The Blinding Knife (58 page)

“What?” Gavin asked. He scowled.

It was as if while Ironfist had been here, Kip was able to be the Kip who was training for the Blackguard, the Kip who had some tenuous friendships and was starting to be good at some things. And now, with Ironfist hinting that Gavin was going to yank him out of the Blackguard, everything else came flooding back. Not just nearly getting killed tonight and having Janus Borig die in his arms, but his mother dying in his arms, bitter and accusatory. “I knew it. I knew if I
didn’t look at them right away, someone would steal them. I just didn’t think it would be you.”

Kip knew he wasn’t mad about the cards—he was mad at being helpless. Before Gavin Guile had come along, sweeping everything up in his wake, Kip had had his own shitty life in his own shitty town with his shitty, shitty friends. Ever since Gavin Guile had come into his life, he felt like he’d been plunged underwater. And now his last breath had escaped and he was panicking, flailing, punching whoever happened to be nearest.

“What are you doing?” Gavin asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Why are you acting like this? You were sane just two seconds ago!”

“You left me!” Kip said. The sense of abandonment made his throat feel tight. It was hard to swallow. He hadn’t even known that was in there, but now he felt horribly exposed, weak, ashamed. It was the prospect of Commander Ironfist leaving forever—just like everyone left him.

“I—what?!”

“You left me here,” Kip said. He was already recoiling from his own stupidity. Gavin had just come back, and Kip was taking this out on him? What had Kip just been saying to Ironfist? That he was an adult? “I’m sorry,” Kip said. “I’ve failed. I haven’t accomplished anything you asked of me.” He couldn’t look at Gavin. “You said I had six months, and the only way I could think of accomplishing anything was to get into the forbidden parts of the libraries, and the only way to that was as a Blackguard. And I haven’t gotten there yet. I don’t think I’m good enough. And I failed with your father, too. He hates me.”

Gavin cursed under his breath. “I wish my mother was here,” he said suddenly. “I’d ask her… Kip, there’s probably nothing you could have done to please my father. Nothing. And that other thing… We got unlucky and the Color Prince moved faster than I thought he would. I still might be able to get around that obstacle we talked about anyway.”

“So everything I’ve been doing is extraneous?”

“Kip, in a very short time you’ve become one of the most important arrows in my quiver. But you’re not the only one. Orholam help me if you were.”

It was a slap to his whiny, fifteen-year-old face. And a well-deserved one.

Gavin cursed again. “I didn’t mean it like that. I meant I can’t do what I have to do with one weapon, no matter how sharp. Kip, you deserve more of my time, but right now I have about three emergencies to deal with, and my enemies are probably moving fast. Can you wait?”

Emergencies. Important stuff, like saving the world, preventing wars—or maybe winning them—fates of hundreds of thousands in the balance. And Kip wanted him to what? Sit around and talk? Wrestle? Play a card game?

I’m needy. Weak. A distraction from the important things. People could die because of my pathetic whining. Orholam, Kip, be a man.

Kip swallowed and straightened his back. “Yes, sir. I’m fine.”

Gavin hesitated. “If it… if it makes any difference, I, I should have taken you with me. I should have taught you personally. I didn’t—I didn’t think of it. I’m not used to thinking of anyone but myself. And… I’m sorry.”

Kip didn’t know what to say.

“How many colors can you draft now?” Gavin asked.

“Sir?” The question seemed out of nowhere.

“Colors?” Gavin insisted.

“Um, four, five? Your father made me wager my right to the practicum, so I haven’t been able to work on it as much as I’d like.”

Gavin frowned. “Tell me what you can do.”

“Only blue and green are stable. Red’s inconsistent. Yellow’s all over the place, and I haven’t drafted sub-red again since Garriston.”

“You know they say the Lightbringer will be a genius of magic.”

“I’m… I’m not that, sir.” He’d said “will.” That meant his father believed that Lucidonius hadn’t been the Lightbringer, that the Lightbringer hadn’t come yet.

“No, you’re not, Kip. Not because you’re not a genius. You may be. Not because you’re not tremendously talented, smart, and gifted, and mentally nimble. You are. You’re not the Lightbringer because there is no Lightbringer. It’s a myth that’s destroyed a thousand boys, and led a hundred thousand men to cynicism and disillusionment. It’s a lie. A lie more tempting the more powerful you are. Like all lies, it destroys those who long entertain it. And that’s why I lied to you.”

“Huh?”

“You’re a polychrome. If you’re angry at me because your test didn’t show that, I deserve your anger. You’re both privileged and despised for your birth, for one parent or the other, depending on who’s hating you at the moment. You’ve got a right to have a chip on your shoulder, but I didn’t want you to become a monster. So I didn’t want you to know how powerful you were going to be. That’s why I falsified your test.”

“Wh-what?” Kip had been denying all the evidence of his expanding colors because of that damned test. He’d been wasting his time practicing the bouncy balls of doom while he could have been working on other colors?

“I don’t apologize for it, Kip. I wanted you to grow up a little. I wanted you to get the measure of yourself before we added the burdens of vast talent onto your new burdens of being the son of the Prism, having everyone you ever knew murdered, and moving to a new home and jumping into social circles you probably never imagined.”

“So why do you get to decide? Because you’re the Prism?”

“Because I’m your father. I had to grow up too fast, and I didn’t do it at all well. You know what it is to start a war when you’re seventeen?”

“I thought you were eighteen.”

“Young, regardless,” Gavin said, but a quick expression leapt across his face, a tightening in his eyes, passing so fast Kip couldn’t read it. “Long time ago, but I remember wanting to be an adult so bad it stuck on my tongue. I wanted people to take me seriously, to care what I thought. To listen to what I said without that amused, tolerant look on their face—‘Here goes the young lord again.’ I’ve been there, Kip, and people died because I didn’t handle it well. Orholam send that the price you have to pay is never so high, but I didn’t want to force you into a position where any mistake you made could get you or others killed.”

Kip glowered. “Well, when you say it like that it all makes sense and stuff.”

Gavin took his cloak off. “Come. Fold those up tight,” he said, pointing to the shimmercloaks. “We’ll talk about them later.”

Father and son folded up the cloaks carefully and bundled them
inside Gavin’s cloak. Gavin folded it over his arm nonchalantly. He grabbed the deck box in his hand, concealed again by the cloaks.

“You know,” Kip said, “Janus Borig said I wasn’t going to be the next Prism. Not that I really wanted to. I mean, I want you to be the Prism forever. But…”

“But if you’re not going to be the Prism, and there’s no such thing as the Lightbringer, then that means you’re going to be nothing?” Gavin asked.

“Yes, sir,” Kip said, averting his eyes. “Sounds… awful, huh?”

“Yes,” Gavin said. “Let’s go.”

Kip was a muddle. No Lightbringer? But Janus Borig had said she knew who the Lightbringer was—when she was looking at me. Afterward, when he finally thought about it, Kip had dared to hope that meant…

Exactly what his father had thought Kip would hope it meant. She could have meant, I know who the Lightbringer is… the Lightbringer is no one. Or, the Lightbringer is Lucidonius. Or she could have just been wrong. Right?

She’d
said
that her paintings had to be true, but Kip didn’t know that to be true. Even if her paintings had to be true, that didn’t mean her words did. She could easily have been lying, or just wrong. Even if she was right, and Gavin was wrong, she hadn’t painted the Lightbringer. Maybe she wouldn’t have been able to. Or maybe it would have been too obscure to tell anything. Even then, she’d said that sometimes her paintings weren’t literal.

Kip followed Gavin out of the Blackguard barracks. A man and a woman Blackguard fell in behind them, natural and unobtrusive. Kip wondered how they did that. Long practice, he supposed. Just like everything in the Blackguards’ lives.

Maybe that was why being a Blackguard appealed so much to him. Everything they got was earned. Not like Kip’s life. They didn’t care whose son he was, they cared if he could do the work.

Gavin set the weights in the lift—Kip had never really noticed it before, but though the Blackguards guarded Gavin’s life, they weren’t servants. Kip wondered if that was because Gavin had established that he wanted to do things for himself, or if the Blackguards simply refused to do more than protect him. They headed up, surprising Kip, who thought Gavin would make him go back to his own room.

They were deposited on the top floor. Gavin’s and the White’s floor.

“So your grandfather gave you trouble?” Gavin asked.

“Sir,” Kip said. “Your father… um, he’s denied me, sir. You know, denied that I’m your son.” Kip swallowed. Of course he knows what it means, moron. “That’s what I meant when I said I failed.”

“Really?” Gavin said. “This is going to be fun, isn’t it?” There was no mirth in his tone. He turned to one of the Blackguards, a lanky Ilytian with a crooked smile. “Lytos, this is my son, Kip. Kip is my son.”

“Yes, sir,” the man said. He had a strangely high voice. “I understand.” Oh, a eunuch. Kip had heard that some Ilytians believed eunuchs were better drafters than boys. His teachers had ridiculed the idea, though: cutting a man’s balls off doesn’t change his eyes, she’d said. Cutting off one end of a man doesn’t change the other. On the other hand, it did obviously change a man’s voice, so maybe the idea wasn’t that ludicrous. Or maybe it kept a man’s voice from changing, which obviously wasn’t the same thing. Unless there was something about puberty that also changed a man’s eyes—maybe imperceptibly, but enough to skew men’s color vision and make their magic fail more often than women’s.

Again, the problem was that you couldn’t tell what exact tones another person perceived, so everyone made the best guess they could. And apparently some people were confident enough in their guesses to cut off a child’s testicles.

Kip was living in a mad world, among people who were happy to do worse than he could dream. He shivered.

Gavin looked at him, and understood. He touched Kip’s shoulder briefly.

Lytos peeled off as they walked through the security checkpoint and spoke to the officer in charge. Not five seconds later, Lytos was walking quickly to catch up with Gavin and Kip. Another Blackguard—Kip’s Blackguard, he supposed—was with him. Samite. Kip was glad to see her again. He hadn’t seen her much since the day he’d first arrived. He grinned at her. She simply raised an eyebrow.

They walked to Gavin’s room, went inside. Gavin beckoned Kip to follow him. Like a particularly squat shadow, Samite followed Kip in and took her place behind the door. She was Kip’s bodyguard now, and that meant guarding him even in Gavin’s room. Even from Gavin, if it came to that?

A mad world.

The big, open room was spotlessly clean and as beautiful as the last time Kip had been here. But now he knew a lot more about drafting than the first time he’d been here. Knowing more, he was more impressed. There were hellstone panels in the walls that you could hit with superviolet luxin to control the windows and the artificial lights above. There was sub-red luxin woven through the floors and the ceiling to keep the room warm, counteracting the chill that invaded through the dozens of floor-to-ceiling windows.

But before Kip could marvel at the workmanship and luxury even of the windows themselves, he saw Marissia, Gavin’s room slave. She must have had warning that Gavin was coming, because she was wearing finer clothing than Kip had ever seen her in before. He supposed that the gray color technically was in obedience to the sumptuary laws, and her hair was carefully kept free of her ears to show where they had been snipped vertically and cauterized in the Ruthgari style, but she looked astoundingly good. But the fitted cut and her lean curves hit Kip more like the background roar of ocean waves crashing to shore. He was arrested by the look on her face. She took a steadying breath, desperate for approval, eager for favor, eyes only for Gavin.

Kip had seen dozens, hundreds of people look at his father with adoration in their gazes. He’d seen people look at him with veneration in their gazes. This was love.

As fast as if he were trying to follow a cannonball in flight, Kip looked over to Gavin’s face.

The Prism was obviously pleased. He smiled widely, and Kip saw his father’s eyes sweep over Marissia’s body appreciatively.

Ew. That’s my father. Looking at a woman like—

Kip didn’t want to think about it. He looked away.

“Marissia,” Gavin said.

Marissia hurried over and knelt at Gavin’s feet. She kissed his hand. “My lord.”

Kip couldn’t help but look back at them.

“You’ve been crying,” Gavin said.