The Burning White: Book Five of Lightbringer

by Brent Weeks

  Did he not know he’d gone wight? How could he not know?

  Because he had no one to tell him. He’d been alone so long, he’d become a monster and he didn’t even know it.

  Could she use that?

  Murder Sharp said, “You’re not getting out of here, Teia. You’re too resourceful for me to leave in this room until after the walls come down. You have to die. Just one more soul on my tally when you could have been so much more.”

  “ ‘After the walls come down’?” she asked.

  “The Order’s made a treaty with the White King. Our people mob the gates, a few Shadows take down the cannon crews, and they reward us beyond our wildest dreams.”

  “But that’ s—that’s, you haven’t even explained—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said sadly. He seemed back in control now. Himself again.

  “Well, sure it matters—” Teia said.

  “It doesn’t matter for you. Your part ends here. I’m sorry.”

  “Please,” Teia said, fear gripping her throat. She’d been testing her bonds. There was nothing she could do. She couldn’t even move her extremities.

  She’d missed her chance. Drafting now was impossible.

  She tried it anyway, her eyes flaring wide.

  “Uh-uh-uh,” Murder Sharp scolded. He tore the bag off her head, gripped her hair in a fist, and pulled her face up, almost gently. But she had no illusions he would stay gentle if she resisted.

  He looked at her, eye to eye, and then he kissed her forehead gently, like a father. “I want to ask you a favor,” he said.

  “I want to ask you one back,” Teia said quickly.

  He laughed. “Not really in the position, are you?”

  “I’ll do anything you want if you hear me out.”

  “That’s not how this works,” Murder Sharp said.

  “My father. They’ll kill him if they learn I betrayed them,” Teia said. “He doesn’t know anything about this. You know that. He’s just a merchant. Can you have them let him go?”

  She was actually surprised at how level and calm her voice came out. Sharp seemed to be surprised, too.

  “I’ve got no reason to help you,” Sharp said.

  “No . . . no, you don’t. But maybe, maybe a little redemption is better than none. Maybe that’s how you close a little bit of separation, Elijah ben-Zoheth.”

  He snorted. “You got balls,” Sharp said with a little smile that showed his everyday dentures: plain, white, but not so perfect as to draw attention. “I wish we didn’t have to do this.”

  “Me, too,” Teia said lightly.

  He laughed. Then he looked down at her body and shook his head. “I can’t believe I put you in my mother’s dress. What the hell was I thinking? Anyway . . . about my request.”

  He cleared his throat, suddenly awkward.

  “Anything,” Teia said.

  He cleared his throat. “You’ve got a beautiful lower left dogtooth. Immaculate. Gorgeously, flawlessly formed, from all I can tell. Its only defect, I think, is that it’s a bit large for your mouth—but that makes it perfect for mine. I would like your permission to . . . um, add it to my best pair of diplomatic dentures. You know the ones. I find a beautiful smile cuts right through people’s defenses. Melts them inside. It’s magical, really. But I shouldn’t like for my best smile to be tarnished by some shadow of guilt that I’d . . . violated you. You’d be part of something perfect, long after your death. It’s immortality. Of a sort.”

  “Orholam have mercy,” Teia whispered.

  “Well, clearly not,” Murder Sharp said, laughing suddenly. “But I will. I’ve had poor luck with teeth when I’ve killed the donor in advance—the rot sets into the tooth so, so fast it seems. That’s why you’re still alive, actually. I can’t risk losing your perfection in such a way, so I intend to sedate you before relieving you of it. You’ll feel very little. But you will be alive.” He pulled forward two vials on the table. He cleared his throat again. “Two lovely tinctures here: first, I give you a heavy dose of poppy dissolved in brandy. Tastes wretched, but it’ll give you a total euphoria, and some say visions akin to entering the afterlife, if there is such a thing. This second one is . . . a marvel. A wonder. Very odd. The Braxians were trying to find an opposite to nightshade—you know it?”

  Teia did, of course. In drops applied to the eyes, nightshade or belladonna caused the pupils to flare wide, allowing drafters to soak in more light—or women to look more comely. It also made you blind if you used it too often, so the Chromeria frowned on its use, preferring drafters to learn the skill of widening or tightening their pupils at will.

  “What would the opposite of belladonna do?” Teia asked. “Constrict pupils? Oh . . . to starve drafters of source light.”

  “Yes, yes, I’m always forgetting how sharp you are. Aha. Sharp. Anyway, the different narcotics they tried at first were too obvious when used at the doses necessary. I actually don’t know if they ever found what they were looking for, but they stumbled across this: lacrimae sanguinis. Eaten or drunk, this poison takes a few hours to make its way to the eyes—I’ve not had enough occasion to practice to find out how long exactly. But in a few hours, it sets somehow. It crystallizes within the eyes. Then, upon the pupil contracting or dilating strongly, the poison’s released into the body.

  “One drop is supposed to be able to kill a dozen men. I’ll give you two. Then I’ll leave my drapes open. You’ll have pleasant poppy dreams all night, and when light flashes over the horizon with the dawn of Sun Day, you’ll die instantly.” He cleared his throat again. “It is as kind as I can be while I do what I must.”

  “That . . . does sound very kind,” Teia said.

  There was nothing else to say. She’d failed. This was the end for her.

  Her heart pushed through the thickets of panic and found, suddenly, the barren plains of resignation. Her breath slid from her mouth like a bit falling from her teeth.

  She felt strangely better. Death wasn’t the freedom she’d choose, but it was one kind of freedom.

  Unless there was a hell.

  She’d find out soon enough.

  “Just the one tooth?” she asked, her voice level and scoured clean of fear.

  With a slurping sound, he took out his dentures and set them aside. He began washing his hands in a basin, with soap. But even still, he never took his eyes off her for more than an instant. There would be no surprising him with paryl.

  “Oh, I pride myself on my tidiness. I won’t deface you unnecessarily.” He dried his hands on a pretty, nicely folded cloth, unhurried. There was some element of ritual, of nearly erotic fixation, barely contained, in his voice. “I want you to know, Teia, I’ll think of you always when I wear them.”

  “You’ll help my father?” she asked.

  He put a blindfold over her head, but didn’t lower it over her eyes yet.

  He stared at her in the half dark of the hidden chamber for a long moment. A last, guttering goodness flickered in his eyes. She hoped it was an assent.

  “Open your mouth,” he commanded, filling a tiny silver spoon full of dark liquid. Behind him on his table sat shining tools: a jaw stretcher, pliers, more awful things. She’d not be able to see or speak once he got to work on her.

  “Murder?” she said.

  “Yes, Adrasteia?”

  “Fuck you.”

  He flashed a sudden grin, showing broken stubs of teeth beneath his gleaming, violet-shrapnel eyes. “They all say that.”

  She opened her mouth and accepted the bitter drops.

  Chapter 98

  One day wasn’t nearly enough time to get ready, but through the triple miracles of preparation, competence, and the total focus of every human on the Jaspers, things were actually coming together. Kip had meetings with Tisis and the generals. Tisis would be managing Corvan Danavis’s scouts and intel, and the generals simply needed to hear Kip say to their faces that he really did want them to follow every order Corvan Danavis gave them.
It was worth the half hour Kip spent recounting all of Danavis’s exploits and brilliance and showing Kip’s own absolute faith in the man. These generals would be repeating the stories to their own men and women. Plus, they needed to see that what Kip was doing was intimately tied to their success.

  He spent all of two minutes with his wife that weren’t practical and tactical.

  “Have you seen Ben-hadad?” Kip asked. “I could really, really use his big brain on this.”

  “No,” Tisis said. “I haven’t seen Cruxer, either.”

  Kip felt the cold hand of dread around his heart. They knew the Order was here. “What?” he said. “I assumed he was with you, making sure the new members of the Mighty were squared away.”

  “I know, and I thought he’d be here. But none of the others have seen them, either. Ben I could imagine disappearing to work on something he thought was important and forgetting to tell anyone. But Cruxer? Kip, he was really upset about Ironfist’s betrayal . . . and then Ironfist shows up half dead . . .”

  Ironfist hadn’t woken. It wasn’t certain that he would.

  “Orholam have mercy,” Kip said. He swallowed.

  “I’ll let you know the instant I hear anything,” Tisis said. He saw the agony in her eyes, but there was also a steel practicality there. They both had things to do, at opposite ends of the Jaspers. No matter what. Even if Cruxer was dead.

  And she was right.

  “Likewise,” Kip said.

  They held each other then, forehead to forehead, all too aware that it might be the last time. Their parting kiss was both too much and too little by far. And then they went to their work again: he to the Chromeria, and she to set up scouts and signal-mirror communications lines.

  Kip had to bust a few heads—one nearly literally, he’d bruised his knuckles—but he’d gotten control of all the Thousand Stars right around the time the White King’s fleet had arrived on the horizon.

  Probably not coincidental that the last stubborn jackasses were convinced by that.

  Then he got the missive.

  “Downstairs. Now. Not a suggestion.—Promachos G.”

  “Downstairs?” Kip asked the messenger. At least Andross hadn’t sent the message through that smug jackass, Grinwoody.

  Ferkudi and Winsen accompanied him as he followed Andross Guile’s servant down the lifts, then through the small door that headed to the back docks. Hard-faced Blackguards stood at either side of the door, lips tight. They wouldn’t meet Kip’s eyes.

  Oh no.

  Kip’s neck went tight. He couldn’t draw a full breath.

  His feet seemed to move independently of his will. He was being carried along by pure momentum and social expectation.

  If he didn’t find out, maybe it wouldn’t have happened.

  But he couldn’t stop himself. The world was closing in, vision narrowing even as the tunnel widened out.

  More Blackguards. More stony faces. No, no, no.

  He walked down the path toward the docks toward Andross, who stood impassive over . . . something.

  A body, of course, Kip knew. Covered.

  He saw Gill Greyling there, opposite Andross, on the other side of the body. Gill stood ramrod straight, face still, but his eyes streamed tears, and he swallowed as Kip came close. He backed away to make room for Kip.

  The body had been covered by Blackguard cloaks. It was a sign of the tremendous respect they wouldn’t have given to one who wasn’t one of their own.

  “Aside from laying their cloaks on him,” Andross said, “nothing’s been touched, in case you wanted to examine things for yourself. When you’re ready, I’ll tell you what we know.”

  It had to be Andross here, didn’t it?

  Kip squatted down beside the body and pulled back the cloak. He felt the same shock he’d felt before at seeing the dead, somehow never quite dulled, and this time sharper than ever: this face looked like a poor facsimile of Cruxer’s face. Cruxer was so much more handsome. Vibrant. Funny. Kind. His spirit had always suffused his flesh, made it continually more beautiful than . . . this cold visage.

  And yet the cold visage was all that was left. He was lying on his side, and that side of his face had purpled from pooled blood.

  “Sometime before midnight, I’d guess, from the bodies I’ve seen after battles,” a voice intruded. Winsen.

  Kip nodded.

  “I went after him,” Winsen said. “Like you told me to. Ran all over these damn islands. He didn’t take the news of Ironfist betraying the Chromeria well. He thought Ironfist was going to kill you.”

  “Your young commander’s broken sword is here,” Andross said. “The blade matches Ironfist’s wound and there are grooves cut into Ironfist’s chain that match it, too. Both of their pistols had been fired.”

  But Kip didn’t need the explanation. He’d known what was going to happen long before it did.

  “Why a sword rather than his spear?” Kip asked. Cruxer was better with a spear.

  “Easier to hide?” Winsen guessed. “Blackguards on duty last night never saw either of them. At least that’s what they say. You want to talk to them?”

  “If they lied to you . . .” Kip began. They’ll lie to me, too, he meant to say, but the words were too much effort. It was the most he could do to shake his head.

  Would a spear have made the difference?

  Oh, Cruxer.

  “This?” Winsen said. He didn’t sound moved at all. “Dying like this? For your lord? It’s what we do. It’s what we signed up for. And Cruxer loved it. He fought the best warrior in the world to a standstill. Stopped him. Saved your life. This isn’t a bad death.”

  “Every death’s a bad death,” Andross said.

  Kip didn’t know what to do with it, but he loved his grandfather a little bit for that. Sure, sure, dying to save someone is noble—but you’re still fucking dead. But this wasn’t Winsen’s fault, not really. He’d been born with very little feeling himself. When things were fraught, he jumped the wrong way sometimes. This was actually Winsen trying to comfort Kip.

  Well, aren’t we all a bunch of fuck-ups?

  “Have you told the rest of the Mighty?”

  “I sent them messengers at the same time I sent yours,” Andross said.

  Funny, Kip thought, Andross hadn’t used this opportunity to be an asshole. Maybe he was just biding his time, though.

  But he couldn’t keep his attention away from the thing that had been his friend. He took a tremulous breath. He squatted down beside the man who’d put his life and honor on Kip more than once. He brushed some dirt off Cruxer’s cheek.

  The softness of the gesture was a mistake. The corralled horses of his passions burst through the fences, he fell from his squat to his knees, and a single sob racked him before he could silence himself.

  He flashed to anger. I need you now! You can’t abandon me here! You have not been relieved of duty, goddammit!

  Then he breathed, just thought about his breath. In. Hold. Out slow. Hold.

  “Breaker. Lord Guile. Lord Guile,” Winsen said. “There are messengers. It’s urgent, they say. Everything’s urgent today.”

  Kip caught sight of his forearm. The Turtle-Bear. What could it do? What could Kip do? Suffer. Keep going. That was all that made him special.

  You and me, buddy, Kip thought, looking at the tattoo. This is what we’re here to do: fight and die.

  I just hoped that I’d be the first of us to go.

  He stood. Cleared the tears from his eyes with calm fingers. Brushed off the wet knees of his trousers from his kneeling.

  “Who do I make commander of the Mighty?” he asked Winsen, his voice level, professional.

  Winsen’s mouth twisted. “They all love Ferk, but he’s too big of a goof. A commander’s gotta work with people all the time, and Ferk gets people wrong near as often as I do. Guess that cuts me out, too. Ben-hadad’s too smart, too distracted, too arrogant. Tisis could do it, but it’s an all-the-time kind of a job, and she’s g
ot too much else to do. Can’t be any of the scrubs. That leaves Big Leo, I guess.”

  “You make a good case,” Kip said. “Tell him you chose him.”

  Winsen frowned. It was going to make it impossible for him to carp and complain about Big Leo’s orders all the time when the Mighty knew he was the one who’d picked him. Which was why Kip had done it. Winsen’s insubordination would be the biggest threat to a new commander . . . well, other than the encircling, overwhelming army.

  So maybe it was all moot anyway.

  Kip straightened his back. He looked over at Gill Greyling. “Thank you, for this. And convey my thanks to your people. Please take care of him?”

  Gill nodded. He understood.

  “I got shit to do,” Kip said, and he walked over toward the messengers.

  Chapter 99

  Teia was high as a . . . Teia was high as an eagle? Teia was high—as high! Teia was . . .

  Shit. Teia was giggling.

  “Mmm, yith hehl funneh,” she said around the jaw cage holding her face immobile, mouth open for Sharp to work. She laughed at her garbled words. “Harf?” Sharp. “Remimd meh to hell you humfing.”

  ‘Hell you,’ not ‘tell you.’ That was hilarious. She laughed again.

  And then the pliers were in her mouth, and she couldn’t talk at all.

  And then, as the blood gushed in her mouth, she didn’t want to. She twisted her jaw just as the tooth released and wailed into the rag he hurriedly stuffed over her face. Even laudanum couldn’t make someone tearing out your tooth enjoyable.

  He loosed the bolts securing the cage to her jaws. She turned her head and spat blood.

  “Sharp,” she said.

  Some blood dribbled a wet line down her cheek, down her neck.

  “Yes?” he asked, turning away from studying her bloody, perfect tooth. “I find last words really do only tend to be worth as much as any other words, but if it’ll really make you feel better . . .”

  Her head lolled. Opium really was a tell of a thing. “I just, mm, wanted to let you know, I’m going to have to kill you for that. But! Good news! You won’t have to save my dad. I’ll do that myself. But thanks. For offering. Quite decent of you. Really feel like . . . mm . . . like we could have been friends . . .”