The Burning White: Book Five of Lightbringer

by Brent Weeks

  She wished she could lie abed with Gavin one last time, holding each other and speaking softly, or making love, either would be her choice of how she would spend this evening that would end in a night of blood, a failure that would echo into history. But the world is a broken place. As far as second bests went, a massage from Rhoda was better than most got.

  A knock intruded on the pleasure of Rhoda scraping the warm oil from Karris’s limbs with a strigil. “Lord Kip Guile, at your pleasure, High Lady,” the Blackguard Stump said.

  Rhoda packed hot towels all around Karris’s limbs and torso. It was a natural break in the massage, as the heat worked in to Karris’s body. Karris sighed, and dismissed Rhoda. “Send him in,” she said.

  Kip walked in. He’d obviously never been here, because he seemed surprised to see the massage table, and more surprised to see Karris on it, undressed—though she was covered.

  Then there was a tiny expression of anger. If she hadn’t been looking for it, Karris would have missed it. It said, ‘You’re getting a massage, now? What a bitch.’

  Good. Karris wanted him angry. Time and distance and high office tends to put blocks up between you and other people. She didn’t have time for horseshit. And she deserved his rage.

  “I treated you terribly before you left,” she said.

  It was as if she’d written out the painful memory on a parchment, rolled it up, and swatted him across the nose with it like an unsuspecting dog. But he covered it quickly.

  “Ah, you mean when my little joke failed so spectacularly?” Kip said. “My apologies again. I didn’t understand the gravity of that subject, and dealt with my awkwardness . . . well, awkwardly.”

  She didn’t cut him off. “Kip, when a person in his midteens acts immaturely, that’s entirely forgivable and even appropriate. When a person in her fourth decade does, it’s neither.

  “Kip, a long time ago, I abandoned my son, and the guilt of that has never left me. So when you showed up and were so . . . you . . . I felt Orea Pullawr had manipulated me; that she thought the loss of one son could be made up by substituting another—as if I’d misplaced a pair of boots and she bought me a better pair. I was angry at myself and at others I’d trusted and at the world. I wasn’t angry at you. Actually, it was the opposite. I was angry because Orea’s plan was working so well, and I couldn’t imagine how unnatural I must be to allow a child who was not my own to fill the ache I had for the one I gave up.”

  Kip said nothing, but she saw she had his total attention.

  “I’ve realized a few things since then. First, that last part was horseshit. A parent’s love isn’t a barrel of water to be rationed among those dying of thirst, where more for one means less for another. A parent’s love is a new channel cut through the self to the divine essence, a river that cannot be exhausted or even fathomed, only experienced. You know how Garriston used to have irrigation canals everywhere?”

  “I saw where they used to be,” Kip said. “All filled with sand and scrub now.”

  “That wasteland was what my life was when I first got to know you, Kip. Opening a new irrigation canal threatened what was working for me. Not working well, granted. But I knew the rules there. I’d adjusted to desert life. I treated you terribly because I was scared. If you’d been here since then, I could have apologized sooner, and . . . well, that’s past now. The second revelation was . . . I don’t like your brother.”

  “Half brother,” Kip interjected.

  She turned her head so she was facing away from him. She said, “And he doesn’t even seem like that much. He has few of your talents and fewer still of your virtues. I don’t even know if I can love him even in the abstract, and I’ve been trying.” Her throat closed off. She swallowed, but she couldn’t go on.

  “And yet you summoned me, not him,” Kip said flatly. “I heard about Ironfist’s ultimatum. Everyone has. He wants a dead Guile. And here I am. I can’t believe he’s really doing this.”

  “He’s not taking visitors. The Tafok Amagez wouldn’t even knock on his door.”

  “Thanks for trying. I guess,” Kip said.

  “Ironfist said he wouldn’t consider Zymun, Kip.”

  “He did?” Kip asked. “Oh. The rumor left that part out. Well. That’s too bad.”

  Karris snorted. That was putting it mildly. “Andross’s first choice, naturally, was to eliminate the threat at its source. Kill Ironfist, or detain him and forge orders—something. But before we could make plans, we were told that if Ironfist is harmed or doesn’t give the order in person, his men will sail away immediately. His ships have orders to fire on anyone who tries to approach. Ironfist knows how convincing Andross can be, so he’s simply not letting there be communication at all.”

  “And what about my people?” Kip asked.

  “They’re already here. Which, ordinarily, would mean their fate is tied to ours. But with your skimmers, we know they could leave. But they won’t. You won’t allow it.”

  “Even if I’m dead?” Kip demanded.

  “Goodness sometimes makes one predictable.”

  “Thank you? I guess?” Kip said. “Funny how quickly things change, huh?”

  “How so?”

  “This morning, Andross wanted me to wager my marriage to save the Jaspers. I thought I was deciding everything with that game. I even thought I won. And now it’s not my happiness you’ll take, it’s my life, and my game didn’t matter at all. Even Andross Guile’s best-laid plans go awry. In different circumstances, it’d be almost enough to make one hopeful, you know? That he didn’t foresee everything. If a peon like Ironfist might disrupt his schemes, maybe I could, too. Not that this is the disruption I would have chosen.”

  She lay there, silent, facing away, hardly able to breathe. She didn’t want him to see her weep.

  “Hard to believe Ironfist turned into such an asshole. It just doesn’t seem like him.”

  “We assassinated his sister,” Karris said. The time for lies and hiding was finished. “Although I never heard a good word about her, he loved her. He always thought the stories that trickled out about her were planted by her enemies. She was his blind spot. After his brother died helping you escape, she was all he had left. We ruined him, Kip. I took away the last thing holding him up.”

  She couldn’t see Kip’s reaction, but this was the grandson of Andross Guile, the son of Gavin. “Ah,” Kip said, “I get it: our family took everything from him. Andross cost him his life’s work as commander. I cost him Tremblefist. You cost him Haruru. I guess I can understand that rage. Everyone’s got a limit.”

  They waited in silence. Karris’s towels had gotten cold, and her stomach felt tight and uncomfortable. Rhoda would be poking her head in at any moment, if she hadn’t already done so discreetly.

  Kip cleared his throat.

  “Fine,” Kip said. “My people will fight under High General Danavis’s command, as you asked. I would like time to write one last letter to my people expressing my wishes. And one to my wife. Naturally, I’m sure you’ll read both before you pass them along. You’ll likely . . .” He cleared his throat, having difficulty. Karis was still facing away. Tears poured down her face. She held her body tight so the sobs wouldn’t betray her. “You’ll likely need to imprison Tisis until all this is over, or she’ll do something everyone regrets. I’ll make two copies of the letter—she may burn the first.” He laughed, but it was a short, forced sound closer to a cough. “Passionate woman. You would’ve liked her.”

  “High Lady?” Rhoda’s voice came in as she did. The physicker began pulling away the towels, heedless of Kip’s presence.

  “When is the execution?” Kip asked.

  “Within the hour,” Karris said. She winced as Rhoda put icy-cold hands on each side of her neck. “We need to make sure that High General Danavis has time to integrate and deploy the forces. Even waiting this long is cutting it close.”

  “Not enough time to take care of everything,” Kip grumbled under his breath.


  “Who among us gets that?” Karris asked. Her stomach twisted.

  She heard him take one step toward the door. Then he stopped.

  “Fuuuck,” Kip said suddenly under his breath. “You’re not getting a massage. You’re being anointed for burial. You didn’t choose me. You chose you.”

  She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. She hadn’t been able to muster the resolve to tell him yet, and even now her will failed her. She rolled over and sat up. Rhoda covered her, expertly using first her own bulk and then a robe to maintain her patient’s dignity—such as it was.

  “You?!” Kip demanded. “But you’re needed!”

  Needed?! What did he know about unmet needs? The very word pushed her enough that she could finally speak. “Kip. Do you want to know one of the deepest horrors of life? None of us is needed, not truly. It’s just nicer for those who love us if we’re there.”

  “I won’t accept that. That’s horseshit!” Kip said. “I won’t let you die for—”

  “For you?”

  “For Andross! For Ironfist’s stupid pride!”

  “Kip, I’m not doing this for them. Or even for you. Not if I’m being honest with myself. I’m not that selfless. Really, what have I got left? My husband is gone and likely won’t ever return. The friend I admired so much, who became like a father to me in the Blackguard, wants me dead—and I can’t blame him for that. My son Zymun is a soulless manipulator, rapist, and murderer incapable of human feeling. I have only my work, my Blackguards’ love, and my hopes for you and your life. All those things demand I do this.

  “How could I live with myself if I asked you to die in my place? How monstrous would history think I was? Would they call me Karris Ironheart perhaps if—after you offered me a piece of motherhood—I not only spurned you and drove you away but then, when you finally came back to save us all, I rewarded you by demanding your death? No. No. This way history at least will be fooled. I’ll become another heroic Karris sacrificing herself for the Chromeria. It’s a lie, but one that might inspire others to do better than I have. I’ve known I was going to die in this battle for some time. This is—this is just like having my Freeing a bit early, is all.”

  “No,” Kip said plaintively.

  “You won your game. Go enjoy your victory and your life. Both are more fleeting than you know.”

  “You cannot—”

  But another cramp hit Karris’s stomach, this one insistent. “Now, if you’ll pardon me,” she said. “I decided that defecating as one dies isn’t commensurate with the dignity expected of the White, so I took a laxative earlier. Shitting uncontrollably now seemed better than doing so later, but I’d rather you not watch.”

  Chapter 92

  Get up, whinger. One more lap.

  Ironfist woke. He was cold. Freezing cold. His cheek was in a pool of something sticky.

  So, not dead. Not yet. He tried to move.

  Everything hurt. Two places were utter fire, but his whole body hurt like he had a terrible fever. Everything ached. Lying still hurt marginally less.

  I know I’m the fool who chose a team race, but you’re the fool who agreed. Get up.

  It was how he’d encouraged his little brother, when they were mere teens in that awful mountains-to-desert race that capped the novennial Philocteian Games. They’d always loved running, but they’d never expected to be among the best. But somehow, the better runners had fallen out through injury, and the young princes had suddenly become the bearers of their clan’s pride.

  Clamping his arm tight to his side, Ironfist sat up. He gasped. His injuries tore open afresh, both arm and chest.

  Nearby, Cruxer lay dead in the midst of guns and a broken sword and a pool of blood. A lot of blood.

  But the spiritual pain was blunted by the physical.

  Ironfist blinked until the black spots retreated from his vision.

  The Blackguards who should have come to the back gate had never come. Even with the musket shots, no one had come.

  Up. Up!

  Ironfist must surely be running out of time before the execution. He looked at the stars, but he’d never paid enough attention to know at what hour certain stars rose and set at this time of year. He couldn’t tell how long he’d been unconscious. Besides, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was saving Gavin Guile.

  “One more lap,” he said.

  The great race ended with two laps in the hippodrome before cheering crowds. Hanishu and Harrdun had no idea that they’d nearly caught up with the Tiru-clan bastards they’d been following across the desert until they arrived in the hippodrome itself. The men were walking, beaten, exhausted. One was limping. They looked at Hanishu and Harrdun’s entrance with frank terror.

  Like young antelope, Hanishu and Harrdun had found sudden energy. They’d closed the gap. They’d passed the men, laughing as they headed into the final lap.

  They were going to win. Win!

  Forty thousand people were on their feet, shouting, cheering. And then the young men passed the Tiru section. Their tribal rivals had been aghast, in denial on the first lap.

  This time, they were furious. They began pelting the boys with stones, crockery, coins, anything they could throw.

  Ironfist had given Hanishu the inside, intending to make the last lap a friendly rivalry, to see if he could pass him in the final stretch. But that put Hanishu closest to them, so he caught the brunt of the Tirus’ fury. A cup hit him in the knee, midstride, and then a gruel bowl smashed over his ear.

  Hanishu had gone down, nearly unconscious.

  “Come on, brother,” Ironfist said aloud now, his worlds blurring together. “Everything we’ve done up to now has been for this. No surrender, or it’s all for nothing.”

  Using his good hand while keeping his other arm clamped tight to his side to try to slow the blood loss, Ironfist pushed off the ground. He swayed, faint, and reached out. He braced himself on the boathouse to keep from falling, a sudden wave of vertigo cresting over him.

  After he steadied himself and the dizziness passed, he opened his eyes.

  He was a good ten paces from the boathouse. There was nothing to steady himself on.

  Hanishu had stood, staggered, and fell again as the Tiru runners came back into view around the corner behind them, catching up.

  Harrdun pulled him to his feet and braced him with an arm, and tried to pull him to a jog.

  But his younger brother’s knee gave out after the first step. He fell again, pulling Harrdun down with him.

  Hanishu had started weeping. ‘I can’t. I can’t. I want to, but I can’t.’

  “Don’t you make me carry you,” Ironfist said aloud now.

  Two more teams had just entered the stadium. There was a near riot in the stands where other fans were attacking the Tiru for their stone-throwing.

  With trembling arms and trembling legs, he’d picked up his little brother. Hanishu clung to him fiercely, trying to distribute his weight, trying to help, even as he’d doomed them.

  Ironfist had jogged a few steps, but he couldn’t keep it up, not after all the leagues they’d run. He slowed to a walk, and then it was all he could do to stagger forward one slow step at a time.

  And then the hippodrome erupted in cheers and also shouts of outrage as the Tiru team crossed the finish line to win, and the brothers were both weeping.

  And then another team passed them. And another. And Hanishu broke down as his big brother carried him. ‘I failed you. I failed you.’

  God damn this whole world to fire. Those were the very words Hanishu said again last year as he’d lain dying in Ironfist’s arms. As if the failure were his.

  The last hundred paces were agony. Someone offered to help, but Ironfist hadn’t even been able to see them. There was only the finish line, and his brokenness and his rage and a tenacious love for his brother that said, I will not quit.

  “We don’t quit, brother. We don’t quit,” he’d said then and said now.

  The last forty paces were a blur
of unvariegated pain. The acid in his muscles, the roar of the crowd—helpful or hostile, he couldn’t tell—building to a crescendo, and the burning of the sun. He wept—ashamed as a boy is foolishly ashamed of tears—and none judged him. He wept, and those walking behind him, a throng swollen to hundreds, perhaps thousands, wept with him.

  They finished fourth, collapsing across the line, and that placement only because the fifth-and sixth-place clan teams had seen what happened and slowed to a walk behind them, and refused to let anyone else pass them.

  They fell—and were instantly lifted on shoulders and paraded through another lap, the actual victors forgotten.

  Their defeat had garnered more acclaim and support for their clan than any victory would have. Their grit and courage in adversity had not only made them famous, but had guaranteed their Tlanu-clan ascendancy.

  Mother had been assassinated soon thereafter. And once a rival to his big brother, bitter at his constant defeats, Hanishu had changed utterly. He’d suddenly worshipped Harrdun, taking his few victories over his big brother with quiet joy and his own defeats with equanimity.

  The two had become best friends.

  And it had all been for evil.

  If Ironfist hadn’t decided on a whim to join that race and forced his little brother to be his partner, if Ironfist hadn’t carried his little brother that one lap, Hanishu wouldn’t have come to the Chromeria to join his big brother. He’d still be alive.

  Ironfist slogged now to the rear dock and the hidden door in the little boathouse that disappeared into the secret bowels of the Chromeria. It was right where his last Order contact had said.

  Even the Old Man needed people to do the actual digging, and even the Old Man had recruitment problems—if you simply kill your workers every time they dig a tunnel for you, you run out of workers.

  He ducked his head to enter yet another tight, loathsome place. He was fully in the darkness before he realized that this time, he didn’t need to worry about anyone seeing a light. His thinking was coagulating like the blood matting his tunic.