by Brent Weeks
“So I’ve heard,” Teia said.
Kip’s father Gavin had given him some lenses supposedly crafted by Lucidonius himself, the most valuable among them sub-red and superviolet lenses that allowed any drafter to see in their respective spectra. Whether they were actually Lucidonius’s work or some other genius’s, those lenses had never been duplicated. But that dragon thrashed now, fully awake.
“You’ve got paryl lenses?” Teia asked. She couldn’t believe it.
“Not stupid. Good. I require a certain bare minimum intelligence even of my Shadows, though your own master dances close to that flame.”
Of the few who knew of him, no one spoke of Murder Sharp so dismissively. None would dare, except…
Teia dropped to her knees. “Master. My lord.”
It came easily to her, obeisance, prostration. So many years a slave.
But it was right to be afraid. This was the Old Man of the Desert himself.
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak for a long time.
Teia flared her eyes to sub-red sensitivity, but he was nothing more than a warm smudge in the darkness. Likely swaddled in many layers, his face so dark that he must be wearing thicker layers over it in case she used paryl and he missed it. “My lord?” Teia asked finally.
“None may wear cloaks in my presence. Put yours on the hook by the door.”
She removed her cloak and stood slowly, certain that he had a cocked musket pointed at her. She groped around until she found the hook, and hung her cloak on it.
Right choice. I made the right choice for once, leaving my cloak back in the room.
“Pull the hook down,” he said quietly.
She pulled the hook and a mechanism snapped around the cloak with a click, securing it in place. So the Old Man of the Desert was paranoid about his Shadows and their cloaks, even when he knew (or thought he did) exactly which cloaks they had.
It was, Teia guessed, perhaps the only way to become an old man when one ran a network of assassins.
A light bloomed in the room, cool blue. It wasn’t for her benefit. She wondered if it meant he was a blue drafter, or he merely wanted to be able to see the expressions on her face as he spoke to her.
The altered voice emerged again from his swaddling robes. “You were seen getting individual training with Karris White Oak some time ago.”
Teia’s throat tightened. “Yes, my lord. The, uh, the Archers try to take care of each other.”
“She took a special interest in you.”
Teia couldn’t tell if it was a question, couldn’t tell if there were suspicions hidden in that statement. “She seemed to like me. We trained together a couple of times.”
“Everything you’ve done tells me I should trust you, Adrasteia. And yet.”
She said nothing.
“A crisis is simply opportunity wearing danger’s cloak. On the other hand, you know what they say about old warriors and bold warriors.”
“Uh.” She didn’t.
“Ah, that’s right. A slave. Not stupid, but not educated, either. No matter. I’ll test your loyalty as we go. The perennial problem of a secret order, is it not? The danger of infiltration? You have risen so fast. And your gifts make you so useful, it’s hard not to put you to work. It could be a purposeful temptation. Hmm.”
Heart pounding, Teia waited again. She turned her palms out, helpless, but didn’t say anything. There were lines here, and crossing any of them might get her killed. On the other hand, she couldn’t seem too self-controlled, too patient, too formidable.
Finally she threw her hands up in the air. She was playing the angry girl who would lash out at anyone. Might as well play her to the hilt. “I can’t do—”
But he interjected immediately, as if to spare both of them the consequences of what she might say, “I have an assignment for you. The new White is isolated, surrounded by enemies, with all her most trusted friends fled or dead. Get close to her.”
“Close? I’m in the Blackguard. As soon as I take final vows, I’ll be near her all the time.”
“I want you to be more than that. She’ll need a confidante. Become that.”
It was the best news Teia could have heard, but she sagged. “I’m… I’m a nunk. She’s the White!”
“She was herself taken under Orea Pullawr’s wing in just this way. Fit the mold. Make her feel she’s doing good by taking you in. That’s an order.”
“Yes, my lord,” she said, as if she felt it far beyond her capabilities.
“Adrasteia. You admire her, don’t you? Like her, even.”
Teia swallowed. To lie or not to lie? “I do, my lord.”
“Never forget.”
“Forget?” Teia asked. Playing a little stupid had never hurt.
“You may be called on to kill her and die doing it.”
Teia prostrated herself. “Yes, my lord.”
“Do you have doubts?”
She nodded, still gazing at the floor.
“Good. Honest. I would have thought it strange if you didn’t. Adrasteia, your work is so secret that it will be hard for you to learn the wisdom of the Crimson Path. But I can tell you this. You will matter. To the Chromeria, you’re an exalted slave. For us, you are a woman who will change the world and leave it better for your sacrifices.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“You worry about Kip?” he asked.
“He said once that the Order tried to kill him. A Mistress… Hillel?”
“Indeed. She was one of our best. For who expects a fat middle-aged woman to be an assassin? Not a Shadow, though.”
“I… He was in my squad, and he was my owner, my lord. I hated being a slave—I hated being his slave—but he was kind to me. Didn’t rape me.” Teia had to acknowledge her closeness to Kip. Bring part of a secret to light unbidden, and you might be mistaken for honest.
“Listen to yourself,” the Old Man said. “He didn’t rape you. Thus he’s kind? Don’t you see how diseased that is? Their entire system of governance, religion, society… it leads to you, saying a man is kind because he didn’t rape you.”
Teia hesitated. “I… That does seem wrong. But… you won’t ask me to kill him, will you, sir? Can I ask that of you?”
“Oh no, child. That will never happen. Kip is not our enemy. Early on, we thought him insignificant, and his elimination a perfect way to get closer to Andross Guile, who wanted an inconvenient bastard removed. It was a mistake. We have learned since then. I swear this to you, Adrasteia. You will never have to act against Kip.”
The Old Man of the Desert was very good. He was very, very good. So maybe it was the voice modulator. Maybe it was that Teia had spent some time around the very best. But whatever it was, Teia could tell he was lying. Some tiny flutter in his voice, some pause a fraction shortened as if he’d practiced beforehand, the stilted lack of contractions.
For some reason, until now this had been simply an assignment. Now a sudden spark of outrage caught in her soul. You tell me I’m not a slave, but you treat me like a moron?
How stupid do you think I am?
The Old Man must be accustomed to dealing with idiots. He thought he would draw Teia slowly into his circle until she would do anything for him?
Oh, look, a little girl, a former slave, small and stupid. When it comes to deceiving her, I don’t even need to try. It was as if, as she burst from her chrysalis—nothing but that old lie ‘I am a slave’—the Old Man was stomping on her before her wings could spread.
“You’re young, and you know little of our faith yet. It is natural to have questions,” the Old Man said, supremely confident.
Oh. Fuck. You.
This little girl is going to tear you apart, Old Man. You have just become my mission in life. What had Kip said? Diakoptês didn’t mean ‘breaker’ exactly, it was more like ‘the one who rends asunder,’ the one who destroys utterly. On Diakoptês’s behalf and on her own, Teia was going to wreck this bastard.
“I guess I just have one,” she sai
d. “Will it be worth it?”
“Oh. Oh, indeed. We will pull down all the artifice of this world and break it. We will show how hollow the Chromeria is. We will kill their very god and see them scuttle for the darkness like cockroaches exposed to the light of our fury. We will destroy the very edifice on which their power rests, and in the end, they will know we did it for good.”
Teia pursed her lips and bobbed her head eagerly. Took a deep breath, as if this were all she had ever hoped for.
These weren’t madmen. They were something more dangerous. These were zealots. More dangerous than merely bad men because they would never rest, but also more foolish. Zealots always wanted to explain, to gain converts.
“And now,” the Old Man said. “A reward for your good service. And a test, I suppose, to see if you are what you appear to be. You’re a bitter child, aren’t you?”
Teia looked up angrily, smoothed it over quickly. Hesitated. “I don’t like to be wronged,” she said. He’d talked to Master Sharp. Sharp must have told him how she wanted vengeance on everyone. It was her part now. She couldn’t blink. Not ever, not if she was going to get in.
“Schedules will be juggled to put you in proximity with the new White. You will begin getting close to her immediately. In the meantime… in the next three days, tag one person with paryl. Whoever’s wronged you, I suppose. Or whoever you wish. Only no Blackguards. No nobles. That person will be dead within the day. My gift to you.”
Chapter 6
Summon Zymun.
Karris was in no place to do this now, but there was no way she could avoid it, either. She’d rejected Zymun at birth; if she repeated the insult now, on this horrible night of all nights, there was no way he’d ever forgive her.
Forgiving herself was already out of the question.
“High Mistress?” Gill Greyling said. He must have pulled a double to be still on duty.
Accelerate promotion of new Blackguards, even at the cost of quality.
Trainer Fisk—Commander Fisk now—would howl, but she would help him pick out those with a natural gift. The nunks would have to learn as they fought. It would mean more dead, but having veteran Blackguards who were constantly exhausted would mean more dead, too, and if they lost too many veterans, the whole force would be degraded for decades.
Let the young die, so the old can sleep.
Dammit.
She motioned for Gill to open the door. It had been too long a day. But if it had been a long day for her, it had to have been nightmarish for Zymun. He’d been called on, so soon after arriving at Big Jasper, to perform the Freeing. Seventy-five old drafters had submitted to his knife today. Karris couldn’t imagine what he must be feeling.
Gill didn’t obey immediately, instead giving her a few extra moments to pull herself together, and nearly commenting on her state. Despite his newness, Gill was going to be an excellent Blackguard. The best of them didn’t look out only for their charges’ physical well-being. Finally, satisfied, he opened the door.
Zymun Guile was seventeen years old, though he looked older dressed in his Prism-elect’s finery. Stylishly combed black hair, broad shoulders, blue eyes already tinged with a rainbow of luxin, a broad nose, and the devastating good looks that seemed the Guile inheritance.
“High Lady,” he said, his bow flowing smoothly into his kneeling and touching her foot in obeisance. He looked up at her and swallowed. “Mother.”
She stared at him, somehow unable to move, to respond. He looked so like his father’s family, a dark mirror to their good looks. Could he not look like her, a little?
If he resembled her more, would that make this meeting easier or harder?
“Zymun,” she managed. She took his hand and helped him stand.
He mistook her pulling, and hugged her immediately.
She froze up, but he didn’t notice.
“Mother. Mother, I was so afraid you’d not want to see me.” His voice quavered on the edge of tears.
She couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.
He stepped back, getting control of himself. He dabbed at the corners of his eyes to dry tears she hadn’t even seen.
“I’m, I’m sorry,” he said. “I was out of line. That was inappropriate. Forgive me, High Lady.”
Forgive him? The words Karris had barely summoned were snatched from her throat.
“No…” She’d meant to say, ‘No, son,’ but she couldn’t force the words past her lips. “No, the offense is mine. I know your day has been much, much harder than my own.”
He looked at her blankly for a half a moment. “Yes—yes, I… I don’t really know how I’m supposed to feel about today.”
“You don’t have to feel how you’re supposed to, Zymun,” she said. “How do you feel?”
He searched her face, then looked away. “How did father do it?”
“With immense loathing and terrible guilt,” Karris said. “But, speaking confidentially of course, Gavin’s faith in Orholam and the Chromeria itself was never strong. He had trouble believing Orholam would ask for the killing of innocents, whatever they’d sworn or whether they’d agreed to it. It tore his soul, every time. I didn’t know if maybe it was easier for you, because you’re younger or maybe have more faith than he did.”
“I only wish I did, mother. I, I wanted to be strong for you. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life.” He heaved a great sigh. “I’ve been trying not to think about it. But it’s good to honor Orholam in this, right?” He looked up at her as if to check her reaction. “I’m just really amazed at the faithfulness of those who I freed to the light today. They’re like heroes to me. The self-sacrificing purpose with which they came to this day was so inspiring. And if I hadn’t been coached so well, I couldn’t have done my little part.”
Karris didn’t know what it was, but something felt off in his response. He’d killed seventy-five people today.
What was the appropriate response to that?
The mind is fickle. She’d seen men who’d learned their entire families had been murdered by wights actually laugh because they simply couldn’t believe it. Soldiers made rude jokes about the bodies of their dead mates. Medics laughed about spurting blood and diarrhea. When life is outrageous, the only appropriate response is an inappropriate one.
But an appropriate response, muted?
“Mother,” he said suddenly, swallowing. He whispered harshly, “I killed them.” He convulsed on a sob barely contained. “All those people.”
She felt herself suddenly warm. He’d been trying to play strong for her. Of course that was it. Thrown into a world he didn’t understand, with rules he didn’t comprehend, and subjected to incredible demands, he’d had to pretend.
He went on in a rush, “I tried to tell myself that it was for the best. That they were going to meet Orholam, that I should envy them, but, but it was my hand on the knife. I never—I never asked for this. I never knew how hard this would be.”
She pulled him close and hugged him to her. He dissolved into her arms.
He wept quietly for a minute, and then pulled back, putting a brave face on. “I… Can we not speak of that again?”
Holding on to his arms, she said, “Only this, Zymun. You honored Orholam and those brave drafters by what you did. And me. You did right.”
He bowed his head, pursed his lips under the weight of his emotion, and nodded. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry we had to meet like this, High Lady. And I didn’t mean to talk all about myself. You’ve just ascended to the chair. Congratulations are in order.”
“Thank you,” she said. She finally let go of him. It was as if she were slightly out of her body as she looked at him. What was she looking for? Herself? He was a seventeen-year-old man, not an infant where you pick this trait from his mother and that from his father.
Oh, look! He has a nose—like his mother does. Oh, look! He has two eyes—like his father does. What a coincidence.
But the very thought of a father made
her think of Gavin.
Gavin, dear Orholam. There had been no word, all day, no word of where he was. It was as if he’d been spirited away, as if she’d never dragged his half-blind ass back from the hippodrome in Rath. No word about Marissia, either. The bitch. Karris would be meeting with the banker Turgal Onesto soon to see if he might help in tracking Marissia, but she hadn’t been able to fit that in today with all the other emergencies.
She put on a smile to push both thoughts away. Zymun hadn’t noticed.
“I’m really proud of you, mother,” he said. “The White! Don’t they usually pick old crones for that? And you’re hardly that. I mean, you’re older for a drafter, maybe, but not old old. And so beautiful.”
He was not quite gifted with the Guiles’ golden tongue, was he? Even Kip did better than that. But then, if he hadn’t gotten the Guile charm, from which parent had he inherited that deficiency?
And he was a young man, trying to impress, and he’d been through so much. She had to make allowances.
Underneath all his bravado and awkwardness, he was probably furious with her for her abandonment and her distance, but wanting her approval, too. She was asking too much of him, even having him meet her today.
It took all the bravery in her heart to go straight at the issue, as Gavin would have. “Let’s get this out of the way, shall we?” she said.
“Mother?”
“I didn’t want to leave you, Zymun, but I couldn’t bear to keep you, either. I had no prospects and no friends. Or so I thought. And I was ashamed. Not ashamed of you—but ashamed nonetheless, for all the wrong reasons. But I want you to know it wasn’t your fault. I didn’t leave for anything you did.”
His lip quivered, and he looked away, blinking.
Orholam have mercy. Her heart broke again.
“No, I… I know that,” he said. “I mean, how could it be my fault? I was just a baby, right? I hadn’t done anything yet—good or bad, right? I mean, I don’t know, maybe your pregnancy was really awful? And you blamed me for it or something? I thought about it a lot. I just wanted to know if it had been something I’d done. Or if, or if I seemed like some sort of monster to you for some reason.”
