The Burning White (Lightbringer #5) - Brent Weeks Page 0,323

as ash, and catching flame and climbing again. It turned and glared fire at him as he staggered past.

Gavin wasn’t in there.

Gavin wasn’t in the superviolet cell that hurt the eyes.

Gavin wasn’t in the sub-red inferno, where a face of flame floated.

Gavin wasn’t in the black cell, where Ironfist couldn’t see any creature, but could feel a malignant presence watching him back.

“I can save you,” a quiet, calm, reasonable voice from that cell said. “He cannot. I can heal you. What use are you in this condition? Do not believe what the liars have told you. You know they’re liars, do you not? They weaken the strong, and you, you could be very, very strong indeed. With my help.”

But Ironfist had been around men and women more persuasive than himself for his entire life. Simplicity was the cloak that fit him.

Every time he tried subtlety and lies, it turned to blood.

Like today.

Oh, Cruxer. Orholam forgive me.

He stepped away.

Touch this.

Under his fingers he found hellstone, and he pressed it hard, making sure he was drafting nothing, making sure the magic of the old gods didn’t cling to him.

How did he know to do that?

But then, within sight of the exit, he suddenly grew faint as the realization finally crested over him like a tsunami wave. He was leaving. He’d searched all the prisons.

Gavin Guile had been here. He had—unbelievably, horribly, unthinkably—been imprisoned with these things.

But Gavin was here no longer. Which meant . . .

It meant Ironfist had murdered Cruxer for nothing.

He fell to the cold stones of the tunnel. His mag torch finally sputtered out, leaving him in darkness.

It was all for nothing. He’d come too late. He’d faltered on the last lap. If Gavin wasn’t here, and no one had heard of him since he’d left, that meant he was dead.

Ironfist had failed. He had tried to compete in subtlety with the Orea Pullawrs and the Andross Guiles and the Amalu Anazâr Tlanus of the world, and he’d failed.

He sank down, down. He could go on no longer.

God, he cried out, damn me! Give me what I deserve! Let me die. I’m finished. No more. No more.

You’re not dying today, brother. I won’t let you. We’re not going to quit. Not today.

What? Ironfist thought.

Something was glowing in the darkness.

“Don’t you make me carry you,” Tremblefist said.

It wasn’t real. Couldn’t be. Ironfist knew that. He was dying, and his mind was playing tricks. Torturing him or comforting him. It wasn’t reliable, that was all that mattered.

He lay down.

“You are the most loyal man I know,” Tremblefist said. “I know you, brother.”

A hallucination. A bitter memory. Ironfist settled his head against the stones to die.

“You think they cheered only because you carried me?” this phantasm of Tremblefist said. “Do you not remember your own wounds?”

No. He hadn’t been harmed, had he? Hanishu had taken all the brunt of the Tiru fans’ rage.

And then he remembered the blood. He’d taken blows in the face, a broken nose, a sliced forehead. Two or three broken ribs. He’d forgotten those.

By the time he’d crossed the finish line, he and Hanishu had been a gory mess together.

“I begged you to quit. I knew my wounds were temporary, but I was afraid you would die. You said, ‘I don’t know quit.’ ”

“I’ve learned,” Ironfist said bitterly.

Hanishu flashed an exasperated smile, exactly as he had done in life, except that Ironfist could see the wall through his form. “This doesn’t happen, you know,” Tremblefist said. “We peaceful departed, we don’t return. And I am at peace, brother. But he told me that uncommon loyalty deserves uncommon rewards. You took a wrong turn, associating with the Order to avenge mother and protect Haruru. But you’re no traitor, brother.”

After Teia had killed Haruru, making himself king of Paria had been the only way Ironfist could get back to Little Jasper safely, and become too important to be killed or simply sent away by the Order’s people or Andross Guile’s. Becoming king had been the only way to muster an army and bring it here.

It had been the only way he could hope to get vengeance on his uncle.

The plan had been to relent at the last moment before the execution and say, ‘I’ve changed my mind. Instead of a Guile, I’ll let myself be contented with the blood of one of those most useful to them. That slave, Grinwoody. He’s your right hand. I’ll take him. Now.’

Andross Guile would take the deal in a moment, and the Old Man