The Burning White (Lightbringer #5) - Brent Weeks Page 0,255

Kip said instantly.

Winsen snorted.

Dammit, Win.

“We should make him Prism,” Karris said. “It solves three problems for us at once.”

“Three?” Andross asked. “What’s the third?”

“Kip dying? Getting killed by all the luxin he drafts?” Karris asked.

“Funny, that sounded more like a solution to me,” Andross said. He seemed to have sunk into a dark place where no one could follow.

Kip wasn’t sure which problems Karris was talking about. That only a Prism was supposed to use the array atop the Prism’s Tower was one.

Karris said, “Zymun will be furious if you let Kip impinge on what he believes to be his rights as Prism-elect, even if he isn’t Prism yet. And we need to talk about that issue anyway. Our time is running out.”

Ah, that was the second problem solved by naming Kip Prism first. Sort of. Zymun would still be furious, of course, just not in a position to do anything about it.

“It’s impossible,” Andross said.

“Displacing Zymun?” Karris asked.

“Making Kip Prism.” As if those weren’t the same thing for some reason.

“Why?” Karris asked.

“Literally impossible,” Andross said.

“Oh, right. Shit,” Karris said. Then she blanched and held her head in both hands and swore again.

“So . . . you figured it out,” Andross said, not even turning to look at her. “Finally.”

Figured what out? Kip thought.

“I wondered if you had,” Andross said. “What with your little holy cadre of faithful young luxiats. Have you told them yet? Or was it they who told you?”

Kip wanted desperately to know what they were talking about, but he knew his best chance to find out was to keep his mouth shut.

Andross seemed amused that she didn’t answer. “You’re one of only two on the Spectrum who know now.”

“You’ve been weeding out everyone else,” Karris said. “Why?”

“Then you haven’t figured it all out, after all. You might want to look into your beloved Orea Pullawr’s legacy more closely. The old White wasn’t quite so blameless as you’ve liked to believe. Her husband even less so.”

“Really? Let’s talk about blame,” Karris said, suddenly fiery. “I think it’s way past time you answered some questions of mine. And let’s talk about my faithful luxiats. You know they say the Lightbringer’s going to purify the faith. To me that sounds like I’m joining in his work. As the Red, much less as promachos, why wouldn’t you?”

“We can talk about that later,” Andross said, waving her to be quiet. “If I get around to it. So much to do.” Dismissive asshole. Then he turned to Grinwoody, who had been holding one finger out, but inconspicuously, to draw his master’s attention when he was ready. “Yes?”

Quietly Grinwoody said, “I’ve an errand. Your leave?”

Andross waved him to go, then stabbed a finger at Kip. “What’s that?”

“What’s what?” Kip asked.

“On your arm. Is that a tattoo?” Andross asked.

He meant the Turtle-Bear on Kip’s left wrist with its freshly bright luxin lines in every color. Kip had been drafting a lot recently. He hadn’t even thought to cover it up.

“We can talk about that later,” Kip said. “If I get around to it. So much to do. There’s a war coming? Maybe we should talk about that?”

“The adults will talk about that when Carver Black arrives,” Andross said. “You know the Chromeria absolutely forbids tattoos.”

“I know. I don’t care.” It was an old and remarkably stupid prohibition. During an early and contentious era before colored lenses were widely available, some lighter-skinned drafters had tattooed blocks of their drafting color on their arms to give themselves an ever-present color source. In a partisan power play, the dominant Parians, whose darker skin made color tattoos less helpful to them, had pushed through a prohibition on all tattoos to solidify their perennial hold on the Blackguard. What would happen to their dominance if lighter-skinned warriors could negate the advantages of dark skin and gain ever-present color sources simply by getting tattoos?

“You can’t afford to thumb your nose at the Spectrum when you come begging favors. We’ll talk more about that thing on your forearm, but for the moment, how about putting on something with sleeves?”

“Of course,” Kip said. And in moments, he was pulling on Ferkudi’s coat.

Andross studied him all the while. Then he pursed his lips. “Yes.”

Yes? Oh, to the mirror array. He was granting permission. Thank Orholam.

A secretary produced a quill, parchment, and Andross’s promachos seal. Andross wrote a brief note himself. As the secretary made copies, Andross drew up another writ granting Kip provisions and shelter for his forces.

“I’ve more defenders coming,” Kip said,