by Brent Weeks
“I wasn’t intending to take it lightly, mother. Merely trying to break the tension.”
She ignored him. “You’ll have only two minutes with each. We prefer to give each five minutes with you, but the sheer number of drafters who’ve burned themselves out in the war precludes that.”
“We could have begun sooner.”
“The High Magisterium and the Spectrum agreed that drawing out this Freeing for days would only draw more attention to the war and all its wounds. They want us to move on. All the drafters understand. Most have already been shrived by the lesser luxiats. Some, however, fear that the luxiats keep lists of their sins to use against their families in the future—”
“That’s strictly forbidden!”
Had he been that young? That naïve?
“Strictly. But it happens. We root such out as quietly as we can, but with so many luxiats coming from noble families, the temptation is often too great for them; they can’t help but pass along some helpful tidbit. As I was saying, some of the shrived will keep their most serious sins to themselves to be revealed to the Prism alone. You will find yourself in possession of many dark secrets. With your memory, it will be a potent tool. That is as it should be. But don’t share those secrets with anyone. Not your father. Not me. He will pressure you to do so. The Prism sharing such things with his own powerful family would undermine your power at a thousand times the rate a mere luxiat leaking such things would.”
“Of course,” Gavin said. He’d had a sudden insight: the kind that now he would not expect such a young man to have. “Some die with sin on their souls, just to keep the Prism from knowing, don’t they?” He’d been young, but not stupid.
“Doubtless. Prism Spreading Oak was worthless, but Prism Eirene Malargos before him had a way of showing mercy to such. She would, after shriving one who had been an enemy, ask if they had any silent sins for which they could together beseech Orholam’s forgiveness. It’s outside of orthodoxy, you understand, for to speak sins is to let them be exposed to the light, and is theologically necessary, but it was also very merciful. Such things get out, you know. She was well loved.”
“Sounds like a good idea.”
“Prism Malargos lasted two terms, but perhaps only because the Spectrum never had reason to fear her. She never advanced her family, nor any of the goals she held dear. She was a figurehead, nothing more. Consider carefully whether you want that fate.”
He turned to look at the gentle woman who had so often tenderly nurtured him. This steel. Was steel her natural state, just hidden, or was it simply that she would do anything at all to protect her last living son? “I’ve given the satrapies ample reason to fear me, mother. A little love might not go amiss.”
She bowed her head. “As you wish, Father.” Ever the Orange, Felia Guile knew exactly when to tinge that religious title with a playful smirk.
This time she did not. She gave him the respect that he still, as a young man, craved from his own mother. The respect of tens of thousands of others was reinforced rather than hollowed, as only a mother could do.
He certainly didn’t get any respect from his father.
She closed the jar. “The lotion I’ve applied to you will be preserved until dawn by the other oils you were anointed with. It’s a mix of tiny particles of imperfect yellow luxin dust and superviolet. You can use a little superviolet to make your entire body glow, even in a darkened room. It makes quite a sight. Use it sparingly, and don’t get too close to the torches or it will break down. It is incredibly difficult for the yellows to make, and it’s a closely guarded secret. If you like, all the gold in your clothing can be lit as well. These are the last and holiest moments of a drafter’s life. Make them special, Gavin.”
No pressure. “Trinkets and magic tricks?”
His mother took a deep breath. “I seem to remember Dazen awarding his army’s highest honor to a commander after the Battle of Blood Ridge who routed the enemy with illusions that, were those enemies thinking rationally, wouldn’t have deceived them for two heartbeats.”
She waited. But he refused to give her the satisfaction of admitting she was right.
“But at certain moments, two heartbeats is an eternity,” she said, quoting him. “I might suggest that at the moment you slide the knife home, you begin to glow, and shine brighter as the drafter dies, to give her a symbol of her eternal reward. But … you are the Prism, Father.”
She could be astonishingly cynical, his dear mother.
“I’m a fraud,” he whispered.
She slapped his face, fury breaking through a veneer so cool he hadn’t even guessed it was there.
Then, instantly, it was gone again. She rubbed the lotion back into place on his slap-stung cheek. Her voice was quiet, but each word was considered, knife-edged: “We are all of us frauds. We are all of us frauds, and we are all of us doing the best we can to hold up a tower of illusions and ill-placed hopes. Do not fail us, my beloved son.”
The dream skipped forward then, through the long walk to the yard, through the cheers and praises and the prayers of another of the High Luxiats, blessing him and his work. Choice foods and rare wines were laid out. In some cases, whole communities had made the pilgrimage to Little Jasper to say goodbye to a beloved drafter who had served particularly well. Which this year meant drafters who’d been particularly heroic in the war.
Though it was a feast, Blackguards wandered the crowds, keeping their eyes on all the drafters who were nearly wights. Every few years, there was an incident, and in the aftermath of bitter war, they were wise to be on edge.
And then Gavin was ushered into a room, a long, thin dagger pressed into his hand. The closing of the heavy door shut out the cheers of the crowd utterly. He would move from room to room. The rooms were arranged in a circle at the base of his tower. Each room was tiny, with only a few simple decorations, a pitcher of wine and a smaller one of poppy liquor for the fearful, and a cushioned kneeler. Some drafters liked to pass the night in prayer vigils. Others relaxed and talked with family and friends in larger rooms or outside until the luxiats summoned them. As Orholam’s favored, all the female drafters were seen first.
The first one was a haggard drafter of perhaps forty-five. She knelt patiently on the kneeler at the front of the room. Her back was to the small door where the luxiats would take her body, her face to Gavin as he entered.
“Greetings, my daughter, may all the blessings of the light be on you,” Gavin said.
The woman made no reply, merely stared at Gavin.
Gavin moved forward, taking the seat in front of the kneeling woman. “I’ve come to shrive you.”
No reply. Usually the luxiat who spoke to Gavin between rooms was supposed to tell him if there were any special circumstances—a mute, or a drafter who might be violent, whatever. The luxiats had said nothing other than the woman’s name.
“Do you have a confession, Vell Parsham?” Gavin asked uncomfortably.
“This,” the woman said. “This is wrong. This is not what Orholam wills. This is a travesty. This screams to me of men and women holding on to power by their fingertips, by making someone else pay.”
“It’s normal to be afraid,” Gavin said.
“I’m not afraid for my life. I fear for your soul, High Lord Prism. Orholam forgive you, for what you do this night is murder.” She pulled the low collar of her blouse aside to give Gavin a straight shot at her heart. “End me now, Lord Prism, but someday, may you end it all or be ended. Know that Orholam is just, and tremble.”
Gavin stood and wet his lips. So dry. He blinked, approaching in a daze. “Bless you, my daughter.”
He looked the woman in the eye as he stabbed her in the heart. Held those un-angry eyes until the light went out of them. Then he pulled the bell string incorporated into the kneeler. Two luxiats entered and caught the kneeling body before it could fall. The side door opened.
“Perfect time, High Lord Prism. There will be water and figs after the next room. Name’
s Delilah Tae, a sub-red.”
And then he was in the next room.
The woman at the kneeler couldn’t have been more than twenty-five years old. She’d been weeping.
“My daughter, may the blessings of the light be upon you.”
She dissolved.
Gavin took his seat. “I’ve come to shrive you, daughter, that you may walk clean and pure and unashamed in the light.”
“I have a daughter, High Lord Prism. She’s three. Please tell me I’m not doing wrong by leaving her. I can’t control the sub-red much longer, though. I know it. I—I shouldn’t have used so much during the war. I should have been smarter.”
“What’s your daughter’s name?”
“Essel.”
“Essel will be taken care of, Delilah Tae. I’ll see to it personally.”
“We don’t have any family, not since the war. I grew up next to one of the homes for orphans. Some of the luxiats have good intentions, but … tell me she’ll not go there, High Lord, please. I don’t deserve to ask anything of you, but—”
“I’ll take care of her. I promise.”
The bell rang to let Gavin know he’d spent too long.
She gulped nervously. “I’ve got more to say. I’m so sorry, I know you’ve got others waiting.”
“I’m here. I’m with you. Tell me what you have to say,” Gavin said.
“It was my idea. Garriston. My husband was a red. He and I used to do a trick where he’d shoot a stream into the air and I’d ignite it. We showed our commander, and he took the idea up like it was his … but it was mine. Pollos told me not to tell them about it, that it would be used for ill, but I did it. All those people. The whole city burning. They said eighty thousand died in that city alone.”
She dissolved then, incapable of speech. That wasn’t your fault, Gavin wanted to say. It was mine. My brother’s. We commanded such things. We knew. We knew, and we left the burden on people like you.
The bell rang again, more insistently.
In silent fury, Gavin reached out with blue luxin and ripped the bell off the wall.
He knelt across from Delilah and took her hands in his. “Lord of Light, Orholam, God, see your humble servant. We pray you search us and know us. We pray your healing light would purify us of sins of commission and omission. In the fire of war, we have done unspeakable things. The luxiats may say our commanders bear the weight of those crimes, but Orholam, Father, we feel that weight on our souls. We repent of our rage and our recklessness, of duties undone. Forgive your daughter, Orholam, take her guilt and shame, and let her walk with you, forever.”
Gavin made his countenance glow softly as he spoke, superviolet and will and yellow triggering the cream’s broken crystals, so it appeared he glowed with Orholam’s light. Delilah looked up at him with big, wet eyes full of wonder, but also full of peace. He smiled at her until she shared his smile. He stabbed her heart.
And his own went icy cold.
He had kept his word to her, though. Gavin’s mother helped him find a family to raise the child. Essel was a Blackguard now.
High Luxiat Jorvis opened the door. “Lord Prism. We’re running behind. We’ll have to put off your refreshment until—”
“No.”
“Very well. Your next penitent is waiting. Her name is—”
“No!”
And as soon as his voice was raised, Commander Anamar of the Blackguards was standing there, threatening, his attention and menace turned toward Gavin. Gavin would ruin him for that.
“It’s not enough time,” Gavin said.
“There’s no choice. The ceremony must be finished by dawn. We agreed—”
Furious, Gavin walked down the hallway, toward the revelers outside. Commander Anamar stepped in front of him, blocking the door.
“If you want to have the use of your knees ever again,” Gavin said, “you’ll get on them now, and get the hell out of my way.”
The man looked to High Luxiat Jorvis, then stepped aside. He didn’t get on his knees.
Gavin went out past him and took the steps up the podium two at a time. He sent two jets of fire into the afternoon air to get everyone’s attention.
He couldn’t remember what words he’d summoned. Oratory had become second nature to him. Something about a momentous year, and a heartbreaking one. Something about Orholam’s heaven becoming richer at the price of those who would miss these drafters. Something about special circumstances requiring special action. Some false humility and misdirection.
“I, who serve as your Prism, I covet the time I get with each penitent in Orholam’s presence. These are the holiest moments I know, and for my sake, I have asked Orholam that he not be too harsh a master with me. And Orholam is merciful! He has given me a special dispensation! I will meet with and shrive each penitent to be Freed for as long as necessary, even if it takes three days! The parties here will continue, at my own personal expense, until we have honored our dear drafters appropriately!”
A roar went up at that. Two minutes, to be shrived? After giving up your life for the satrapies? No one had liked it. Not even the luxiats who’d insisted on it. By claiming this special dispensation was for him and his own weakness, Gavin had come across as humble. Everyone knew, or would figure out in the next two days, that meeting for longer with each meant he’d just doubled his own burden, if not more.
But if one is going to be a fraud, one ought to do it well.
He jumped off the stage and headed back inside, past agape managers and slave overseers and luxiats who had just seen the labors required of them also double, the logistical nightmare, the long hours they would have to put in so that Gavin would look good. “Make it so,” Gavin said. “I don’t care how. Do it.”
Inside, he walked past Commander Anamar and toward the next room. He paused at the door and turned back to the frowning Blackguard. “Oh, Commander, I almost forgot.” Gavin had draped invisible superviolet in nets around the commander’s legs as he’d walked down the hall, and now he shot green luxin up and along those nets. The green luxin wrapped around the commander’s knees before he could react. Gavin clenched a fist and the green luxin crushed both of the commander’s knees.
The commander dropped to the floor, admirably without crying out.
Dear Orholam, Gavin had been brash, but it had worked. Now he would have thought through what friends the commander had, who would be offended, whether they would take vengeance—and in the time he would have taken the window for such an action would have closed. Gavin had gotten away with a lot on brute charisma.
“Have your replacement report to me by the time I finish,” he said.
But the dream didn’t end there.
He walked into the little room and shrived an Atashian green, Prayan Navayed, who confessed to cheating her employer, and to sloth in service, and to frequent defiance, and to beating the other slaves unnecessarily harshly.
Then came Jaleh Rodrez. She was a red. Lust, pride, wrath.
Tahlia Blue. Wrath, envy, sabotaging her sister’s marriage.
Khordad Cruzan. A blue/green. Pride. Hatred of most of her family, hatred of her employer, hatred of even Orholam.
Estefania Kamael. A red. Bitterness and hatred.
Nairi Patel. A green. So close to wight she couldn’t articulate anything.
Belit Beraens. A blue. Pride.
Bilit Beraens. Her twin. A blue. Pride. Even proud she’d outlasted her older twin, if only by a few minutes. Gavin didn’t point out that since Belit had been born a few minutes earlier, her dying a bit earlier meant they were really about equal.
Alondra Patel. A superviolet. So close to wight she had to be held down.
Ada Khan. Envy. Fear. She was a mess of tears. Couldn’t find her bravery no matter how Gavin tried to inspire her. The luxiats had to hold her down.
Mahnaz. A red. Already confessed.
Ameretet. A blue. Already confessed.
Pelagia Phloraens. Heresy. Since had renounced it, but still
harbored it secretly.
Ihsan the Tailor. Cheating her customers, claiming she’d used magic when she rarely did.
Niga Roe. Spying on her employer, who’d been good to her.
Nin-Ki-Gal Day. Green. Already confessed.
Yiska Thews. A green/yellow. One of the only drafters of Angari descent in the group. Envy. Pride. Disbelief.
And a short break for dinner. More prayers. Gavin didn’t even hear them. Didn’t taste the food in his mouth. Went back to work.
Hagnes. A green. Had gotten roaring drunk during the ceremony, and was too incoherent to confess. Gavin tried to cover all the bases in praying for her before he killed her.
Fidelia Door. A superviolet. Claimed she had no sins. But did have a litany of destroyed relationships. Couldn’t see, even with gentle prodding, that she was the common element in all of them.
Li-Lit Ohwarea. A red/orange/yellow. Had secretly tried to go wight. Admitted she couldn’t figure out the problems.
Mylitta Ali. A red. A warrior who had been captured, her tongue ripped out by a squad of the Blue-Eyed Demons who had served Dazen. She was illiterate, so Gavin had to use sign language and yes-and-no questions to shrive her. She seemed relieved. None of the luxiats she’d visited before had thought of it or had time when she’d attempted to confess to them. Assholes.
Ghila the Mason. A sub-red. Quiet woman. Attacked Gavin when she thought his guard was down.
Please let me wake.
Elpida Bowyer. A yellow. Confessed that she loved her children more than she loved Orholam. And meant it. She thought it a real sin. She had to encourage Gavin to kill her.
Nukimmut Rose. A blue. Said nothing. Eyes full of hatred, watched Gavin all the way. He expected her to attack, but she never did.
Zenana Zenamus. A red. Proudly filled every second of her time with him recounting her sins. There was cruelty, shocking things with animals, torture, cannibalism, numerous murders, blasphemies, defamation of altars with luxiats she’d seduced, anything to sow chaos and horror. “And now,” she said, “since I go to my death shrived, I’ll join Orholam in paradise.” She laughed.
