The Broken Eye (25 page)

“Elelyōn hasn’t spoken to me in many years, but the day we fished you out of the waters, he did. And again last night telling me that now you are ready. Not to hear. Not yet. But to speak.”

“To speak?” Gavin asked. “What an odd prophet you are, to go around
listening
.” He looked at the canopy of stars overhead. Beauty in black and white.

They had to be somewhere outside Melos, if Gavin remembered the star charts correctly, and of course, he did. To remember was his curse.

“I have nothing to say.”

Very quietly, very gently, Orholam said, “He said you would speak blasphemy. That you would need to lance the boil, and let the poison seep out before all else.”

“If he already knows what I’m going to say, why don’t we just consider it said?” Gavin said. He thought to say it wryly, but it came out worse.

“It’s not that he needs to hear it. It’s that you need to say it.”

Gavin turned away. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Liar.”

Gavin snarled, “How dare you? Don’t you know—”

Orholam looked at the sailors, who’d glanced over at Gavin’s raised voice, but the men looked in no mood to break off from their own conversations unless the pair got into an actual fight. He said, “Don’t I know who you are? Heh. You know, that was part of what I loved about being a prophet. A prophet is a slave of the Most High. A slave, but having such an exalted master gives us the authority to speak in one voice to satrap, soldier, servant, or slave. I thought that made me as important as a satrap. Really, it’s just that we are equally small before him, ants and flies arguing for precedence under the gaze of a giant.”

“Now that’s more the kind of talk I’d expect from a prophet.”

A wounded silence, but then Orholam said, “It is odd to me, o man in ruins, that you who have been the answer to so many prayers should have none of your own, not even now, trapped and awaiting death. I have had fifteen years to grow past my rage at
being
. You haven’t that luxury.”

“Rage at being? Folly. Folly as much as calling fifteen years as a slave a luxury. I was the Prism. How could a Prism, of all men, complain?”

“Better an honest ingrate than a liar who is still an ingrate, after all.”

“Call me a liar one more time, and you’ll be swallowing teeth.”

“Let me tell you something, o slave Prism. When Orholam asks your submission, you can submit now and find the way easy; or later, and find the way hard; or never, and find yourself crushed.”

“Because he is punitive and cruel.”

“Because he is King. And the longer you walk in the wrong direction, the farther you have to run to get back to where you should have been.”

“He is no king. He doesn’t exist. He’s a comforting tale, a candle held against the darkness of our fears. There is only nothingness. It is as little use to curse him as it is to pray to him. We are a man who, having tripped, blames the stone for grabbing his foot.”

“Why then the fear to talk to him again?”

“First you call me a liar, and now a coward?”

“You need more honest men in your life. Or better ears. Orholam knows that in spite of all the mirrors he gave you, you still couldn’t see yourself, so he took your sight. Perhaps it will sharpen your other senses?”

“Go to hell,” Gavin said. But a part of that breathless, chest-seizing fear rose up in him again. Exposure. How did the old man know he couldn’t see?

Oh, but of course. If Gavin could draft, he wouldn’t be here. That the man knew about Gavin’s loss of the colors, his blindness, was no supernatural insight, it was mere deduction.

Orholam laughed. “No, better than hell waits for me. For I have finally bowed the knee. These, our excellent hosts, have power over my body only. Freedom, for me, is only a matter of time. These shackles cannot hold me. I could ask Orholam to take them off, and they would drop from my wrists.”

“Prove it,” Gavin sneered.

A fleeting irritation passed over the prophet’s face. “It’s only fair, I suppose, that you should tempt me to do what got me here in the first place. No. I shall not abuse the power entrusted me. I’ve been put here for me, but I’ve also been put here for you, Prism.”

“Uh-huh,” Gavin said.

“Orholam doesn’t make mistakes, o man of guile. You became Prism by his will. That wasn’t an accident. There are things only you can do.”

“Not anymore,” Gavin said. A cloud on the horizon lit from within as lightning sparked in it.

Better that he hadn’t been born. Better that he hadn’t been born a Prism. If only he hadn’t started light splitting, if only he hadn’t been a full-spectrum polychrome, if only he hadn’t told Gavin about his polychromacy, hoping to mend the rift that seemed to have sprung from nowhere when Gavin had been taken away and named the Prism-elect, everything would be well. His older brother had taken Dazen’s gift as a betrayal, as Dazen taking away the one thing that made him special.

So the real Gavin had retaliated by betraying his younger brother’s elopement with Karris.

Sitting on the rocking deck of the galley, the false Gavin drained his strongwine to the lees. He hadn’t realized that until this moment. He’d thought for years that Karris had lost her nerve. He’d blamed her maid. He’d blamed his own poor planning, thinking he must have let something slip.

In truth, his older brother had found out, and in vengeance, had shared the secret. The White Oaks had then intimidated Karris’s maid into speaking. That explained the guilt on the woman’s face that night—it had been real guilt he’d seen there, but it wasn’t the guilt of betrayal; it was the guilt of being too weak to stand up to pressure. A pressure too great for anyone in her position to withstand.

That look, that partial, unjust guilt, had been why Dazen left her on the wrong side of a locked door to burn, to die, unknowingly condemning all the rest of them as well. A moment of guilt that wasn’t even hers had led to the deaths of all those people. It had been Dazen’s sin in falling in love with Karris, his petty betrayal: eloping with the woman his brother wanted but didn’t love. That had led to Gavin’s huge betrayal. Gavin’s sin, and Dazen’s wild vengefulness, the acid that had etched his soul. Each had visited vengeance upon the other in a circling spire until the satrapies burned.

“Your father chose Gavin to be Prism, but Orholam chose you. Does that tell you nothing?” Orholam asked.

For a moment, the use of the correct name took Gavin’s breath, then he remembered that in his shock at being captured, in a moment of blind foolishness, he’d told Gunner that he was Dazen. No prophecy. Orholam was the next rower on the bench. He’d simply overheard.

But if he had, who else had, too?

Gavin chuckled. Kind of low on the list of things I should be worrying about, isn’t it? Dammit. It took me fifteen years to get up the nerve to tell you who I am really am, Karris, and I told a ship full of pirates within minutes.

“My father chose him because he was older,” he said.

“Your father, the descendant of Iron Ataea Guile? Swayed by a tradition of primogeniture that your family has rarely observed? Your father, who was himself the younger brother?”

“He chose him because he saw will in him.”

“And clearly his second son didn’t have that,” Orholam mocked, but gently. “What your father saw in you was what made him reject you, and that very thing is why Orholam chose you.”

“And what thing is that?”

Orholam smiled. “You’ll figure it out, eventually.”

“You got some balls, you know that? You sit up here and drink with me, and you tell me what a terrible person I am, and then you insult my brother and my father, and you smile. You fuck.”

Orholam shrugged sadly. “This is why there are few prophets. We end up dead a lot. The truth is offensive to men who love darkness.” He looked at the sailors, still talking drunkenly and loudly on deck, some of them already passed out. “I think they’ve forgotten about us.” He extended a hand and took the tin cup from Gavin. He waited a moment, looking at the pirates, then nonchalantly got to his knees and reached deep into the barrel to draw forth additional measures of strongwine. He handed them to Gavin, and flopped back to sitting.

That was some recompense, at least. More wine. “Here’s to the profit in listening to a prophet,” Gavin said. He clinked cups with the madman and drank.

“Should I make that storm come upon us with lightning and fire?” Orholam asked.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to abuse your power,” Gavin said.

“Ah. True. I forgot.” He drank. “Looks like it’s coming this way anyway.”

At the prow, Gunner was drunkenly making bets on what shots he could or couldn’t make. No one was willing to bet against him, though, so he was berating his men as cowards. It seemed good-natured, but he had just shot a tin cup out of the mouth of a drinking pirate, firing the musket with one hand while with his other he was waving his manhood proudly back and forth, urinating in great figures of eight into the sea.

“Is everyone on the sea mad?” Gavin asked.

“A little madness keeps you from going crazy,” Orholam said. “That one, curses Ceres? Got married young. Girl named Ceres. They thought it was a funny coincidence when they learned Ceres was an old pagan goddess of the sea. His two great loves were one, they joked. She committed suicide when he was on one of his trips. Drowned herself. He blames himself. Wasn’t his fault, really, crazy often comes out around age twenty. A cruel enemy told him that Ceres heard that Gunner was cheating on her.”

Gavin swore quietly. “How do you know this?”

“Orholam told me.”

Gavin looked at him.

“Just yankin’ ya. You been on ships long as I have, all the good gossip comes around. Got that bit from a man who knew him before he was even named Gunner. Can’t remember what his birth name was, though. Didn’t seem that interesting at the time. Say, you’re a dreamer of dreams, aren’t you?”

“I dream now and again,” Gavin said dismissively. “Everyone does.” But his stomach knotted up. He preferred this prophet silent and sweetly smiling.

“Powerful dreams. Dreams that scare the hell out of you? You wake in a panic, your chest so tight you can’t breathe, soaked in sweat?”

Absolutely. Gavin shrugged a maybe.

“You’re going to have a dream, tonight, tomorrow, I’m not sure, but soon. Remember it. Pay attention.”

“You can’t make me dream dreams,” Gavin said.

“
I
can’t. It’s a game Orholam and I played, back when. I say he’ll do something that I think is in line with his will, and then he kind of has to do it, or he’ll look bad, not me.”

“Great game.”

“That’s only the half of it. Every time I do that, he throws me something to do that I think is impossible and that I’m too frightened or too awkward to do. It used to be simple things, but they were hard for me at the time. He’d say, ‘Go tell that woman her husband loves her.’ And I’d feel like a fool, a crazy man to approach a stranger and say such a thing, but I’d muster up the juice to do it—and this slip of a girl looks at me like I hit her with a hammer between the eyes, and she bursts into tears. I never hear the rest of the story, but a year later, I see her with him, and they’re both beaming and she’s got a babe in arms. She looks at me, and she winks. Later, it got harder. ‘Go tell the governor that if he puts his hands on his brother’s wife one more time, he’ll be dead in a month.’
That
one didn’t make me terribly popular. That governor took it, though. Didn’t even say a word to me. The brother’s wife, on the other hand? She tried to kill me.”

The lightning approached, and the drunk pirates watched it come.

“Lift anchor!” Gunner shouted drunkenly. “Wake the slaves. We ride the storm!”

A pirate saw Gavin and Orholam where they were chained to the mast and came to hustle them down to their bench. The last thing Gavin saw before he was pushed belowdecks was Gunner standing on the railing, balancing with the rigging in one hand and waving a gun-sword with the other. Lightning cracked, highlighting his figure.

“Ceres!” Gunner shouted, his cheeks shining with tears—or perhaps only rain. “Ceres, you bitch! Kill me if ya can! I defy you! I—” And then the roar of thunder blotted out all else.

Chapter 23

“Sir? You don’t seem surprised,” Teia said to Ironfist. “Did—did you know?”

“I look like a babe in the woods to you, nunk?”

“Sir?”

“The Blackguard is the best of the best. The houses try to get their hooks into most of our students, one way or another. They’ve been successful often enough that we’ve had to grow canny ourselves.”

“So you knew?”

“Come with me,” he said.

He put his ghotra on carefully and they walked to the lift. “When I look at you, ask me if I want you to stay at the checkpoint,” he said. He set the weights and they took the lift to the top, where the Blackguards greeted him at the checkpoint.

“The White in?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” Samite answered.

Ironfist paused, looked at Teia.

“You want me to stay here, sir?” Teia asked. Ironfist was being this careful? With Samite? He was worried about his own Blackguards reporting … what? That Teia was accompanying him on a meeting with the White? Such a meeting would be innocuous enough, wouldn’t it? But that he was being careful meant that he was protecting even this from betrayal—by Blackguards he’d worked with for his whole adult life. Part of Teia wilted. She wanted the Blackguards at least to be pure. Something had to be pure and good, even if she wasn’t. It also made the guileless Blackguard commander seem more crafty than she’d ever considered.

“It’ll be fast,” Ironfist said, as if weighing it and dismissing the thought without too much thinking. “Come.”

They walked together to the White’s room. The Blackguards there announced him and Teia both—Teia was surprised that they actually knew her name. One should never underestimate the Blackguard, she supposed.

The White dismissed her old room slave and her secretary as they came in. The old woman had been drafting since Teia saw her last. It made her look healthier, but Teia knew it was only a veneer of health. If the White had decided it was permissible to draft, it meant she was planning to join the Freeing come Sun Day.