The Broken Eye
Page 46

“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.