by Brent Weeks
It was early afternoon before he could escape. Escape being relative, of course. He had a dozen Blackguards, a secretary, four messengers, and a dozen city guards accompanying him. He went to the docks.
He found Corvan there, ably directing the mess. The crowd wasn't as bad as he had assumed it would be. Perhaps people were holding out hope that Gavin would save them. Perhaps after seeing him build an impossible wall, they thought his powers were unlimited. Perhaps some were simply religiously observant-only absolutely necessary work was supposed to be done on this holiest of days.
Good thing staying alive doesn't count as absolutely necessary.
Many nobles were bartering with ship captains. Boxes of goods were piled on the docks-and plenty of goods that weren't in boxes. Rolled-up tapestries that must have hung in families' great halls, furniture with gold leaf paint, artwork, a maze of trunks packed with Orholam knew what.
"Lord Prism," General Danavis said, coming up to Gavin quickly. "Perfect timing."
Which means you're about to hand over some truly unpleasant duty.
"I gave the order yesterday that no ships were to leave the harbor, in case an evacuation became necessary. I let it be known that disobedience meant seizure of the ship for the captain, and death for whoever hired him."
It was a harsh sentence, but war called for harsh sentences. Whoever took a ship out of the city early was condemning dozens to death if Garriston were overrun and a massacre began. The problem with harsh sentences was that someone always tried to call your bluff-once. "Who was it?" Gavin asked. He thought he knew already.
"Governor Crassos. His men fired on the Blackguards who went to stop them."
Blackguards? How'd Corvan get Blackguards to obey a "fetch me that prisoner" order? "Any hurt?"
"No, Lord Prism."
"He's here?" Gavin asked. He needed to get out of here. His entourage was blocking Corvan's people from coming and going through the street as they needed to, and they were blocking access to the docks as well. But this he wouldn't dodge. It was better to handle these things in a way that reinforced the solemnity of the law, but it was best to handle them quickly before others disobeyed the same law and you ended up having to kill more. When the sands were running out of the glass, delayed justice was as bad as injustice. "Bring the sailors too, and whatever cargo he was taking," Gavin told Corvan quietly.
Governor Crassos was, indeed, barely ten paces away. He'd just been surrounded by guards much taller than he was, blocking him from sight. His hands were bound behind his back and one eye was swelling. A motley collection of smugglers were brought forward with him, scruffy, hard-edged men who'd taken on the job knowing the risks.
Gavin raised both hands over his head, throwing out a small fan of sparks. Anyone who hadn't been looking before was now. "I hereby convene this adjudication in the light of Orholam's eye. Let justice be done."
Heads bobbed all around the docks in acknowledgment of the sudden prayer. The accused were pushed roughly to their knees. Humility before justice.
If I'm going to block the docks, I might as well accomplish something while I'm here.
"Governor, you're accused of hiring a ship to flee the city, against the orders of the general in charge. Is this true?"
"General? I'm the governor of this shithole! No one tells me what to do!"
"Not even I?" Gavin asked. "The general was acting in my name, given explicit authority to do so. Did you hire this crew to leave the city?"
"You've got fifty witnesses who'll tell you I did. So what? We helped you. My family stood by you in the war. You wouldn't be here without us!" Governor Crassos's voice trailed to a whine. "You're going to put these peasants in front of me?"
"Captain," Gavin said, turning away from the governor, "you acknowledge your attempt to flee?"
The captain looked around, defiant, unbroken, but not quite daring to meet the Prism's eye. Apparently everyone on the docks had seen the attempt. He had the air of a man who knew he was going to die and wanted to die well. He was holding his courage in a tight grip. "Yessir. The guvnor hired us last night. I already wanted out." Of course he did. Every man with a ship wanted out, and wanted out yesterday.
"It is an old tradition," Gavin said loudly, for the assembled crowd, "to grant one pardon on Sun Day. As Orholam is merciful, so should we be merciful."
"Oh, thank Orholam and his Prism among us," Governor Crassos said, struggling to his feet. "You won't regret this, Lord Prism."
Gavin drafted superviolet for its invisibility and smacked it across the back of Crassos's knees, never even looking at him. The man dropped. Gavin addressed the captain. "Captain, by rights I should lock you in a cell and leave you there to whatever fate might find you. Instead, I'm going to release you, and I'm going to give you my ship-the ship you forfeited-and your crew. I'll be watching you, Captain. Serve well."
The captain looked poleaxed. Then, embarrassingly, his eyes welled with sudden tears.
"What?!" Crassos demanded.
"Governor Crassos, you have disobeyed my order and demeaned your office. A governor is to bear up his people, not weigh them down. You have stolen from the people Orholam gave you the duty to lead. You are a thief and a coward. I hereby strip you of your governorship. You wanted to take your riches and leave? So be it."
Gavin selected a trunk from among those Crassos had taken with him. It was full of rich clothing, large, and so heavy that one man would have trouble holding it. He shot large holes in the top, bottom, and sides. He gave orders and guards put the trunk in Crassos's arms and then bound it to him with ropes.
"You can't do this," Crassos said.
"It's done," Gavin said. "Your only choice now is how you face it."
"My family will hear of this!" Crassos said.
"Then let them hear you died like a man," Gavin said.
It was like Gavin had slapped the man across the face. His family obviously meant everything to him.
Gavin drafted a blue platform out into the water. "You wanted to flee, Lord Crassos? Go."
Without hesitation, Lord Crassos walked down the steps of blue luxin and out onto the water, carrying his trunk. He got out about fifteen paces before the luxin cracked and he fell into the water. In moments, he was kicking to keep the buoyant chest from bobbing over his head and drowning him.
The tide was just turning, so he merely sloshed back and forth, neither pushed in closer to shore nor washed out toward the other piers or toward the Guardian and the open sea.
A thousand pairs of eyes watched him, silently. In a minute, he wasn't having to kick so hard to keep the trunk from pushing him under-because the trunk wasn't floating as high in the water. He was trying to stare defiantly toward the dock, toward Gavin, but his wet hair was falling in front of his eyes, and he couldn't seem to shake his head enough to get it out of them.
He screamed something right before he went under. Gavin couldn't understand him. More death. He hadn't liked Crassos, hated his attitude, hated the type of noble he represented, who took and took and never thought to give a crumb back. But he'd just killed a man, made enemies of his family-and this in the midst of a war that would have done the job for him.
Gavin watched for the bubbles and didn't see any. Crassos had floated too far out. Gavin raised his hands, and then brought them in. "Orholam have mercy," he announced, bringing the adjudication to a close. He'd already spent too much time here. He turned.
Behind him in the bay, a shark's fin cut the water like an arrow headed for its target.
Chapter 78
At sunset, Gavin had finished the most public of the rituals of the day. It was a big show, and he did his best to make each one special. It was one part of the day he could feel good about. He always performed nearly naked. Colors bloomed and raced through his body, out of his body, and gave the appearance of going back into him.
It hurt a little to use so much magic after yesterday's fight, but it was one thing he wouldn't compromise.
All
too soon, however, it was over, and people were retiring to their parties. The parties would go all night. Sun Day lasted until the next dawn. The parties of those to be Freed would begin at full dark. He was sitting in a little chapel in the fortress. He had a few minutes, supposedly to pray.
There was a time when he had used it to pray. No more. If Orholam was real, he was busy, he was asleep, he didn't care, he was taking a shit. Time was different to Orholam, they said. That would explain why he'd been doing it for Gavin's entire life.
Gavin's chest felt tight. He was having trouble breathing. The chapel seemed too small, too dark. He was sweating, cold, clammy sweat. He closed his eyes.
Get some balls, Gavin. You can do this. You've done it before. This is for them.
It's a lie. It's all a lie.
It's better than the alternative. Breathe. This isn't for you. You want to go out there and tell those drafters waiting for you that their entire lives are a fraud? That their service is a waste? That Orholam doesn't see their sacrifice? That what they've done, what they've given, doesn't matter? Everyone dies, Gavin, don't rob it of meaning for these people. Don't make them see themselves as worthless. Their sacrifice as empty. All life as meaningless.
It was the same debate he had with himself every year. He'd even brought a bucket with him into the chapel, along with extra incense. He threw up, some years.
There was a knock at the door of the chapel.
"Lord Prism, it's time." Kip wasn't blindfolded the next night. Instead, they gave him darkened glasses, bound them around the back of his head, pulling them tight against his eyes, and ripped the sleeves off his shirt. It would be hard to draft, and anyone around him would have ample warning.
"Apparently there's something they want us to see," Karris said as the guards, Mirrormen and drafters, hustled them out of the wagon they'd been sharing.
They were brought to a security perimeter out away from the tents. It was oddly separate from the rest of the camp, given far too much room. The perimeter itself was simply a rope strung between posts pounded quickly into the ground, but it was huge-and no one from the camp even came close to violating the circle. Inside, looking tiny compared to the size of the circle, was a crowd gathered before a platform. The sun had fully set, but it wasn't yet dark.
"They don't want to be overheard," Karris said. "Tells you how crazy they are. They're going to rally the troops with some idiocy any norm would mock outright."
Norm? Oh, a person who couldn't draft. Wait, that meant…
As they were walked closer, Kip saw that his inference was correct: every single person here was a drafter. There had to be eight hundred or a thousand drafters here!
"Orholam," Karris breathed. "There must be five hundred drafters here."
So I can't count, so what?
But even Kip's bravado melted away as they got closer. His and Karris's tenders pushed them into the crowd, and the first person they pushed out of the way stared at them with wild green eyes. His halos were cracked, snakes of green wriggling through the whites of his eyes.
Kip felt like he was passing through a menagerie. It seemed almost everyone light-skinned enough for it to show had skin stained by luxin. Green, blue, red, yellow, orange, even purple. When he looked into the superviolet, the superviolet drafters stood out like beacons. They'd worked designs into their cloaks, their armor, even their skin-all invisible to anyone but other superviolets. Adjusting his eyes, Kip saw that the sub-reds had done the same, etching dragons, phoenixes, whorls, and flames onto their clothes. Blues wore spikes curling like rams' horns, or knife edges along their forearms. They passed an orange. The man looked normal except he'd slicked back his hair with orange luxin as if it were hair oil, and the whites of his eyes were solid orange, leaving no differentiation from white to iris, only the tiny black dots of his pupils marring that perfect color. A green clad only in leaves hissed at them; then she laughed. A menagerie indeed, except Kip was in the cage with the animals.
They were brought all the way to the front. The crowd was arrayed in front of a stone rising out of the ground, its surfaces worn smooth by wind and rain, but tall enough to be a platform. As Kip and Karris arrived, a man climbed up on the rock wearing a hooded cloak. He reached the top of the stone, threw back his hood, and tore off the cloak, throwing it aside as if it disgusted him.
The man's entire body glowed in the gathering dark. He stood, defiant, silent, legs braced. He extended a hand toward the crowd, and at every five paces, in a wave, torches burst into flame, bathing them in light. Last, torches ringing his stone platform caught fire, and Kip saw that the man was made entirely of luxin. And he was glowing from within.
All around, drafters were dropping to their knees before Lord Omnichrome. But not all of them. Those who stood looked awkward, conflicted. For those who bowed weren't just bowing, they were pressing their faces to the ground. This was pure religious devotion.
"Don't bow," Karris said. "That's no god."
"What is he?" Kip whispered.
"My brother."
Lord Omnichrome extended his hands. "Please, no. Brothers, sisters, stand. Stand with me. We have fallen prostrate before men for far too long." The orange drafter, the artist Aheyyad, fell prostrate before Gavin. He was to be the first of the night. It was an honored place, and Aheyyad deserved honor. Real honor, not this travesty. But there was no way out. There never was.
Gavin stepped forward. "Stand, my child," he said. Usually, when he called the drafters "my child" he felt sardonic. But Aheyyad was a child, or at least barely a man.
Aheyyad stood. He met Gavin's eyes, then quickly looked away.
"You have something to say," Gavin said. "This is the time." Some drafters felt the need to confess sins or secrets. Some made requests. Some just wanted to express a frustration, a fear, a doubt. Depending on the number of drafters to be Freed before dawn, each year Gavin took as much time with each drafter as he could.
"I failed you, Lord Prism," Aheyyad said. "I failed my family. They always said I was the son who could have been great. Instead, I'm a waste. An addict. I'm the gifted one who couldn't handle Orholam's gift." Bitter tears rolled down his cheeks. He still couldn't look Gavin in the eye.
"Look at me," Gavin said. He took the young man's face in his hands. "You joined me in the greatest work I have ever done. You did what I, the Prism, couldn't do. Any man who has seen a sunset knows that Orholam values beauty. You made that wall as beautiful and terrible as Orholam himself. What you did will stand for a thousand years."
"But we lost!"
"We lost," Gavin acknowledged. "My failure, not yours. Kingdoms come and go, but that wall will protect thousands yet unborn. And it will inspire hundreds of thousands more. I couldn't have done that. Only you could. You, Aheyyad, have made beauty. Orholam gave you a gift, and you have given a gift to the world. That doesn't sound like failure to me. Your family will be proud. I am proud of you, Aheyyad. I will never forget you. You have inspired me."
A quick grin flickered over the young man's face. "It is a pretty great piece, huh?"
"Not bad for your first try," Gavin said.
Aheyyad laughed, his whole demeanor changed. He was a light indeed. A gift to the world, beautiful and so burning with life.
"Are you ready, son?" Gavin asked.
"Gavin Guile," the young man said. "My Lord Prism. You, sir, are a great man, and a great Prism. Thank you. I am ready."
"Aheyyad Brightwater, Orholam gave you a gift," Gavin began. The last name was the invention of the moment. In Paria, the only people given two names were great men and women, and sometimes their children. From the sudden tears welling in Aheyyad's eyes and the deep breath he took, his chest swelling with pride, Gavin knew he'd said the perfect thing. "And you have stewarded well the gift he gave you. It is time to lay your burden down, Aheyyad Brightwater. You gave the full measure. Your service will not be forgotten, but your failures are hereby blotted out, forgotten, erased. Well done, true and faithful serv
ant. You have fulfilled the Pact." "They say we take a Pact! We make an oath! And with that oath, they bind us, they bury us," Lord Omnichrome said.
Liv was pushing carefully through the throng, moving toward the front. She swore she'd seen Kip led there, black spectacles bound to his head. But everyone else was paying rapt attention to the freak up front, so she couldn't move too quickly. Instead, she pretended to listen, too, and moved slowly.
"Like this," Lord Omnichrome said. He gestured to the rounded stone on which he stood. "This is all that's left of what was once a great civilization. You have seen these relics scattered throughout this land. Statues of great men, broken by the pygmies who followed." Liv's ears perked up. Rekton had had a broken statue, out in an orange grove. No one had ever said anything about where it came from. She thought that was because no one knew.
"You think these statues are a mystery?" Lord Omnichrome asked. "They're no mystery. You think it was a coincidence the Prisms' War ended here, in Tyrea? You think the Guiles simply wandered the Seven Satrapies until their armies found each other? And it happened to be here? Let me tell you something you already know, something that all of you have believed but no one dared to say: the wrong Guile won the Prisms' War. Dazen Guile was trying to change things, and they killed him for it. The Chromeria killed Dazen Guile. They killed him because they were worried he would change everything. They feared him, because Dazen Guile wanted to Free us." There was some consternation in the crowd at that phrase. They all knew what day it was, and that the Prism was in Garriston, not even a league away, performing the Freeing this very night.
"You see?" Lord Omnichrome said. "You feel that uneasiness? Because the Chromeria has twisted our very language against us. Dazen wanted to Free us. Dazen knew that light cannot be chained."
"Light cannot be chained," some of the drafters echoed. It was an almost religious refrain.
"The Freeing, they call it. Lay your burdens down, the Prism says. I give you absolution and freedom, he says. Do you know what he gives us? Do you know?!" "I give you absolution," Gavin said, his heart in his throat as Aheyyad knelt at his feet, eyes up, right hand on Gavin's thigh. "I give you freedom. Orholam bless you and take you to his arms." He drew his knife and buried it in Aheyyad's chest. Right in the heart. He withdrew the blade. A perfect thrust. But then, he'd had a lot of practice.
