The Blinding Knife (78 page)

The back of his head glanced off the side of Aram’s cheek. Not enough.

The circle lit up again with natural white light as other mirrors were shifted onto the field, and the yellow light was extinguished. Kip’s one hope, dashed. He hadn’t even had time to draft the yellow. Green filters flipped back on.

Then Kip’s hands were trapped. Must have been trapped in luxin. A fist smashed his right ear. Another hit his left. Then his cheek. Then his mouth.

Right, left, right, left, right.

Kip was losing sense. But Aram had gone crazy. His leglock loosened as he concentrated solely on battering Kip to a pulp.

With a yell, Kip bucked and Aram lost his balance and fell forward. Kip wriggled to his knees, but Aram clamped down on him, smashing his fists harder and harder into Kip’s face.

Crying, stupid with rage and pain, blood blinding him, Kip roared
and stood—lifting the older boy into the air, half on Kip’s back and half on his shoulders. He felt the boy stop punching him and his hands slip as he tried to collar Kip.

“You can do it, Breaker!” someone shouted.

The only thought in Kip’s mind was to crush Aram like a bug. Screaming over the sounds of Trainer Fisk’s incessant whistle, he lurched and threw himself toward the ground and—

Into a large red pillow. Inexorably, Kip’s limbs were pulled away, and Aram’s weight was borne away from him.

The clouds of dense red luxin faded, leaving Kip on the ground, still crying. Trainer Fisk examined him briskly to see how bad his injuries were, then stood.

“Aram wins. The top fourteen is decided. From here on up, we fight for placement. But Aram, you lost control. You damn near got yourself expelled. You’re done for the day.”

“No!” Kip shouted.

Trainer Fisk looked at him, then looked away, as if Kip was shaming himself.

Kip was weeping. Not from the pain, though everything was pain now. He’d been so close. He could have crushed Aram if they’d just let them finish the fight. He’d almost—

Almost. He was Kip Almost. Kip the Failure. Almost good enough. He was bleeding and weeping and snotting all over himself.

He looked up and expected to see Gavin leaving. Kip was an embarrassment. A weeping little girl where Gavin needed a son in his own image. Kip was nothing like his father. How could the acorn fall so far from the oak? Instead, Gavin held his gaze and beckoned Kip to come over.

Kip stood up and walked over toward the wooden bleachers where his father was sitting among all the trainees. He looked down, humiliated, humiliated by the tears dripping down his face, unable to stop, unable to hide.

Someone started clapping. Then others joined the one, and everyone was clapping. Kip looked to see if Aram was flexing or something. He wasn’t. Everyone who was clapping was looking at him. Him?

Kip rubbed his forehead, trying to hold himself together. Him? For
him
?

Ah fuck. He started crying harder. He’d wanted to be one of the Blackguards. They were the only people he respected. The only
people in the world he wanted to be like. And he’d failed them, but they gave him this.

He took a towel, ostensibly to wipe up his blood. He covered his head. Someone put an arm around him, and Kip saw his father.

“Father,” Kip said. “I… if they hadn’t blown the whistle… I almost…”

“The boy panicked, Kip. That grip he was going for is a neck-breaker. And I think he got it. If they hadn’t blown the whistle, when you hit the ground, you’d have been dead.”

Aram had gotten the grip. Kip had felt Aram’s arms locking into place. If Aram had killed him, Aram would have been kicked out of the Blackguard. Not that it would have done Kip any good at that point.

“I failed,” Kip said, not quite daring to look out from under the towel over his head.

“Yes,” Gavin said. “He’s better than you. It happens. Smart work with the crystal there. It almost worked. Now come on, let’s go watch. It’s good to learn from those who are better than you are. Looks like your nose is broken. Best to set it quick.”

Kip touched his nose gingerly. Oh, that was
not
the right shape for a nose. “Is that the thing where it makes that sound and I scream?”

“Try not to,” Gavin said. Heedless of Kip’s sweaty hair, he reached behind Kip’s head, holding him in place, and grabbed his nose, pulling on it.

Kip gasped, gasped, breathed. Orholam have mercy!

But he didn’t scream.

Sure,
that’s
the one thing I don’t fail today.

He followed Gavin to the bleachers, but the only part of what his father had said that stuck with him was “almost” and “He’s better than you.”

A green drafter chirurgeon brought superviolet-infused bandages and tended to Kip’s cuts as they watched the remaining fights. With tiny needles and thread of green luxin, the man stitched up Kip’s right cheek and left eyebrow, then smeared stinging unguents on those and several other cuts.

Then he gave him what Kip thought was far too modest a dose of poppy tea. Kip was glad he was sitting, because he didn’t think his legs were going to let him stand.

All in all, watching the fights was absolutely no good in teaching
Kip anything because he couldn’t pay enough attention to learn. It was, however, a good distraction. Teia defeated a challenge, and then won two fights against boys who looked stunned at how fast she was. She ended up at seventh. Kip was proud of her. He could tell from her quiet grin that she was proud of herself, too.

They watched until the end. Watching Cruxer fight was art. He’d been bumped down to fourth by their “loss” in the real-world testing, too. He challenged third, second, and first—and won. Kip saw his father look over at Commander Ironfist, impressed. “He a legacy?” Gavin asked.

“Third generation. Inana’s and Holdfast’s son.”

“Should have guessed. They still alive?”

“Inana is. She’s been holding on. For this.”

“He’s amazing,” Gavin said. “He might even be better than you were.”

Ironfist raised an eyebrow.

Gavin grinned.

Ironfist grunted. It might have been assent. “If he lives long enough.”

“I should go see Inana,” Gavin said. “She was a gem.”

The scrubs began lining up for the little ceremony that would see them become trainees. Kip’s stomach turned. “Can we go now?” he asked.

Gavin said, “This is your friends’ moment of triumph. Think about someone other than yourself. You turn your back on them now, and they’ll remember it forever.”

Kip blinked. Blinked. I’m a self-centered brat.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

Commander Ironfist got up and went forward. All the scrubs were lined up according to their placement in the top fourteen. Except for Cruxer, who was down on both knees in the training circle, head bowed, one hand to his eyes and forehead in the sign of the three and the one, praying.

“Cruxer!” Trainer Fisk barked. He was standing in front of Aram at the bottom of the line, ready to pin the Blackguard pin to each scrub’s lapel. “Time to pray later.”

The scrubs were smirking, triumphant, accustomed to and amused by Cruxer’s quirks. They all stood proudly, hands folded behind their backs, stances wide, chests out. All around the training ground, the
older trainees and the full Blackguards were standing up, coming to attention themselves. Standing the same way.

“Yes, sir.” Cruxer jumped to his feet and came toward the line. He was smiling, but Kip thought it was a tense smile.

As everyone was standing proud, Kip felt the gulf between him and them intensely. Outsider, loner, alien. They were all he would never be.

“Sir?” Cruxer asked, coming to stand in front of the trainer. He glanced coolly at Aram, who wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“Yes, first?” Trainer Fisk said.

“A Blackguard’s training is never done, but is the testing over for today?” Cruxer asked.

Trainer Fisk said, “Yes, of course, now get to your place—”

Cruxer said nothing, but he struck like a serpent, yelling his
kiyah
and giving his body the sharp countertwist that made his kicks so blindingly fast and powerful. Even Kip, who was looking straight at him, barely saw the strike. Cruxer’s shin, gnarled and calcified by years of kicking against posts, crushed against Aram’s knee. Crushed it backward.

The crunching squish of a joint being obliterated split the sudden silence.

Aram crumpled to the ground, gawping, gasping, eyes agape.

Cruxer dropped his hands instantly and stood in a narrow, nonthreatening stance. Given that he was surrounded by hundreds of men and women attuned to violence and accustomed to stopping it by the most efficient means necessary, that was wise. “Training accident,” Cruxer said loudly, coolly.

For a moment, even Trainer Fisk seemed as baffled as Kip. Finally he recovered. “What have you done?!” he shouted at Cruxer.

Cruxer’s voice was cool, mechanical. “Permanent injuries inflicted during testing result in expulsion. Injuries during training do not.”

“My knee! My
knee
!” Aram started blubbering. From the sound of his voice, he knew, like Kip knew, like everyone here knew—he would never fight again. He’d be lucky if he ever walked again. Knee injuries like that didn’t heal. Aram was
crippled
.

Cruxer spoke loudly, clearly, and unapologetically. “I’ve wanted to be a Blackguard since I could walk. I value this brotherhood too highly to let in a man who destroys unity rather than builds it, a man who takes
money
to destroy one of his own. If the cost to remove him
from the Blackguard is that I, too, am expelled, so be it.” Emotion edged his voice for a moment, but he mastered it.

“What?!” Trainer Fisk demanded. “What are you talking about?”

“Aram’s the second best fighter in our class,” Cruxer said. “He took money to finish low. He took money to keep Breaker out.”

“He’s
Tyrean
!” Aram shouted. “He’s a bastard! I would have done it for free! He’s not one of us!”

“You would have done it for free? So you did do it for money,” Trainer Fisk said, aggrieved, disbelieving. He shot a look over at Commander Ironfist. A straight admission of guilt. How stupid was Aram?

“He’s not one of us!” Aram shouted.

“You mean, one of
you
,” Commander Ironfist said, low and dangerous, stepping forward. “Because you’ll never be one of
us
, Aram. Unlike Breaker.”

The last word sent a shock through Kip.

“Breaker!” Trainer Fisk barked. “You heard the man. We got room for fourteen, and I only see thirteen up here. Get in line! Double time! Someone get this trash out of here.”

“No! Noo!!” Aram shouted. But the chirurgeons were there instantly and they carried him away, blubbering.

Kip limped over to the line, not even close to double time, but he felt like he was floating all the way. How much poppy had that chirurgeon given him?

No, this wasn’t the poppy.

Commander Ironfist stood in front of Kip. He took Kip’s gold fight token and snapped it into a pendant. The front of the pendant was a black flame. “This is the Flame of Erebos. It symbolizes service and sacrifice. As a candle takes on flame and is consumed to give light and heat, so is a man who takes on duty. Day by day, we give our lives to serve Orholam and his Prism. Will you take this sacred duty, Kip Guile, Breaker?”

“I will.” Kip felt little shivers.

“And will you forswear other loyalties, and have loyalty first to this body, to Orholam, and to his Prism?”

“I will.”

“Then I declare you, Breaker, a trainee in the Blackguard.”

“Break-er! Break-er!” the crowd chanted.

Ironfist let them go on for a few more seconds, then quieted them and worked his way down the line.

The rest of the ceremony passed like a dream. Each scrub was sworn in, and then the older trainees and the full Blackguards gathered around them to congratulate them.

They eventually decided to go to a tavern that the Blackguards preferred—all drinks on the new trainees, of course. Before he let himself be swept out into the evening, Kip looked for his father.

Gavin Guile was standing where Kip had left him, ignoring for the moment a messenger who’d come to him with something or other. He had eyes only for Kip. The Prism wore a bemused smirk, but maybe it was more than bemused. Maybe it was a little proud.

Karris was dimly aware of the men leaving. She laid her face on the paving stones, praying they wouldn’t come back, hoping for unconsciousness. It didn’t come. She lifted her face and saw a pool of blood where her mouth had been. Her left eye was rapidly swelling shut, and the right doing the same, more slowly.

She felt sick from the blow to her head. There was a foul taste in her mouth along with the flat metal taste of blood. She realized they’d rolled her onto her side so she wouldn’t drown on her own vomit.

Messily, she vomited again. She got it all over herself, but the spasms in her stomach kept her curled into a ball. She was heaving just to breathe, and heaving her guts up.