The Burning White (Lightbringer #5) - Brent Weeks Page 0,325

but the rock unmoved.

Only Kip stole a glance away toward Zymun, to see if even this could affect him. But Zymun flashed a wink at Kip instead, and then while pretending to blow his nose, he poked himself in each eye.

The hell was that about?

“I’m ready, too,” Zymun said. He moved forward, blinking, mistyeyed, his face lacquered with sorrow.

The little piece of shit.

“You can’t possibly be serious,” Kip said. “Ironfist isn’t even here yet. You’re not going to wait to see if he’s changed his mind?!”

“He gave us the ultimatum,” Zymun said. “Time is of the essence. If we wait, we endanger everyone. You heard the scouts! The White King’s ships are within a league now, and not stopping for the night. By dawn they’ll be setting up the siege. If we don’t get those soldiers—”

“Enough!” Karris said. “I said I’m ready. I don’t want to see hatred in my old friend’s eyes again anyway. There is no yielding in him once he’s set his course. Maybe it’s better this way.”

Zymun grinned at Kip, and Kip saw that a few others caught the expression and bristled at it. “Very well, then, daughter. To your place.”

“One of her beloved Blackguard kin has agreed to be the one who—” Andross began.

“I’m the Prism,” Zymun said firmly. “It has to be me. This is my duty and should rest on my soul. Mine is the protection of this empire, and mine is the shepherding of this flock. Even in this. Right, mother? You wouldn’t deny us this last, holy moment together, would you?”

Kip’s knuckles popped, he was clenching his fists so hard. He’d come here tonight ready to die. Because even if you think you know what’s going to happen, when death is in the offing, and Andross Guile is in the room . . . well, he’s Andross Guile.

“Of course not,” Karris interjected. Her face twisted as she added, “son.”

Zymun grinned in victory, changed his look to unconvincing sadness an instant later, and took the spear-point-bladed knife from Blackguard Commander Fisk.

There was a kneeling pillow at the front center of the podium. Zymun extended his hand to Karris. “Come, daughter,” he said. As if he were Prism already.

Kip looked at Andross and found Andross staring back at him, but his eyes were inscrutable.

He was really going to let this happen.

They all were.

Though Kip had shown up ready to die, Zymun, of course, had never once thought that he might be the Guile to die. To him, this was all a game, a show for his entertainment.

To Kip, it was a nightmare he couldn’t wake from. He could see why Andross didn’t want to depose Zymun today: he was a figurehead without any real power, but for the people of the Jaspers, losing another Prism on the very eve of a battle for their survival would be a devastating blow to morale. He was handsome, and the son of the beloved Gavin Guile—that’s all most of the people knew. Andross wanted Zymun to strut through whatever of the Sun Day events they could manage, maybe read a speech Andross had written for him, and then quietly go away right afterward. And Kip was needed for the islands’ defense.

So it had to be Karris.

She made a sign of benediction to the crowd. “My faithful ones,” she said, “I’ve run my race. I pass my light on to you, my friends. You fight like hell. Orholam be with you. And please, when we are victorious over the pagans—when we are, for I have no doubts of that—do not hold the shedding of my blood against Ironfist or the Parians. I am not without blame in this. Take no vengeance for me, but stitch Paria back into these Seven Satrapies with grace and mercy, as Orholam would will it.”

There were quiet sobs in the room. The Blackguards were all stony-faced sorrow. Karris took a few moments to make eye contact with them one last time. Many in the crowd looked on with abject horror, while others simply seemed titillated.

This is not happening.

Karris looked at Kip, and her mouth pursed with regret. She nodded to him in farewell.

Then she knelt on the pillow.

“We’re not doing anything yet,” Andross said loudly.

Usually, that would have been the end of it, but Zymun didn’t move. He’d put his hand on Karris’s forehead, ostensibly in blessing, tilting her head back to expose her throat.

“Grandfather,” Zymun said, his voice dripping contempt, “this is now a matter between the Prism and his faithful.