The Burning White

by Brent Weeks

  She made her way woodenly to the dead drop and left her sign for Karris: Can we stamp out the Order? ‘No.’

  Teia had failed.

  Chapter 75

  “In two or three days now,” Karris said to her gathered luxiats, “all the work we’ve done will be tested. The King of Wights—the man who once was my brother—is coming. He will attack. And if he has his way, he will not stop until this island is nothing but blackened rubble and blood.”

  In the dangers and the heavy labor she’d demanded, her originally picked one hundred had first dwindled down to sixty-five luxiats, and then surged to nearly two hundred. Some were surely spies, but what did she care, so long as they helped her work?

  She’d even said so, openly. She’d come to revel in the power of the truth.

  “In our time together,” she said, “you’ve served better than I could’ve asked. You’ve brought new purpose to the people of the Jaspers, and lent your muscles and your voices to our empire’s defense and to Orholam’s cause.”

  She could see in their faces that they felt uneasy at her praise, and at the timing. Midnight, for one of their meetings? They’d been careful about when they met, before, but not exactly clandestine.

  This felt different. There was an urgency here.

  “You think this sounds like a farewell,” she said bluntly. “It may be. Too often, this empire has fought senseless wars over who would get to wear the purple. Too often it has fought for whomever or for whatever would put the most coins in its purse. This isn’t one of those wars. This fight is for our survival and the survival of all we love. Looking back, we can have clear hearts about the work we’ve done: the defenses repaired, the stores refilled, the people inspired. Looking ahead, my charge to you is simple.

  “Serve where there is need. Carry water to the thirsty. Carry the wounded to help. Comfort the dying. Carry gunpowder and shot. If you feel called, take up arms. But let me now be clear. I am not asking you to live for this people. I’m asking you to die for them. I’m not asking you to die as martyrs—have some humility and leave that for your betters.” She grinned, and they laughed at her inversion: too humble for martyrdom? But then she grew serious. “I’m asking you to die as heroes. A martyr surrenders her life willingly; a hero fights to the end. Fight to the end.”

  She paused, and saw in the somber faces not fear but resolve.

  “Know that I’m not asking you to go where I’m unwilling to lead. For some time I have had the growing sense that I shall die during this fight myself.” A sense? Well, it had been only that—until she’d seen Teia’s signal. Now it was a full-fledged premonition. The Order couldn’t be stopped. All of Karris’s grand purposes were being stymied.

  A quiet chorus of denials went through the assembled young women and men, though, and their faces were writ with dismay.

  “I’m not telling you that to elicit your pity or, Orholam forbid, your awe. I tell you because the knowledge of my own mortality has brought a question before me in a way I can’t help but answer. It’s a question I want to present humbly to you as well. Pray on it, and then act on your answer. Look to me to do the same.” She took a moment to look at their faces. So young. So full of light and courage it broke her heart. “You and I have been called to serve. If the next days are our last, how dare we waste them in fear?”

  She saw swallowing, and heads nodding. Many of those gathered were the bookish sort, not men or women who were quick to act. “Run the course Orholam lays before you. I know you’ll make me proud.”

  There was no cheering at that. The weight of the moment had settled over all of them, her not least of all.

  It was as honest as she could be without someone trying to stop her from doing what she knew she had to do. She’d made her peace with it.

  When Ironfist demanded her hand as the price for his armies, there was no way to say no and still get those armies. She couldn’t plead that Gavin was still alive without getting Teia killed—and nullifying all the young woman’s sacrifices. The Order hadn’t been stopped in time.

  Karris’s own words and actions hemmed her in now, and revealed the path she had to walk. I won’t be without error, she’d promised, but when I do err, I’ll pay the price for it.

  In committing bigamy, she would save her people by dishonoring the two men who meant the most in the world to her. In deliberately breaking her oaths, she would dishonor her office and undermine every other oath she’d made. She would undermine everything she’d been trying to accomplish in the Magisterium.

  There was no way out of her impending marriage that wouldn’t cost lives and honor. So she would buy the armies with her own dishonor, and then her own life. She would go out and fight Koios, seeking death. And if death eluded her, she would suicide. Not out of despair, but to expiate dishonor. It wasn’t death before dishonor. It would be death in order to make dishonor end.

  It wasn’t what she’d hoped for. It wasn’t what she wanted. But she was willing.

  No one seemed to want to leave, but finally, one awkward young man came forward. “High Lady,” he said quietly. “This time I’ve spent serving with you has been the best thing in my life. This is why I wanted to be a luxiat. I have a premonition that I’m gonna die in this battle. Will you bless me?”

  He knelt in front of her.

  And so she blessed him. And then the next young luxiat. And then she blessed each and every one of them in turn, with an encouraging word here and there, but sometimes only a long, weighing look into their eyes, as she hoped she showed them Orholam’s approval reflected in her own.

  Last came Quentin in his silks and cumbersome gold chains. He didn’t kneel as the others had; he merely waited, as any other slave would—at least until everyone else had left.

  “You’re planning to do something rash, aren’t you?” he asked.

  “Not rash, no. I’ve thought about it for quite some time.”

  “All this talk of dying…” Quentin shook his head. “Would you like to tell me more about that?”

  “No,” she said, and tried to soften the rebuff with a smile. But it came out sad.

  Quentin cocked his head. “You told me once that you’d had a word from Orholam, through Orea White and the Third Eye? That He would repay you the years the locusts have eaten?”

  “Yes,” she said. Her lip twitched ruefully.

  “You believed it once. Do you not anymore?”

  “No. I believe it,” she said. “But I don’t know that I’ll get to see it.”

  “How is that kind of belief different from not believing?” Quentin asked.

  “We go to battle, Quentin. People better than me die every day,” she said.

  “People who don’t have His promise.”

  “I’m a warrior. I don’t shy away at the face of death. This is why I was entrusted with this office. To fight. To fight to the death if necessary.”

  “You’re more than a warrior to Orholam, Karris—”

  “I am well aware of my roles, thank you: the White, a trainer of drafters, a Blackguard, a warrior, a rather terrible mother—”

  “You’re also a daughter.”

  “I’m an orphan!” Karris retorted so fast she didn’t know where it had come from. No, that wasn’t true; it had come straight from red and green.

  Quentin said, “How may one adopted by Orholam Himself be truly called an orphan?”

  I found my father with half his brain dripping from the ceiling, that’s how.

  Sure. In some abstract, theological sense, Orholam was her father. But then, He was everyone’s.

  “And you’ve been drafting again,” Quentin said. “Are you trying to be a hero, or a martyr?”

  But she only said, “Maybe when you’re older, you’ll understand.”

  “That’s a bit patronizing,” Quentin said.

  “‘Patronizing’ is having a child lecture me,” she said.

  “Not merely a child, a slave no less,” Quentin said, lowering his gaze. “I stepped out of
line, High Lady. I beg your pardon.”

  “Of course.” But the red was still hot in her.

  He knelt. “High Lady Guile, will you bless me?”

  If she had only days left, how did she want to live? How much of a hypocrite was she to inspire the luxiats to live generously, obediently, selflessly—and then hold back now? She took a deep breath, willing down the green and the red.

  And, thank Orholam, down they went.

  “It would be my privilege,” she said.

  Chapter 76

  “Well, this I don’t believe,” Tisis said. She stepped back from the door, where she’d just accepted a messenger’s note.

  They were staying in a fine house on the northern end of Big Jasper—as far from the Chromeria as possible. Kip wanted warning if Lightguards came to arrest him, and Cruxer didn’t want to make it too easy for assassins from the Order to find him, either, so they were staying in a smaller bedroom in a house with many doors, with sub-red drafters stationed everywhere. Cruxer was also insisting they take different routes every time they traversed the Jaspers, and a dozen other precautions. Kip played along, though he thought if anyone wanted him dead badly enough, they could probably accomplish the deed.

  “What’s that?” he asked, bare-chested, arms in a fresh tunic he was donning for the evening. He thought he’d done pretty well speaking with two of the most powerful people in the world, but when Tisis presented him with freshly pressed clothes, the morning’s nervous sweat had made her argument for her. These were for a different kind of battle, and if he had to go fight them somewhat alone, he was glad that Tisis was his shield bearer.

  “A note from your grandfather.”

  “Did you check it for poison?” Kip asked.

  “Kip.”

  “You’re right; he’d rather deliver that in person.”

  “It’s an invitation,” Tisis said.

  “For me to commit suicide?” Kip asked.

  She read aloud, “‘High Lord Andross Guile, by the Light of Orholam Exalted Promachos of the United Seven Satrapies, High Lord Cardinal, Ascendant of Ruthgar, et cetera…’ It actually says ‘et cetera’ like he’s being brief. And the rest appears to be, um, in his own hand, I think?” She extended it to Kip, who quickly wrestled the tunic over his head.

  Tisis set to the various laces while he read. Not that they didn’t have servants for this sort of thing, but she liked taking care of him. He liked it, too. These small moments of closeness, of feeling normal, were treasures, he thought.

  Something hit him as he saw that scrawl on the pages. “Whoa,” Kip said.

  “Right?” Tisis said.

  “No, no, I haven’t even read it yet. I just… I just felt like I had a flashback, but I have no idea to what. Like someone dropped a seed in my brain, but tamped hard the earth so it can’t break the surface. Like I’ve seen that handwriting…” In a card. He shook his head as if to clear cobwebs. “They examined this for magic, right?”

  “More than once. In every spectrum. Even chi.”

  That made Kip touch the pendant at his neck. He double-checked that there weren’t any holes in the gallium. There weren’t.

  All right. No need for his chest to feel so tight. It was just a letter.

  From the most controlling and malevolent man I personally know.

  He read it: “‘Kip, would you please give me the honor and the great pleasure of joining me for a few games of Nine Kings?’”

  Kip couldn’t help but grin. What the hell?

  “‘I fear this may be our last chance to play, and to speak frankly with each other. I have missed your company, though I understand if the feeling isn’t mutual. I should be most gratified if you would join me immediately after dinner. Naturally, you may bring whatever protection you require, though we will play alone. I would love also to meet your bride anew. Perhaps tomorrow at breakfast?’”

  “A bit to digest there, huh?” Tisis said. “I particularly like the bit about meeting me ‘anew.’”

  The last time Andross and Tisis had been in the same room together, Andross had arranged for Kip to walk in on her stroking the old man under the covers. “I actually kind of do like that part,” Kip said. “Wouldn’t mind forgetting about… that.”

  She twisted her face. “I’m halfway between mortified, still, and wanting to slap his evil face.”

  “I should like to see that very much,” Kip said.

  “But it would invite questions that I don’t really want people asking,” Tisis said. “You need to go, don’t you?”

  “It’s too weird,” Kip said. “Like, I’d say it’s a forgery, because it’s such a strange tone from him… but no forgery would opt for such a strange tone, would it?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “With anyone else, I’d say it’s an old man trying to mend fences before he dies or something. But…”

  “But not Andross.”

  “No, not from the master himself.” And there it was again: something thrumming in Kip’s memory that he couldn’t quite grab. The Master.

  “The messenger apologized, said he came as soon as he could. But if you’re supposed to meet after dinner, you need to go as soon as we can get you dressed. Do you think it’s a trap?” she asked.

  “They don’t need a trap. We’re in the web already,” Kip said.

  “I can’t go with you, can I?” she said.

  “If I get killed, you have to get our people off the island. Otherwise, they’ll all stay and fight to avenge me. You know how these Foresters get.”

  “I’d fight to avenge you, too, you know,” she said, smoothing his hair. “I’m a Forester myself.”

  “If it comes to that, you fight with a pen in one hand and a scepter in the other,” Kip said. “You’ll do far more damage.”

  “I know. But I don’t have to like it.” She swallowed, and he saw for one moment the depth of her fear for him. And he saw the bravery she showed in controlling it.

  She straightened his light jacket—a fashion necessity, she assured him, despite the warmth of the evening—and tucked away his necklace. Finally, she laced his sleeves at the wrists to cover his Turtle-Bear tattoo and spritzed him with some scented water. “Remember how you walk. Shoulders back, string from the top of your head,” she said, but all he heard was, ‘I love you, I love you.’

  “Like a marionette,” Kip said, smiling at her in the mirror.

  Her breath came out ragged.

  She cleared her throat and, still looking at him in the mirror, said, “Lift your left arm.”

  “When I walk?” he asked.

  She smacked him, but smiled.

  He did it.

  “Which arm did the man in the mirror raise?” she asked.

  “Uh… his right?” Kip said. He hadn’t meant it to come out as a question. He tried again, and immediately felt foolish. “Yep, definitely his right.”

  “You know why? No, don’t give me that look.”

  He’d been giving her a look. He couldn’t deny it. “Because our eyes—and how the light bounces—and stuff? I mean, the light travels correctly, but we reverse the image when we imagine that there’s actually a person over on the other side of the mirror. Why are you frowning?”

  “No, it’s a hint.” She shook her head. “I’ve been afraid of this meeting for you for a long time.”

  “You have?”

  “I’ve been trying to arm you for it.”

  “Uh…”

  “Kip, there are two kinds of mirrors a man should fear, because both push their will into him and can do so without him even realizing they’re not objective or passive. The figure in the mirror raising the wrong arm is our hint that between reality and perception, things can get twisted.”

  “I remember. The first kind, anyway.” She meant actual physical mirrors, where his own distorted perceptions could confirm lies about himself while he believed he was seeing objective truth.

  “The second is others’ regard. We judge ourselves by how o
thers see us, and oftentimes that’s exactly what we need to do in order to correct our errors of self-judgment. But you’re going to see Andross Guile.”

  “Not a man who has much regard for anyone,” Kip said.

  “It’s ten times worse, Kip. You meeting with your grandfather is more dangerous for you than facing ten thousand enemies.”

  “It’s just a silly card game,” Kip said. “I’ll lose a few rounds, he’ll feel superior, and we’ll call it a day.” But something in his guts twisted. Andross was going to make him put wagers on the games. Kip just knew it. Wagers he would certainly lose.

  She sighed quietly. “Are you reassuring me or yourself?” But she didn’t wait for him to answer. “Kip, he’s dangerous to you because you admire him so much. You hate what he’s done, sure. But you’ve compared yourself to him from the first time you met him. You’ve aspired to be what he is. And you’re actually so much more than he is.”

  “He’s smarter than I am.”

  “Sure. So? A man whose intelligence is leavened with humility is doubly wise.”

  “He’s more cunning. More connected. More masterful. More knowledgeable. More—”

  “He’s a hundred things more! And not one of them matters. I worry what you’ll see when you look in his eyes, Kip. Because he’s warped. People come away from meeting him hating themselves and hating the world. People meet with you and they come away with hope. You’re a thousand times the man he’ll ever be—no matter what happens. No matter what.”

  Kip swallowed. “I love you.”

  “I know, you fat fuck,” she said.

  His eyebrows shot up, and she laughed at shocking him, and he remembered the phrase from their earlier talk about how he’d scorned himself.

  But now her face went somber. Her hands rested on his shoulders, and he could tell she was appreciating how solid they were, how broad. “Remember to see yourself as you are in the eyes of those who love you. That’s what it means when we say ‘Orholam holds you in His eyes,’ Kip. And I do, too. Swear to me you’ll push back against everything else.”

  “Honey,” Kip said, admonishing her, “I’m a Guile. I don’t know how to not fight.”