The Burning White (Lightbringer #5) - Brent Weeks Page 0,349

the sword. The godling twisted Gavin’s ankle so hard that he had to flip sideways, or risk his leg being broken.

Gavin rolled, tearing his ankle free, but losing all forward momentum. He tried to stand, losing where his opponent was as he tried to claim a position between the being and the blade.

The godling crashed into Gavin again, blasting him off his feet and landing on top of him, two steps from the blade.

This time Gavin was on the receiving end of the knees and elbow strikes. He blocked, blocked, thrashed ineffectually. He’d never been a great grappler. The Blackguards he’d trained with never much wanted to slam their elbows into the Prism’s head, and in Gavin’s real-world fights, he’d only rarely come within range of a sword, much less fists. Drafting and shooting had always been enough. If anyone had come within grappling range, Gavin had been able to count on a Blackguard dealing with the threat instantly.

It had become one part of his training Gavin let rust into disuse; not even Blackguards could excel at every martial art, and Gavin had needed to be so much more than only a warrior.

The man went for a chokehold, and Gavin barely had the presence of mind to shoot an arm up through the grip before his opponent could choke him from consciousness.

Even as he strove to break free toward that damned blade—it was a hand’s breadth from his straining fingertips!—a chill cut through the heat of flight and fear and the raw vibrancy of battle juice: Gavin couldn’t fight this Opponent with some easy and obvious short-term goal animating his every move.

Trying only and immediately to grab the sword would make him too predictable. Back when he’d had his powers, fighting a monochrome drafter while standing between the man and his spectacles had always been easy. Drafters in those positions always thought they only had options after they had their spectacles and thus their power, so they always moved to grab their spectacles first, even if it put them in the jaws of an obvious trap.

Gavin would need to use every resource instead; this fight wouldn’t end in seconds; it might stretch minutes. How long it took didn’t matter. Whether he grabbed the Blinding Knife didn’t matter. Victory was all that mattered.

Gavin stopped trying to roll toward the sword and pushed hard into the godling’s pull.

The reversal threw them both over, away from the Blinding Knife. Gavin scissored his legs around the man, straining to lock his feet together.

“I know you,” Gavin said.

“You don’t even know yourself.”

“You’ re—”

The Opponent twisted, grunting, throwing repeated knee strikes, mostly deflected. They had to take as much out of him to dish out as they took Gavin to absorb. The fire in his eyes was smaller now, but just as intense if not more. Gavin couldn’t stare at him for long lest he be blinded.

“I . . . had seven goals,” Gavin said. He had to talk in short little gaspy fragments. He’d probably been fighting for only two minutes, and it already felt like years.

“For every seven years. You think I don’t know?” the godling said. He didn’t seem nearly as out of breath as Gavin was.

“ Took—” Gavin shifted as he took another shot in the ribs. He lost the thought. “Was careful not to even, uh, think about it out in the sun. In case.” In case the Order was right and Orholam really did see and maybe even hear everything done in the light.

“Thought darkness could hide your blasphemy?” the godling asked.

“Blasphemy? Ha! One can only blaspheme against a god!”

Gavin lost his grip on a sweat-slick arm, then he lunged for a better hold and missed.

They broke apart from each other, both rolling, both standing, chests heaving, throwing glances at the sword but neither of them making a move for it that might leave him vulnerable.

“But then,” Gavin said, “that’s what you wanted everyone to think, isn’t it? That you’re God.”

“Deception is your forte, not mine.” There was something familiar in his voice. A bad copy of Gavin’s own. Another mockery.

“No, no,” Gavin said. “You dazzle and distract rather than hide, but it’s still deceit. I’m a liar and I know a liar when I see one. So I’ve suspected your game all along.” They circled each other, each keeping their weight low, hands up.

“You came to lay your suspicions to rest?”

“I already have. I was right. I’ve suspected it ever since I became Prism,” Gavin said. “Assassin. Traitor. Genius.