
Kip covered his face with his hands. “Orholam take me now. I’m ridiculous.”
“I told you already: you’re adorable.”
“A woman doesn’t want to take a man to bed because he’s adorable.” It just came out.
“This one does.” Just as fast.
And suddenly Kip’s mouth was very dry.
“We’re going to take care of your little problem,” she said.
“My … huh?” It was like she was speaking another language. What’s she mean? His inadequacy? Awkwardness? Embarrassment? Total hopelessness?
“Your virginity.”
“Oh!” Orholam, did she have to say it
out loud? What if someone was passing in the hall? Surely the word ‘virgin’ must draw ears more than any expletive. “Yes, yes, of course,” Kip said. “I mean, yes! I would really like that.” He hitched his backpack up on his shoulder. “Believe me, I’m looking forward to nothing more.”
“Now.” She locked the door, glanced at his bed, smiled. And though her words were bold, there was something shy about that smile, and certainly about the flushed cheeks that accompanied it. Pinker than before. Definitely pinker.
But Kip the Lip had absolutely nothing to say.
“After all,” she said, “boat’s not going to leave without me, right? Now get naked.”
The sound that came out of Kip’s mouth was not a squeak. Dammit.
Kip looked at the door again, longingly. Naked? Here? In full light? He wasn’t as fat as he used to be, he knew that … but he’d seen Tisis naked. Amazing how keen the memory can be for such things. She was gorgeous, and he was … he was the fucking turtle-bear.
Maybe ‘fucking’ is an inapt modifier.
And that made him think of a turtle-bear, copulating.
Ah!
I can’t stop thinking. I’m with a beautiful woman who wants to make love, and I’m standing here like a complete non-copulating turtle-bear, thinking.
Maybe if she kissed him again his head would go all gooey and thought would cease in the pink happy cloud of being wrapped up in her, but, ‘Get naked’?
“Wait, wait,” she said. “You’re right. I can tell you’re thinking it through, and you don’t want to reject me, but just in case something goes wrong before we get on the ship tomorrow. We shouldn’t. My sister would kill me, anyway. Not that she’s been chaste—the hypocrite.” She threw the insult out like only someone who’s very close to their sister could. A recognition, but not a condemnation. “But she’s always meant to sell me dear, she says, ‘You don’t hand over the goods until they hand over the gold,’ and I’m sure she’ll ask, even if everything turns out perfectly. And she can always tell when I’m lying. I can wait one more day. You can wait, right? I didn’t mean to tease.”
“Huh? Huh?” Kip said. I’m right?
“Blame me. I’m capricious. Sorry. Tomorrow. Either we’ll rent a room at the Crossroads, or we’ll just have to make do with the captain’s cabin on our ship. In some ways, a big room is a waste, anyway, don’t you think? I know I’m not going to want to leave bed for a long while.”
“I, I,” Kip stuttered. Huh? What? The blood wasn’t going back to all the right places fast enough.
“Don’t worry, I’ll make this up to you, I promise,” she said, and she put her hand on the front of his trousers.
When the great thunderstorms of spring passed over the Jaspers, lightning often struck the top of the seven towers of the Chromeria. This was that. A thousand times that.
“Oh,” she said, “definitely interested.”
The thing that made it ridiculously charming was that she was blushing furiously as she did it, like she was being terribly naughty and couldn’t believe her own brazenness. But she also hadn’t taken her hand off.
“Kip, I know we didn’t get the best start, and that’s my fault, but—”
There was a knock on his door.
Tisis snatched her hand back guiltily, but quickly recovered. She cocked an eyebrow at him. “Now, see what I saved us? That could have been awkward,” she whispered.
Kip was still speechless, still blinking bleary-eyed as if he’d been dunked in a big sudsy tub of I-can’t-believe-this-actually-happening and some soap of I-am-actually-going-to-have-sex was still in his eyes.
But some wiser part of him was detached. We’re children, both of us, playing at being adults, putting on shoes that are too big for us, and being surprised when we stumble.
Tisis whispered again, and this time she was simply herself, earnest and a little scared. “Kip, whoever it is, don’t let them know I’m here.” She moved into the lee of the door.
Kip’s mouth worked silently, but he had nothing to say. He went to the door and opened it a bit, not so little as to cause suspicion, but not inviting anyone to step right in, either.
“Oh, Kip! Thank Orholam you’re here!” Teia said.
Chapter 88
It wasn’t yet dawn of Sun Day when Karris and Commander Ironfist and their squad rowed into sight of Big Jasper. Exhausted from skimming all the way to Rath, and then fighting, they hadn’t been able to get all the way back before they ran out of daylight, even on the eve of the longest day of the year. It was only because of Ben-hadad, young genius, that they’d been able to navigate the rest of the way home with the stars.
He’d drafted a perfectly working mariner’s astrolabe from memory, calculated their latitude, estimated their rowing speed, remembered the latitude of Big Jasper, told them they could make it by dawn if they rowed all night, and kept them on course.
Mostly. Karris had thought that the enormous spires of the Chromeria would be impossible to miss, but late in the night, a low mist kicked up, and though they could still take their bearing by the stars still visible overhead, they found themselves west of Big Jasper, having overshot Little Jasper entirely.
“It’s just as well,” Ironfist said quietly. He and Karris had this last shift on the oars. The others were still asleep. It was almost time to wake them, though. “There will be Lightguards at the Chromeria’s dock. I’m not handing Gavin over to them.”
“He needs chirurgeons before anything. West dock isn’t far from Amalu and Adini’s.” They were the best chirurgeons on the Jaspers, maybe in all the satrapies. They’d made a fortune treating nobles and Colors for two decades, but then had freed their slaves and taken a religious oath to treat the poor of Big Jasper.
“Karris,” Ironfist said after a few more long sweeps, “it’s Sun Day. If we don’t bring Gavin to the Spectrum today … They’re not going to stop naming a new Prism on our word alone.”
“You saw his eyes,” Karris said. Eye. She felt dead inside.
A pause. “Blue.”
“Then you know. Hope is dead. We’ve lost.”
Gavin knew it, too. When night had fallen and they could draft no longer, he had insisted that he help row. It was one thing he was good at, he’d said. But soon he’d passed out, overcome by his wounds and long privation.
Karris looked at him now, still asleep on the deck, his gouged-out eye bandaged as well as they could. She had wanted to see her husband and simply rejoice that he was alive, that he was hers once again. But the first thing she noticed—and it had overwhelmed her love and her relief and her hope—wasn’t the dirt or the bloody grin or the ruined hand or the burnt-out eye or the black hair dye or the long beard or his indomitable spirit; it was his good eye, his blue eye, his icy-bright intelligent natural blue eye.
They’d come to rescue a Prism. Instead they’d rescued a man.
They’d done the impossible, five of them rescuing a man from fifty thousand, and it was for nothing.
“This isn’t how Prisms die,” Ironfist said, keeping his voice barely above a whisper. “When I was named commander of the Blackguard, they told me what to look out for. Nothing about Gavin Guile has been normal.”
“What is?” Karris asked.
“I’m not supposed to say. Last thing we need is every Blackguard playing chirurgeon, wondering if she should obey her Prism, or if he’s going mad.” He looked away and said, “It’s not the first sign, but eventually, they get color in their irises, and eventually, they break the halo. Just like the rest of us.”
“But…” Karris said. Obviously, that wasn’t what was happening here, not at all.
“That’s not all. There’s a ceremony, every seven years. I don’t know what happens, but the first time I had the distinct feeling that Gavin hadn’t made enough friends, and he wasn’t going to be Prism afterward. But an odd thing happened: they never had the ceremony, and Gavin kept being Prism. After that, everything changed. If you weren’t paying attention, you wouldn�
��t have seen it, but the composition of the Spectrum changed drastically. Marid Black killed himself, but he’d long struggled with melancholy, and we found a note. The Blue left immediately after Sun Day and was killed in a shipwreck, possibly while fleeing pirates. The Green retired and since has died. The Yellow was called home to Abornea and died months later after being thrown from a horse. The Sub-red withdrew to his estate on Big Jasper and didn’t leave until his death two years later, supposedly of drink and lotus eating. Delara Orange’s mother somehow emerged from what had been called ruinous debts; she’d been gone for much of the previous few years, missing meetings while she tried to beg, borrow, or steal money to keep her house together, but was suddenly present for every meeting. Only the Superviolet and Red seemed unchanged. It was spread out over so much time, and the news of some of these didn’t come for six or eight months later, that everyone was already engaged in maneuvering over who would take those seats. And Gavin and the White and the Red and the High Luxiats and the satraps and everyone else who was anyone jumped into those fights. No one party emerged as a total victor. I’m certain of that. I’ve kept tally of the close votes, especially the close votes Andross has won. He didn’t buy or suborn all the new Colors. It’s been nine and ten years or more now. It would have been clear by now if he had them all under his thumb. Which is probably the other reason everyone wrote off the changes as coincidence. Who would overturn a Color if they didn’t have a plan to put in a friendlier face?
“But I watched again, three years ago now, at the fourteen-year mark. No one was nervous. No one moved their families around, arranged visits, or wills, or escapes. There were no contenders to be the next Prism. And the day passed in peace. I don’t know what happened. I’ve searched the libraries and every history I can find, but there are no mentions of how a Prism is named. None. Not even speculation. Which tells me the lack is deliberate. This is not the work of one man expunging some records, like I thought at first. It must be the work of generations of men doing that. Think even of the oral histories, which can’t be stopped: even they speak only of parties and gathering of the Spectrum and satraps and luxiats, with a whiff of the usual politicking, and at the end, always, always, total unity and agreement, with ‘Orholam having spoken.’ I know these men, and Orholam could show up in a pillar of fire in the middle of the room and turn half the councilors into goats, and the other half would still not be in total agreement and unity afterward. And I can tell when Gavin is ready for a challenge or a fight or even a game. He doesn’t contain his excitement. He doesn’t even try.