The black prism l-1

by Brent Weeks

  Damn this sharp rock. What had his brother done? Carved his prison out of pure hellstone?

  Son of a bitch, that was exactly what Gavin had done. Spent a fortune simply to cut Dazen up. The hateful bastard. But Dazen wasn't so easy to stop. He kept crawling. Freedom would not be denied him so easily.

  Still, obsidian was so rare that lining an entire tunnel with the stuff would have cost more than the Guile family made in a year. Why would Gavin have done such a thing? The magic properties of the stuff meant that with pure darkness and a direct connection-such as through blood or an open cut-it could drain the luxin out of a drafter. No wonder the red luxin wasn't helping Dazen feel hatred anymore. It had all been drained away.

  Something niggled at Dazen's mind. The bends in the tunnel, maybe that was it. The tunnels had bent so that no blue light would spill from the blue cell into the tunnel. Thus the tunnel would be totally dark. So the obsidian would work.

  Damn Gavin to the evernight. He's not stopping me. I don't care if I'm a bloody wreck. I'm getting out of here.

  Part of Dazen was telling him to stop, to think. That blue, rational part of him. But he couldn't stop. If he didn't keep moving, he'd never get anywhere. He was so sick, so fevered that if he stopped he might never move again. Gavin wanted to paralyze him.

  No. No no no. Dazen pushed on. The floor here felt different. Not obsidian. He'd gotten past it. He crawled farther. He could swear there was a glow ahead of him. Dear Orholam, there was-

  The floor dropped out from under him, swinging open on hidden hinges. Dazen tumbled down, rolling over and over, unable to stop himself, down a chute that snapped shut behind him. He rolled over, bathed in green light.

  Green?

  An entire, round chamber, with green walls like trees. A hole up top for water and food and air, and a hole in the bottom for waste. Dazen looked desperately at his skin for the red luxin. It was gone. All gone, all sucked up by the obsidian tunnel.

  Dazen started laughing stupidly, desperately, madly. A green prison, after the blue prison. He laughed until he was sobbing. There wasn't one prison. There weren't two. He knew it now. He had no doubt. There were seven prisons. One for every color, and in sixteen years, he had only escaped the first.

  He laughed and sobbed. In one luminous green wall, the dead man laughed with him. At him.

  Chapter 95

  "Not bad for a defeat," said Corvan Danavis, coming into Gavin's cabin.

  Gavin sat up, blinking the sleep from his eyes. His "quick nap" after talking to Kip had left him wooly. But he'd drafted so much over the past week, it was no wonder he felt off. He said, "We lost a city, three-quarters of the Blackguard, and hundreds if not thousands of soldiers. My natural son-whom I just acknowledged-publicly murdered a rightful satrap, which will make the other satraps worry I'm trying to rule the world again. We have thousands of refugees that we have to put Orholam knows where; there's some pagan army in charge of Garriston; and I've built them a damn near unassailable wall, which will now protect my enemies. Oh, and your daughter has joined our foes. If that's not bad for a defeat, I'm not really sure what is."

  "Could be worse," Corvan said.

  Gavin rubbed his cheek where Karris had slapped him. It was worse, Corvan, he wanted to say. He'd been so delighted to see Karris alive that he'd hugged her without thinking. He'd deserved the slap for that alone. But she'd clung to him, for half a moment. Maybe she just felt relieved to be safe, away from King Garadul's army, but he'd hoped it was something more.

  Then she'd whispered, "I know your big secret, you asshole. Why couldn't you be man enough to tell me yourself?"

  Big secret? His heart froze up in his chest. Which big secret?

  She released him and stared into his eyes. Unable to take it, he'd glanced away-and saw Kip. Kip, whom he'd thought was most likely dead. Like a moron, he said, "Kip?"

  He hadn't meant Kip was his big secret. That would be stupid. Of course she knew about Kip. But his brain wasn't working. Her closeness, the battle, the effects of his drafting so much, and the sudden sense of exposure throttled his thoughts.

  She'd slapped him. He'd deserved it.

  Gavin said to Corvan, "It can always be worse. Is the weather holding?" He sat up. If he had to make these barges weather a storm, he was going to have a lot of work to do.

  "Hold up," Corvan said. "Your attitude when you go out there matters."

  Gavin stopped. Corvan had talked to him like this before, but not since the war. "What are you talking about?"

  "I mean this Lord Omnichrome doesn't care about Garriston. The only thing Garriston was to him was a chance to take a victory from us, and frame you for murdering a satrap so he could mobilize people to fight you. What he wants is to destroy the Chromeria. He wants to drive out the belief in Orholam and set up a new order. And we don't even know what that new order is yet."

  "So let's rephrase 'defeat' as 'crushing defeat,' huh?" Gavin knew he was being childish, but Corvan was the only person around whom he could complain. It felt good to have his friend back.

  "We have to get ready for war," Corvan said. "A bigger war than over one little city."

  "You think people are going to join him?"

  "In droves," Corvan said. "My daughter did, and she's not stupid. So we have to believe he's charismatic, and we've already seen that he's smart enough to defeat us and get all he wants. So we have to look at what we have, and prepare."

  "I'm sorry she joined him, Corvan. She seemed like such a sensible girl. I should have watched out for her better while she was-"

  "She is a sensible girl. I'm not worried about her. She'll come back," Corvan said. There was an edge on his voice, as well there should be. He was trying to convince himself too. But Gavin knew not to push it.

  "So what do we have?" Gavin asked.

  "We have you and me. We got Karris back and Kip back and Ironfist back, when we could have easily lost all three. We have the devotion, loyalty, awe, and motivation of thirty thousand people who now believe in Gavin Guile to the core of their souls. I call that the start of an army. You're the Prism. How is some pagan king going to stand up to you?"

  Gavin laughed, because both of them knew that there were about a thousand ways. It was also a little scary, how Corvan thought. How he saw through things. Gavin would have to be careful. There are things you can't tell even your best friend. Great purposes best achieved by misdirection.

  Pensive, Gavin said, "You know, I came up with a list of things I want to accomplish before I die, and the best thing on that list was to free Garriston. What I let happen there after the war was… I don't know if it's the worst thing I've done, that's a crowded field, but I let what was happening in Garriston keep happening. For sixteen years. With all my power, I could never get the Spectrum to stop it."

  "I knew a man once who had a knack of changing the rules when he couldn't win. He didn't give up when others said he'd already lost," Corvan said. "So… Garriston is a collection of ramshackle buildings with indefensible walls."

  "So I built new walls, I changed the rules. I tried, Corvan! I lost!" Gavin grimaced, light dawning. "Oh, and you're going to say next, 'You lost a collection of ramshackle buildings.' And I'm going to say, 'Yes! We've established that.' And you're going to point out that when I decided to free Garriston, I probably wasn't worried about the misery of the buildings, but the misery of the people."

  "And then I'll point out that all those people you wanted to free are here. And then you'll admit my superior wisdom."

  Gavin laughed. In some moments, it was like a day hadn't passed since they'd been separated. "Well, we know one of those things isn't going to happen."

  Corvan grinned. He was right, though. "So," he said, "go out there and smile, and pat your soldiers on the back, and act like an emperor with a great purpose before him-a promachos who will accomplish that great purpose. You have freed these people. You are going to protect them, and you will give them a new home. You will give them justice. And they're
going to help you."

  "Sometimes I think you should have been the leader, not me," Gavin said.

  "Me too," Corvan said. He grinned. "Orholam's ways are mysterious. In some cases, very mysterious."

  "Thanks," Gavin said. Then they laughed together. It felt good. Food for a hungry soul.

  "By the by, how's your back? I could've sworn that little weasel stabbed you. Kip's being hailed as a hero for stopping him, you know."

  "He got him right in the nick of time, I guess," Gavin said, though he must have taken a shot in the kidney from the boy's fist as Kip had tackled him, because he had felt a searing pain. He pulled his shirt around and showed it to Corvan. The shirt was cut over his kidney, but his skin was unbroken. "A near thing," he said.

  Corvan whistled. "Orholam's hand must be on you, my friend."

  Gavin grunted. From how his head felt, he wished Orholam's hand were a little gentler. "Well, time to go play emperor, then," he said. Together, they walked to the door of the cabin-and who had drafted cabins onto the barge?

  Gavin paused. "Corvan, something was bothering me."

  "Yes?"

  "All those years you spent in that little town. Seems like an awful coincidence that both you and Kip were in the same place."

  "Not a coincidence," Corvan said soberly.

  "You tracked him down. You were looking out for him. Watching him." Gavin didn't need Corvan to confirm it. He knew. "But you never got very close to him."

  "Tried not to, anyway. He's a good boy. But he is who he is," Corvan said. He meant, He is your brother's son. Corvan looked down at his hands and lowered his voice, so that even if someone had been eavesdropping just outside the room, they couldn't have made out the words. "I knew you might need me to kill him someday. I didn't want to make it harder than it had to be."

  Neither said anything for a long moment.

  The Danavis motto was Fealty to One. Corvan didn't believe in Orholam, or the Chromeria, or any creed. He believed in Gavin. Sometimes it was frightening to have someone believe in you like that. For a second, Gavin considered telling Corvan his seventh and final purpose. Trusting him. But no. Safer this way. He'd tell him when the time came.

  "Some world," Corvan said finally.

  "Some day," Gavin said, looking out on the gray skies. Blah.

  Corvan grunted. "At least it's nice out," he said, and went on his way.

  Sometimes Corvan's sarcasm was so deadpan.

  Gavin shrugged and went around patting shoulders, checking on the wounded, asking about supplies and their course, mostly being seen and being seen to care and to be in charge. Karris watched him the whole time, but never said a word to him. There was another problem he'd have to address.

  He checked in on Kip. The boy was curled up, asleep. As well he might be. Gavin was still sorting out the tales. According to the stories, Kip had drafted green, blue, red, and maybe yellow. At fifteen years of age. Gavin had hoped to buy them both some time by falsifying the testing stone; Kip's road was going to be hard enough as it was. Too late now. Smart, brave, and now a polychrome, the boy had more than proven himself a Guile-Gavin would have to work twice as hard to keep the truth from him.

  There was a lot of work to do.

  Not least of which was facing his father and telling him his wife was dead, that his bastard grandson had killed a satrap, and trying to fend off a conversation about marrying some satrap's daughter in order to patch things up-a conversation Gavin was going to lose.

  He went to the side of the barge to draft a scull to head over to the other barge. He looked around for something blue to draft from. There was nothing. He looked up. There were no clouds. He was on a barge on the sea under a bright sky. But something was wrong.

  He tried to draft blue. He was a Prism; he could split white light into anything.

  But nothing happened.

  A bolt of panic flashed through Gavin. He counted off his colors on his fingertips, thumb to forefinger first, down then up. Sub-red, red, orange, yellow, green, bl-Nothing. He stared at his offending middle finger as if this were its fault. There was no blue. He couldn't draft it. He couldn't even see it. It was starting. Not on the seventh year. Now. He'd never even known how a Prism knew when the end began. Now he knew. He was losing his colors. He didn't have five years left; it was starting now. Gavin was dying.

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