The Blinding Knife (Lightbringer)

by Brent Weeks

  The fighters got a lot better quickly, though.

  The last fighters in danger began their fight. A muscular boy got unlucky and fought a blue-drafting girl in blue light. She used bars of blue luxin to choke him out before he could cross the distance to her.

  When he got up, furious, instead of going toward her, he marched over to Kip and shook his finger in his face. “You! You’re worse than me! You should be going home, you lardass. Not me.”

  “You’re right,” Kip said quietly.

  “You’re damn right I’m right! Why are you even here? Because your mother’s some whore who spread her legs for Gavin Guile? You’re a bastard. I’m the son of the dey of Aghbalu! This is bullshit!”

  Kip knew what he should do. He should punch the boy. Destroy him somehow with a ferocity that let everyone know, once again, that Kip was not to be crossed. He’d already done it with the bully Elio. Apparently once wasn’t enough. One story, people could disbelieve.

  But Kip didn’t want to be the boy who was the crazy, erratic bastard. The one whom people tiptoed around because he might hurt someone with little or no provocation. He looked inside himself for that fury he knew was there for the boy insulting his mother, but today it was just an ache. He had no violence in him now.

  “Is this what I am to be?” Kip asked. Some part of him wanted to weep.

  “What?” the boy snarled. “I wasn’t done with you.”

  “You’re nothing,” Kip said sadly. “And I’m less. I’m the violent madman.”

  The other Blackguard trainees were gathered, of course, eager to see what would happen. The trainer, Kip thought, was notably slow to come break it up. Perhaps pecking orders were best established early in the Blackguard.

  Kip stood up. He needed a spark of fury, but he had nothing. It was too hard to think of coldly sucker-punching another boy. Especially one who was rightly angry at him.

  “Wait, wait, wait,” Kip said. “What’s your name?” I won’t fail my father.

  “Tizrik, and you’d better remember it, you—” The boy’s eyes were suspicious.

  “Tizrik Tamar, of Aghbalu? Tizrik!” Kip spread his arms out to hug the boy like he was long-lost family. “Tizrik! My uncle said—”

  “No, it’s not Tamar—I’m—”

  Kip embraced the boy, who tried to push his hands away, irritated. But then Kip seized both of the boy’s sleeves and yanked fiercely, throwing his forehead into the taller boy’s face. With his own hands off to the sides, trying to stop Kip from hugging him, Tizrik didn’t have a chance.

  Face met forehead. Stuff crunched. Blood showered over Kip’s head.

  The boy collapsed, mostly onto Kip. Kip pushed him off. The boy fell to the ground, his nose streaming blood even as he lay whimpering. His nose was crooked, clearly broken, his lips mashed. He more mouthed out than spit out blood, and a tooth came with the torrent.

  Kip felt like he was watching himself from afar as he stepped over the boy and put a foot on his neck, holding him prone.

  Murmurs and gasps raced through the crowd. Trainer Fisk pushed through them. He looked at the bleeding young man, then at Kip. “Chirurgeons! You, too, Kip.”

  Kip was stunned that he didn’t appear to be in trouble, and apparently the others were, too. “But… but I haven’t fought yet today.”

  “You’ve fought enough,” the trainer said, pulling Kip back away from Tizrik.

  “He cheated!” Tizrik said, holding his nose.

  Trainer Fisk said, “Blackguards don’t cheat. Blackguards win.”

  Their questioning looks obviously irritated Trainer Fisk. “This is real life,” the trainer said. “Our coin is violence. Sudden, sharp, breathtaking, leaving no hope of revenge. That is what we do, when we must. Kip understands and some of the rest of you obviously don’t. That’s fine. We’ve got time to cut the rest of you deadwood out.”

  Teeth bared, Trainer Fisk stared around at the young people. No one dared meet his eyes, not even Kip, who for some reason felt embarrassed, though he couldn’t have explained why.

  “Next up!” Trainer Fisk shouted.

  Kip was checked out by the chirurgeons, and as he’d known, nothing was wrong with him. But by being caught up with them, his space was passed. He lost two places as others above him lost challenges, but he realized that by not having to fight this week, his chances of staying in the Blackguard had pretty much been doubled. He had a chance.

  But he was going to have to win some fights.

  Chapter 36

  Teia walked into the ring, praying. She was lean, with quick reflexes. Slippery. What she wasn’t was strong, not compared to the boys in the Blackguard. Luckily, the training favored cutting and slashing weapons. The Blackguard didn’t have any bias against crushing weapons—war hammers, bludgeons, maces—indeed, those were often the best against heavy armor. But those weapons weren’t safe to train with.

  They could blunt the edges of a mace, but if one of the monsters like Leo—with the shoulders of a draft horse and arms of banded iron—hit you with a mace, it wouldn’t matter if you had pillows wrapped around it. Bones would break. So they didn’t train with them.

  She supposed that the muscular boys thought that wasn’t fair. On the other hand, at least their colors might come up on the wheel.

  And what would I do if my color did come up on the wheel? Stab it through someone’s neck and kill them?

  The thought turned her stomach, sent shivers of dread down the back of her neck. She saw the look on that woman’s face again, dropping the melon, looking startled, not understanding that she was about to die horribly.

  How had that happened?

  Her opponent was Graystone Keftar. He was very dark-skinned, cute grin, green drafter. Nice boy. He’d flirted with her a few times. Already going bald, though. Tragic. He was short and athletic, a son of a rich family that had paid for him to be trained before he came to the Chromeria.

  Graystone winked at her and spun his wheel. She grimaced and spun hers. Next time he flirted, she’d give him nothing. You only wink at someone you’re about to fight if you don’t take them seriously.

  What’d the boys think? That she was training to be cute?

  The wheels came up green or red. From Graystone’s self-satisfied expression, she knew it was green—dammit!—and rapiers.

  She and Graystone took their weapons. He fumbled with his a bit, but she knew he was playing around. The Blackguards threw their trainees full into the water. If you didn’t realize that these fights were all about watching everyone else and figuring out who was good at what, you were wasting your time. The monthly fights were as much about scouting threats as they were about maintaining your position. Graystone was a competent hand with the rapier. Not good. He was much more familiar with an ataghan or other, heavier blades, and treated the rapier like those all too often. But he knew his basic blocks and stances.

  She could win—would win, definitely, if he hadn’t spun green on the wheel.

  They took their places in the circle, faced each other, saluted. He winked at her.

  Seriously, if he winked at her one more time, she was going to punch him in the face.

  She grinned at the thought.

  He seemed to take that as encouragement.

  The circle was flooded with green light as the overseers slapped the green filters over the crystals high above.

  She launched a furious attack immediately. She drove him back, and back. He stepped out of the green spotlight, into the darkness. She pressed harder.

  He was just recovering from his surprise when his back foot stepped past the edge of the circle. If he stayed out for five seconds, he lost.

  Graystone looked down. Teia’s next strike pushed his block wide—and the next slapped down hard on his hand.

  His rapier clattered to the ground and the blunted point of Teia’s rapier came to rest under his chin a moment later.

  A win.

  “Nice one,” Graystone said.

  “Shut
up.”

  She stormed off. She could challenge one of the boys above her. But she was in the top seven already, and both of those boys were truly excellent. Realistically, at best she could hope to maybe finish number two unless she got spectacularly lucky against Cruxer, who was head and shoulders above everyone else in the class. More honestly, she was probably about tenth best in the class. If she was to make the top seven, she’d have to be a little lucky in what colors came up in the next three testings.

  But the more she fought now, the more chances the others had to scout her abilities. She wanted to finish strong, not be strong until the finish.

  So she didn’t challenge anyone. It was perhaps a little dirty, but it was clever, too. They all had chances to scout each other during their training time, but they all tried to hold back their best, too. Until they were in.

  Teia watched the last bouts, noting the artistry of the best fighters. Everyone was unlucky in the last six rounds—none spun his own color, so it was pure fighting technique.

  They were about to be dismissed when Trainer Fisk told them that Commander Ironfist himself was going to address them.

  Teia’s heart beat faster just seeing the commander. It was said he hadn’t lost a single bout in his own training. His little brother, entering with the Blackguard a few classes below him, had also gone undefeated. When the two finally fought in an exhibition, it was as if giants clashed. The training yards had been crammed with thousands. And though the fight was close, with every weapon Ironfist had won.

  Then there were still legends of his exploits during the False Prism’s War. And now stories were coming out about what he’d done at the Battle of Garriston. They were saying that he’d gone through King Garadul’s entire army, infiltrated the wall behind him, taken out all the cannon crews—by himself!—and then turned the cannons back on the king’s army, managing to shoot one of the great wagons loaded with black powder and killing scores if not hundreds. Then he’d escaped an entire furious army, but not alone. No, simple escape wasn’t good enough for Ironfist. He’d done all of that to serve as his own distraction—and had then rescued Kip and Karris White Oak, running across the surface of the sea, where frenzied sharks were already feeding, only to return in time to foil an assassination attempt. If there was one man who encompassed all that every one of the gathered young people wanted to be, it was Ironfist.

  “Well done,” Ironfist said, addressing them. “Well fought, and just as important, well thought. I saw some real cleverness today, and some glimpses of real ability. But I’ve come today to lay a greater challenge before you than perhaps you can surmount. You’re not going to like it. I don’t like it, but circumstances demand it. We Blackguards judge circumstances with equanimity. We are unmoved. And we overcome.”

  Everyone was suddenly on the edge of their seat.

  “As you may know by now, the Blackguards were involved in action at the fall of Garriston. They performed heroically, as expected. And our losses were grievous. Bullets don’t bypass the brave. The Blackguard has always been an elite force, and our numbers have always been small. We can’t sustain huge losses and still achieve our mission. Therefore, instead of your class only graduating the top seven into our ranks, we’ll be taking the top fourteen.”

  The first feeling was one of relief. Fourteen spots! Teia could do that!

  There were a few cheers—but they came from the students who thought they could make the top fourteen and knew they couldn’t have made the top seven. The boys who had been certain they were going to make it didn’t look as pleased.

  Ironfist pursed his lips. “Yes,” he said. “The Blackguards in previous classes are going to look down on you. I want you to take that on, as a class. I want you to make everyone in your top fourteen as good as the earlier classes’ top seven. We have a mission. We need Blackguards to accomplish it. I will still expel anyone who can’t handle the mission. I’m expanding Blackguards’ remuneration immediately, too. You’ll be elites, and you’ll be paid as such. If you have friends who are excellent fighters or have the potential to be such, encourage them to join the next class. We’ll be running four classes a year from here on, not two. If I’m right, the next few years may see all of us needing trustworthy comrades. Not all of us will make it.”

  Ironfist took off his ghotra. His head was shaved bald in mourning, and his face was mournful but stern. “Your predecessors have died defending the Seven Satrapies, defending the Prism, defending the White. Many people will look at you and see children, but I’m asking you to make an adult decision. Are you ready to die, maybe alone, far from home, with no one even knowing what a hero you were? I can’t even promise that your lives or your deaths will accomplish victory. All I can promise you is that as long as I draw breath, as long as I lead you, I won’t let you be wasted. That’s all you get. That, and the brothers and sisters you see around you. If you don’t want that, good for you. Go lead a happier, safer life somewhere else. Don’t show up tomorrow. Because tomorrow everything gets harder.”

  He tossed his ghotra on the ground and walked out.

  The students watched him go.

  A few clapped, but others looked toward Cruxer. He put out his hand, palm down: no, don’t clap. And that—with a dozen students deferring to Cruxer, and Cruxer taking that deference and doing the right thing with it—was when Teia realized Cruxer would be the commander of the Blackguard someday.

  “It’s war,” Cruxer said. “The Color Prince has invaded Atash. By now the city of Idoss has probably fallen. And his heresies are spreading. He says the oaths we swear to the Chromeria aren’t binding. It’s a lie from the pit of hell. Go talk to your sponsors and figure out where your loyalties lie. Don’t come back until you know. If you’re not back in a week, you’re cut.” He hesitated. “If that’s acceptable, sir?”

  Trainer Fisk had held his tongue the whole time, and now the students looked to him. He was, after all, in charge. He nodded.

  Cruxer walked through the trainees with all eyes on him. He picked up Ironfist’s ghotra reverently and folded it carefully, then walked away.

  With silence heavy upon them, the rest of the trainees left, too.

  Chapter 37

  Gavin followed the Third Eye to a clearing not far into the jungle. There was a fire to fend off the coolness of the evening and cheery lanterns hung from the limbs of a jambu tree, the light showing its ripe, pink fruit. Rugs were spread on the ground. A bowl of wine and a larger bowl of figs and jambu and other fruits sat in the middle of the rug.

  The Third Eye sat cross-legged on the rug, the movement exposing her legs to the knee. She gestured to the place opposite, and Gavin sat.

  “So how did you come here to Seers Island?” Gavin asked. “How does one gain an eye?” He gave her a wry grin.

  She ignored him, turning her face to the heavens, praying, blessing her meal. He tried not to stare at her breasts as she took a deep breath. He glanced over at Karris, who was standing guard in the jungle. She glanced at the Third Eye’s breasts, then back to Gavin, nonplussed. You think that was on accident? she asked him with the barest twitch of one eyebrow.

  Gavin closed his eyes so as to appear to be praying, too. Some people didn’t like to think their Prism was irreligious.

  Nice spot you’ve put me in here, Orholam.

  He pretended to finish praying. When he opened his eyes, she was leaning forward—which did distracting things with her low neckline. She said, “I think you’ll want to dismiss your… bodyguard? There are things I wish to speak with you about alone.”

  Gavin turned to Karris, who had of course heard everything the woman had said.

  “I’m not leaving,” Karris said, “unless those two women with muskets you have stationed in the forest withdraw and I search you for weapons.”

  The Third Eye looked off into the jungle. She stood, gracefully. Apparently light-blinded by the lanterns, she didn’t look the right direction. “Clara, Cezilia, is that you? I told you my life is not in da
nger. My virtue, perhaps. Please withdraw now.” She turned to Karris. “Be my guest,” she said.

  Briefly, and not roughly, Karris patted her down. She was a professional. Plus, in that dress, there weren’t that many places the woman could be hiding a weapon.

  Before Karris finished, the Third Eye leaned close and spoke to her, too low for Gavin to hear.

  Karris blanched. Started, looked at the Third Eye, looked over at Gavin to see if he’d heard.

  “You can’t know that,” she said. She was trying to speak low enough that Gavin didn’t hear, but there was too much emotion for her to keep the reins tight. She shot a look over at Gavin as the Third Eye continued.

  Then the Seer finished, and a long moment passed.

  “I’ll be nearby if you need me, Lord Prism,” Karris said stiffly. Then she withdrew.

  The Third Eye took her place across from Gavin once more. His eyes were tight, disturbed. Very few people had that kind of effect on Karris.

  “Please,” she said. “Drink. Eat. You’re my guest.”

  He began, and she joined him, not saying a word. There was goat cheese with the fruit. A woman came with a loaf of flatbread and a bowl of beans and rice and wild pig in a spicy sauce. Following the Third Eye’s lead, Gavin tore off chunks of bread and used it to scoop up the mixture. She said nothing, though she studied him intently. His attempts at starting conversation met silence. If he didn’t know better, he would have assumed she was deaf.

  “What are you doing?” he asked finally.

  “I’m waiting,” she said.

  “Waiting?”

  “It’s coming, sometime tonight. I thought it would be by now, but clearly…”

  “So you really do see the future,” Gavin said.

  “No,” she said.

  Gavin raised his hands. “And yet here you are, predicting the future.” She raised a finger to object, but Gavin cut her off. “Even if not well.”