Lightbringer 1 - The Black Prism
Chapter 36
Meetings with Dazen were always a practice in deception.
Gavin’s tightened chest didn’t ease at the sight of his brother. He should have killed him years ago. How simple that would have been. How simple it still could be. All he needed to do was stop dropping bread down the chute. Just like that, his problem would go away. He thought of it every morning, after every sleepless night. But this was his brother. He hadn’t killed him in the heat of battle, how could he kill him in cold blood?
Seven years, seven purposes.
Three times now, he’d put “Tell Karris Everything” on the list. Not just about loving her. About this. That Dazen wasn’t dead, that he was here. That so much was built on lies. She deserved to know; she could never know. Because if she knew, it might bring them reconciliation and happiness together—or it might bring a new war to consume the Seven Satrapies.
“Hello, brother,” Gavin said again. The air was cool on his skin, the scent of resin and stone inescapable. He braced himself for the response. His brother, after all, was a Guile too. And unlike Gavin, he had nothing else to think of except what he would say to Gavin the next time he came to visit. That, of course, and plot to escape. After sixteen years, most men would have given up, but not a Guile. That was their legacy: absolute, unreasoning faith in their supremacy over other men. Thank you, father.
“What do you want?” Dazen asked, his voice rough from disuse.
“Did you know that during the war, I fathered a bastard? I just found out about a month ago. As big of a surprise to me as to anyone, but all sorts of things happen during war, don’t they? Karris was furious, of course. She wouldn’t share my bed for three weeks, but, well… making up with Karris has always been so good that I almost want to fight with her.” He looked up and left and smiled for an instant, as if at a private memory.
It was important to layer the lies with a Guile. In Gavin’s narrative to his brother over the years, he had established an alternate life. He and Karris were married, but had no children—a nagging heartache, and a source of conflict with Andross Guile, who wanted Gavin to put Karris aside and find a woman who could produce heirs. He leaked those details slowly, grudgingly, making his brother work to uncover them. Then, every time, Gavin could leak more information to see if his brother looked either confused by the lies or contemptuous of them.
Dazen had a nasty smile on his face. “So who was it? Do you even know her name? Did she have proof?”
He was fishing, hoping Gavin would give him something for nothing. And he would suspect Gavin if Gavin gave it to him. But Gavin went ahead. “His face is proof enough. He’s the very image of Sevastian.”
Dazen’s face paled. “Don’t you bring Sevastian into your lies, you monster, don’t you dare.”
“We’ve adopted the boy. His name is Kip. Good kid. Smart. Talented. A bit awkward, but he’ll grow.”
“I don’t believe you.” Dazen looked sick. He might not believe it, but he was close. “Who’s the mother?”
Gavin shrugged, as if it didn’t matter. “Lina.”
“You lie!” Dazen snarled and slapped a hand against the blue luxin separating them. “Karris would never take that harlot’s bastard!” It was real fury, after sixteen years bathing in placid blue light, something deep and hot and too instant to be false.
Which told Gavin three things. But some purposes are best achieved by misdirection. “She had a rosewood box,” he said, “about this long. Do you know what was in it?”
The expression on Dazen’s face told Gavin he’d made a mistake. Head pulled back, stunned, then confusion, hope, and finally laughter. There was genuine joy. Dazen kept laughing, shaking his head, prolonging the laugh, now, rubbing it in. He leaned against the blue luxin between them, but naturally, confident. “Here’s what bothers me more than everything else,” Dazen said. “More than your betrayal. More than your murders. More than the cruelty of imprisoning me rather than just killing me. More than you stealing Karris. More than all the rest of it together. How is it that no one has noticed?”
“We’re not doing this again, dead man,” Gavin said. “You don’t want to trade, fine. I’ll be going.”
“This is my trade. Let me hear you say it, and I’ll tell you all about the dagger.”
Dagger? Dazen had dropped that tidbit deliberately. Oh, shit. Gavin had overlooked something. His chest tightened, throat clamped shut. It was hard to breathe, harder still to keep his face smooth.
There was no one here. No one who could overhear if he said it aloud. It wasn’t new information. If he could get new information for old, it wasn’t a loss. But it felt like one.
Gavin moistened his lips. “My name is Dazen Guile, and I stole your life.”
“How’d you do it, Dazen? How did no one notice?”
I took your clothes and strode out of the flames at Sundered Rock. My face was swollen from our fight. I’d already given myself your scar and cut my hair like yours. I just started giving orders, and your people became mine. “I just acted like a selfish asshole, and everyone assumed I was you,” he said, feigning nonchalance.
The prisoner laughed, ignoring the last part. “Well, it’s a beginning. Feels good, doesn’t it? They say confession is good for the soul.”
Dazen—Gavin!—snarled, “Now… about that dagger.”
“It’s my vengeance, little brother,” the prisoner said. “It is the sweet song of victory,” the prisoner said. “It is the sting in the night. Dryness in your bones. Sleeplessness and terrors. It is your death and my freedom, Dazen. It is the end of all your lies.”
“And apparently I’ve only heard the beginning of yours,” Gavin said, sneering. His brother was lying. Had to be. He was just trying to make Gavin worry. He was chained, not witless. Confined, not toothless.
The real Gavin laughed. “No, you see, the beauty of it is that I don’t have to lie. What are you going to do, little brother? You don’t have the spine to starve me. No, you’ll just watch it coming. Death will draw his sword and you will stand and do nothing. It’s always been your way.” He laughed again. “I have nothing more to say to you. Begone.”
Dazen trembled. Every word his brother said touched some deeper well. The time Karris’s elder brother Rodin had sworn to beat Dazen, and Dazen had stood still, waiting, not really believing Rodin would do it until it was too late. The terrible dreams Dazen had had as a child, and for which the elder Gavin had mocked him. Even being dismissed, as Dazen had always hated. Orholam damn him, Gavin had always known the cracks in his armor. Dazen shook his head.
No, he was Gavin now. The mask had to be total, even in his own thoughts. At all times. Dazen was another life. “Dazen” was the wretch on the other side of the luxin now. Dazen was the weak bastard trying to anger him so that Gavin would kill him. That’s all this was. The prisoner was terrified, weak. He was a shell. He was trying to provoke Gavin to kill him because he couldn’t summon the courage to suicide. That was all.
The man Gavin had once been would have killed the prisoner and been done with it. In the war, Dazen had become ruthless. Dazen loved the clash of arms, the splash of blood. Dazen loved his mastery over other men. Dazen would crush those who rose against him. Now, as Gavin, he wouldn’t be pulled back to that. He wouldn’t give his brother the satisfaction. “Well,” Gavin said. “It was a pleasure as always, but it’s getting late”—of course, it was barely noon, but he liked making the real Gavin wonder just how disoriented he was down here—“and Karris is eager tonight. She made me promise not to keep her waiting.” That’s for cheating on her and leaving me with the mess, you bastard. “So a good evening to you, Dazen.”
The prisoner said, “Your lies are failing already, Dazen. You just keep wondering who already knows, and how they’re plotting against you. Sweet dreams.”
“There are worse things than waking from a nightmare to find yourself in the arms of the woman you love. Say, waking in a cell. Sweet dreams to you too, brother.” Gavin touched the glass and it went dark, and once more the cell began its slow, slow rotation into the earth.
Gavin leaned against the cold wall, trying to calm his racing heart. It wasn’t a loss; he’d learned some things from his brother. First, he had indeed been cheating on Karris. Kip was Gavin’s bastard. Second, Gavin had known Kip’s mother—and she wasn’t a prostitute. If she had been, he would have said, “Karris would never take a harlot’s bastard.” Instead, he’d said, “That harlot’s bastard,” which meant he intended the word as a slur, not a description. Third—unless he was far, far smarter than Gavin gave him credit for, which was possible—the real Gavin still wasn’t getting information from the outside.
That was why Gavin had put all of this lies all in the past tense: Kip’s discovery. A month of not sharing a bed with Karris, decisions already made about raising Kip. If someone were passing him news, the prisoner would be confused by the chronological disparity—which, because it didn’t seem to serve a purpose, he wouldn’t expect to be a lie. Gavin didn’t expect his brother to voice his confusion, of course, but he was hoping to see it in his eyes. There had been none.
So Dazen wasn’t getting information from the outside, which meant he wasn’t plotting with this “Color Prince,” whoever the hell that was. So the Color Prince was merely using a retelling of the Prisms’ War to agitate dissent. All the world believed Gavin had won, and the Color Prince didn’t like how things had turned out, so he was pretending to be in league with the losing brother—whom he had no idea was actually alive. This Color Prince was a liar and an opportunist then, not a zealot who knew the truth.
Which meant there was only one place the Color Prince could be: Tyrea. Either King Garadul was the Color Prince himself, or the two were connected.
Thank you, brother. Very helpful. And you used to be better at lying than I was.
But after the prison finally settled into place, he checked and double-checked all his chromaturgy. Nothing was out of place. And yet, even as he ascended up the shaft and out of the evernight he’d created down here for his brother, he trembled. He was as trapped as Gavin was.
I could just stop feeding him. I wouldn’t even have to do anything. I could just take a vacation, tell Marissia not to drop the dyed bread down the chute while I’m gone. He’d simply… die.
He remembered when they’d been children and Dazen had climbed the lemon tree to prove he could do everything his older brother could—and fallen. They thought he’d broken his ankle. Gavin had carried him all the way home. A small thing, for an adult, but Gavin had been reduced to tears by the effort. But he refused to give up. His little brother had never forgotten it.
And now the little brother is going to kill that man in cold blood, without even having the courage to face him as he did it?
Enough. All the world knows your brother is dead. You are all they know. Besides, you need your wits about you. You have to tell the Spectrum you started a war. And then you need to convince them to fight it your way.
I do have a chance. Just as long as the White’s in a good mood.
Unless…
Oh, Gavin Guile, sometimes you do play a deep game, don’t you? He grinned to himself. Seven years, seven goals. One impossible prize. A small failure could serve his greatest success.
Gavin made it back to his room and was putting everything back in place to disguise the door in the closet again when there was a sharp rap at the door. He threw the closet closed as the White opened the door.
“Good to see you, Lord Prism!” she said.
Gavin was painfully aware of the mess in front of him and the burn on the back of his shirt—a burn he had no good way to explain if she saw it. “And you, High Mistress,” he said, smiling. “Just the person I wanted to talk to, if we could meet in a few moments, perhaps in your chambers?”
Orea Pullawr looked at him sharply. “I’m afraid that’s going to have to wait. There’s a class waiting for you. A class you promised me you’d teach.” Her nose twitched. “Did you burn something in here?”
“Um, yes?” Gavin said. It came out as a question. Damn it.
“ ‘Um, yes?’ ”
Gavin cleared his throat. “Yes.”
She waited.
He said nothing more.
“Very well, then. Be like that. I thought you left to take care of that color wight.”
Ah, she was angry because she thought he’d neglected a mission whose abandonment might mean people dying. And she would have been sure, it being a blue, that he would go immediately. And she didn’t know why he’d summoned the Spectrum. The White didn’t like to be left in the dark. “Consider it taken care of,” Gavin said. Which she would interpret to be him blowing her off, but he didn’t know how to not tell her about the skimmer if he was fully honest.
After showing it to the boy and Karris, it was a secret he couldn’t expect to keep much longer, but that would be a big conversation, and he wasn’t ready for it yet.
She lifted her eyebrows, like, You’re going to be dismissive, to me?
A thought hit him. “The class is superviolets?”
The White nodded, suspicious.
“There’s a girl from Tyrea in that class, isn’t there? Alivia?”
“Aliviana Danavis, from Rekton.”
So he’d remembered correctly. A girl from Kip’s town. Perfect.
He hesitated. Kip had said Corvan was there, but…“No relation, surely?”
“Actually, she’s General Danavis’s daughter.”
Gavin let the shock show as dull surprise, like he’d just heard about some minor tragedy on the other side of the world. He’d heard the girl’s surname was Danavis before, but he’d assumed it was some distant relation, if any. Corvan’s own daughter? And why had Corvan been living in the same town as Gavin’s bastard? Coincidence? If so, that was a heavy coincidence.
Regardless, it required Gavin’s attention, right away. “Huh. You’re right, I need to go teach that class. It’s a holy responsibility.” Juggling, always juggling.
“I always distrust you when you get dutiful,” the White said.
He smiled, blandly innocent.