by Brent Weeks
Atirat sounded drunk, but regardless, Kip couldn’t move. His muscles flexed and tightened at his command, but his bones themselves were locked in place. He’d almost made it. He’d almost saved them all. Kip Almost.
Gavin said something, but Kip couldn’t hear it. He saw Atirat tense, warned by some sixth sense. He turned, and Kip saw the blast of smoke from the cannon from the fort on Ruic Head.
One thousand one.
Atirat rolled his shoulders. Laughed. “Friends of yours?” he asked. “Don’t they know cannonballs are more likely to kill you than me? I should almost let it land, just to see.” He raised his hands, aiming, as if he could track a ball through the air itself.
One thousand five.
“Almost,” he said. Something shot out of Atirat’s hands and intercepted the ball in midair, not twenty paces above them.
He hadn’t expected a shell.
The shell exploded with a thunderous roar and concussion that shook the tower. The green bubble covering the tower shattered. The giants were thrown off their feet. Kip was bowled over.
Kip scrambled as he landed on his face, reaching for the dagger. Everyone else reacted instantly. Kip heard the snap of Karris’s pistol going off, saw Gavin throw yellow spikes into each of the giants and straight at Atirat. Flames billowed off Gavin’s hands—
—and were quenched.
Even as his giants died, Atirat batted aside the attacks directed at him as if they were smoke. Hands left, right. Gavin was locked down, the bubble reformed, snapping in place. Gavin overwhelmed, buried in green sludge, Karris falling, Baya Niel fallen.
Kip could feel the steel in his joints re-forming. He leapt toward Atirat’s back, extending the dagger, and felt his bones lock in place in midair.
Fat kids know all about momentum.
Kip’s dagger punched straight into the back of Atirat’s head.
The luxin freezing Kip’s bones blew apart like mist. He tackled Atirat, landed on top of him. He twisted the dagger in the god’s head, hearing bones crunch and squish.
Still on his knees, Kip looked at the dagger in his hand. The green and blue jewels on the blade were glowing hot, bright for one instant. Kip heard bodies falling: the giants, robbed of form and life.
Karris laughed and Kip realized how suddenly quiet it had grown up here. He tucked the dagger away, stood.
“Orholam’s beard, Kip,” Gavin said. “Well done.” At their feet lay a man—or some hideous thing that had been a man. Without the green luxin that he had woven into every part of his body, Dervani Malargos was a skinless, hairless tangle of meat, brains, and blood oozing out of his destroyed skull.
The tower shook and sank five paces suddenly, almost throwing them all into the sea.
“Does that mean that the entire island is about to collapse?” Karris asked.
“Afraid so,” Gavin said.
“I would think that’s really great,” Karris said. “If I weren’t about to fall to my death.”
Gavin laughed. “I can help with that. Get over here.”
And the lovely, lovely sound of Gavin drafting filled Kip’s ears.
“We did it!” Hizek shouted. “We saved them! I told you I could make that shot!”
The Blackguards were cheering, watching the great tower slump into the sea with no fear. Gavin Guile had stopped a god; they had no doubt he would be able to escape a mere collapsing tower.
But Teia couldn’t take her eyes off Commander Ironfist, who stood stock still. And then he dropped to his knees like a ton of bricks.
Teia had never seen a man quite as big and frightening as Commander Ironfist. She’d certainly never seen a man his size weep.
“Elrahee, elishama, eliada, eliphalet,” he said, over and over, clearly some Parian prayer. He fell on his knees and, seeing Teia’s bewildered look, said, “He sees me. He hears. He hears even me.”
Then, heedless of what his people would think, the huge Parian lay prostrate, weeping, weeping.
Chapter 111
Andross Guile’s flagship had survived the naval battle. Of course, he hadn’t brought it in close enough to risk losing it. His ship did assist in the rescue efforts after the green island broke apart and sank into the sea. It had been another ship that had first come across the Prism, Karris, Kip, and Baya Niel, but they’d been transferred over after the remnants of the fleet had picked up whatever survivors they could find.
It had been a race between the Chromeria’s ships and the circling pirates, who were searching the wreckage for loot, or picking up men to press-gang or sell as slaves.
Now, after dark, Gavin and Kip sat on the forecastle of the big ship, huddled around a brazier. Kip’s clothes still weren’t dried out. He knew how to dry them with sub-red now, but after how much he’d drafted today, he didn’t even want to see luxin, much less draft it. He was going to be lightsick tomorrow, he had no doubt. Gavin had been given new clothes and bandages for all his cuts immediately, of course. But then, that’s what being the Prism gets you.
They sat on the deck for a long time in companionable silence. Gavin dismissed his exhausted Blackguards. The men who were guarding him now had helped take the fort on Ruic Head and after fighting for hours had then assisted the rescue efforts all day; they deserved the rest. From time to time, men would come up to the Prism and congratulate him. Some even congratulated Kip. Kip Godslayer, one called him. Kip didn’t appreciate it. He was Godslayer only in the most technical sense. He’d delivered the final blow only because he’d been the least threat, only because he’d been beneath notice.
Gavin simply said, “You do what you have to do, Kip. Let people call you what they will. You can’t change it. People want heroes, and if every once in a while that title sticks to you, just make sure you don’t believe in it too much yourself.” He shook his head, as if the words weren’t coming out right. “You were brave today, Kip. You lived up to the highest ideals of the Blackguard, and I’m proud of you.” He handed Kip the mulled wine.
Kip grimaced, taking it. It hadn’t been him. It had been the knife. He still hadn’t told his father about the knife. He needed to. He’d been trying to work up to it all afternoon.
Karris came up to their brazier. She sat beside Gavin and put her hand on his thigh. She smiled over at Kip. “Hey there, Godslayer,” she said. She was teasing, but she meant it in a good way. Somehow, when she said it, it seemed nice. Kip mumbled evasions below his breath.
“I really need to teach you to knife fight, though,” she said. “Sloppy technique, sloppy.” Again, kidding. But Kip grinned. It was the kind of ribbing that told him she wanted to spend more time with him in the future. It was about the nicest thing he could ask for.
“I’m exhausted,” she said to Gavin. “I’m going to go below. You going to be an hour or so?”
“Andross asked to speak with me, and the generals always have business. We have to see if we can keep these bane from recurring,” Gavin said glumly. “At least an hour.”
“I’m proud of you,” she said. “For this.”
Gavin seemed to know what she was talking about, but Kip didn’t. For sitting at a brazier with Kip?
“Someone told me something about love once,” Gavin said. “Still sounds silly to me, but I’m giving it a shot.” He was teasing.
Karris’s smile lit the deck. “I love you,” she said, her voice warmer and softer than Kip had ever heard it. She had it bad.
“Is there an action wedded to that choice?” Gavin asked.
“I’m going to go below and sleep for a while,” she said. “But, uh, wake me.” She didn’t try very hard to hide her wink, and Kip blushed.
“Mmm,” Gavin said appreciatively as she got up and left. He watched her go. “Kip,” he said. “If you ever find a woman like that… don’t be an idiot like your father.”
“Yes, sir.” Kip grinned. “So… what happens now?”
“You mean with the satrapies?”
Kip nodded.
“We’ve lost
two satrapies. Tyrea didn’t matter to the other satrapies, but Atash?” He shook his head. “I’m afraid we were so eager to avoid war, we’ve made it all but certain.”
He said “we.” Even though Kip knew his father had fought for all he was worth to get the Chromeria to move before it was too late, he still shared responsibility for the failure. His father, he decided again, was a great man.
Kip hadn’t had much time to think today, but he’d had enough. The dagger was important, as in Important. It had sucked the luxin right out of that giant. Kip should have told his father about the knife immediately. But volunteering to have his father mad at him seemed impossible.
Every time, just when things are going well, you open your big mouth, Kip.
But at least usually it was an accident. This time he had to do it on purpose.
He was within a breath—or maybe a minute or two—of speaking when a greasy voice said, “Sirs?” Grinwoody. “Luxlord Guile awaits your pleasure. He heard you were topside and climbed up, with considerable effort to his person.”
“Then where is he?” Kip asked. Oops. Kip the Lip. Maybe it was all this Kip the Godslayer talk. Or maybe it was the mulled wine warming him.
“On the stern castle, sirs. He only demanded the Lord Prism’s presence, however.”
“You can come if you want to, Kip. But it won’t be pleasant,” Gavin said. “Father and I have some hard words to exchange.”
Grinwoody’s mouth thinned to a tight line, but he said nothing.
“I’d rather stay with you, sir,” Kip said.
Gavin and Kip climbed down, Kip having to take extra care on the steps. Apparently he’d had more wine than he’d thought. They crossed the ship’s waist and climbed up the steps to the stern castle.
Something about the scene tickled Kip’s memory. Andross Guile was turned away from them. There were only dim slivers of light from the moon, penetrating the scattered clouds. Andross was wearing a cowl and dark-lensed spectacles. It hit Kip like a millstone. He’d seen something like this in the Nine Kings card Janus Borig had given him. The figure who’d been writing had been wearing that cowl.
“I see you managed to botch our entire operation and get our fleet wiped out,” Andross Guile said. “But I am so happy you’ve come back safe. With your bastard no less. And I hear we’ve a wedding to celebrate. To a woman I forbade you to marry.”
It’s treason, but only if I’m caught, he’d thought, his mind a whirl of passions. The “-os” he’d been writing to could only be Koios White Oak, the Color Prince, addressed by his first name. As one would address a friend. Conspiring about Dagnu. The Red, conspiring about being made the red god. Andross Guile had made common cause with their enemy. And there was more.
“You’re a red wight,” Kip said quietly, almost to himself.
“Gavin,” Andross said, either not noticing or not caring to notice what Kip had said. “You’ve disobeyed me for the last time. I’ve started the process to strip you of your office. You should know I have the votes. You’ve bullied the Spectrum for the last time.”
“You’re a red wight,” Kip said again.
“Kip,” Gavin said. “I think you’ve had too much wine. Why don’t you—”
“You traitor!” Kip shouted at Andross. “You monster!”
“Grinwoody, get the young drunkard out of here,” Andross said. “Now!”
He was a red wight. How couldn’t everyone see it? So maybe reds usually went insane in more conspicuous ways, but how could it have gotten past them? Did they just not dare to ask? Were they all too afraid, hoping someone else would take the risk first? Surely there should be ways to deal with old drafters who hid themselves away.
But the rules didn’t apply to Andross Guile. The rules never had. He was the man whose mansion that he never even visited was taller than mansions were allowed to be. He was the man who’d raised two sons who had become Prisms, who’d held on to a seat on the Spectrum without even bothering to go to the meetings. But he was no man; he was a monster.
Grinwoody seized Kip by the front of his tunic and hauled him away. Kip didn’t know what came over him. He broke Grinwoody’s hold, just as he’d learned in his training, and stabbed his fingers for the man’s eyes. Grinwoody brought his hands up, palms forward. Kip snagged two of the man’s fingers with each hand and yanked down in a fingerlock.
The wiry old man dropped to his knees, surprised, and Kip kicked him in the chest, sending him flying, tumbling down the steep stairs to the ship’s waist.
Kip charged Andross Guile to tear off his hood and spectacles, to show Gavin what Kip was certain of. He was almost on top of the old man when he saw the knife Andross drew.
It was too late to stop. The old man jabbed the small blade straight at Kip’s stomach. Kip swept it aside and crunched into the old man and into Gavin, who’d stepped in to intervene.
Kip tore the old man’s hood back and felt the knife cut along his ribs. Andross Guile was spitting fury, deep in the grip of red, attacking as fast as he could, determined to kill. He grabbed Kip’s tunic with one hand.
It was a tangle of limbs. Gavin was trying to knock Andross Guile’s attacks aside so he didn’t skewer Kip. Kip landed a punch on Andross’s face, then couldn’t reach him as Gavin wedged his shoulder in front of Kip’s right arm. Another stab got through, piercing Kip’s left arm.
Andross Guile’s spectacles, knocked askew by Kip’s punch, now fell off as the fury raged through him. He attacked like a madman. Gavin drove him back until all three hit the railing.
A whistle was screeching, sailors were screaming, the muffled percussion of Blackguards’ boots coming up steps from the cabins belowdecks. They’d never make it in time. Kip only saw Andross Guile’s eyes—the halos broken, red throughout. A red wight.
Kip didn’t even remember drawing his own knife. Didn’t know how it had gotten into his hand. Letting Gavin get between himself and Andross Guile, he swung his right hand out behind and around his father and stabbed the old bastard. He caught him in the meat of the shoulder.
The old man’s eyes lit up. He screamed.
Something cracked across the back of Kip’s head and the weight of another body joining the fray crushed them all against the railing. When Kip turned, he saw it was Grinwoody. Grinwoody, old but Blackguard trained. Two bare knives were in the middle of the circle between eight grasping hands. The tangle of limbs became a momentary deadlock.
Kip’s knife was the longer by far, and while he was trying to keep Andross from stabbing him with the smaller knife, both Grinwoody and Gavin looked to the longer blade at the same time. It was in a bad position. Kip was straining it toward Andross, but if someone pushed it up and twisted instead—Kip had no leverage to stop from impaling himself.
In a split second, Gavin’s eyes flicked up to Kip’s. Kip saw that his father had the same thought—but then the desperation in Gavin’s eyes was replaced by an odd calm. A decision reached. A choice made. Peace.
A flurry of motion as both Grinwoody and Gavin released their holds at the same time. Grinwoody’s hands got there first, and Kip’s knife shot up, straight at his chest—only to be diverted at the last second by Gavin’s pull. Pulling the knife into his own chest.
Everyone stopped fighting, but not all simultaneously. Kip staggered backward, horrified. His release of the dagger meant Andross Guile’s force was unopposed. The dagger slammed all the way to the hilt in his son’s chest.
Gavin’s mouth opened in a silent scream and even Andross drew back, aghast. Gavin sagged against the railing. Then his eyes widened, and widened again, as if something new was hurting him. And so it was. The dagger was growing.
Andross Guile didn’t see it. He was pulling his cowl back over his face and picking up his spectacles. When he turned and saw a full-length sword through his son, he merely said, “The Blinder’s Knife. Excellent. Grinwoody, retrieve it.” Whatever momentary humanity had afflicted him, it was gone now.
Gavin’s face was a study o
f pain and betrayal. He was dying, and his own father was only worried about a knife.
Kip was rooted in place. His father had saved him, had sacrificed himself—for Kip. It was so fast, he didn’t know whether to attack Andross again or go to his father. It wouldn’t make any difference now, anyway.
Gavin pushed himself up on the railing that had been supporting him, tried to speak, but couldn’t. He glanced at Kip as if in apology, in farewell, then pushed himself over the edge.
He splashed into the water in the darkness and was lost. The ship was still under sail, a firm breeze helping them speed along steadily. The first young Blackguards reached the stern castle, spread out, bewildered, the sailors shouting, Grinwoody shouting and pointing in the wrong direction, distracting, causing chaos, the whistle from the crow’s nest still shrilling.
Kip didn’t think, didn’t hesitate. He dove into the water.
Chapter 112
The water was cool and the light of the moon and stars did nothing to penetrate its depths. Under the surface, Kip could see nothing. He relaxed his eyes and looked for heat.
There!
Kip swam. He wasn’t an accomplished swimmer, but though his target was facedown and unmoving, Gavin wasn’t sinking yet.
That changed before Kip reached his father’s body. Gavin slipped beneath the waves and Kip took one deep breath and managed to snag his tunic before he got too deep. Kip pulled him to the surface, nearly skewering himself on the sword still protruding from his father’s back. He flailed in the water, but the truth was, he was barely a good enough swimmer to float by himself, even with all his blubber. Swimming for two was damn near impossible.
He wasn’t even able to cry out for help. The flagship gave no immediate signs of turning either. Kip was a good hundred and fifty paces away before the bell started ringing.
Andross Guile didn’t want to find him. He’d delayed the Blackguards as long as he could. The bastard.
