The Burning White (Lightbringer #5) - Brent Weeks Page 0,467

scholars swore previously had left entire pages blank. Dazen didn’t know if this was a reclamation against the old workings of black luxin, or if Andross was instructing his forgers among the scholars to insert his own preferred teachings.

But the crux of it was that the luxiats claimed that before Vician’s Sin, retiring drafters at the Freeing simply retired. They were Freed, not of their lives but of their bonds of service—and also their magical gifts, as Dazen had been.

Except that some also died, judged by Orholam Himself, it was said. So drafters, never certain what they would receive at their judgment day, would still approach it with fear and trembling. Sun Day would remain a somber and holy occasion, but also one filled with joy for the righteous.

So they claimed. The world would find out soon enough.

Dazen had only begged his father to wait a little while. He had an intuition he wanted to explore.

Andross had granted it, saying the scholars could use the extra time anyway.

In the meantime, the Blood Robe drafters were held in mirrored cells or darkness or in rooms carefully draped with colors they couldn’t draft. Andross hadn’t even suggested utilizing the dungeons Dazen had crafted and been held in, and Dazen certainly didn’t want to think of them ever again.

Surprisingly enough, Dazen rather enjoyed all the pageantry, though most of his enjoyment came from the fact that he wasn’t the person on whom the entire ceremony depended for once.

Then Andross stood and spoke. “We have endured much, and we have many labors before us. Changes are coming. I shall not restore to us some mythical golden age from the past. The only golden age open to us lies before us. If these satrapies are to endure, they must rest upon a foundation of justice. This will be hard, for many of us have suffered such grievous injustices that we’ve allowed ourselves to inflict injustices on others, as if we each were impartial judges who happen to rule in our own favor, always. This coming age will bear great fruit, but we will have to till the rocky soil of our own hearts to plant that fruit so that our ch—so that our children and our children’s children may enjoy it.”

He pursed his lips, and then, in a less practiced voice that suggested he was diverging from the speech he’d memorized, he said, “Some of us have done things in this war . . . even done things to win this war for which we must repent. I foremost among us.”

Dazen had more than a merely healthy cynicism for his father’s every act and word, but this hit like a right cross. Confession? Contrition? From Andross Guile? Was this another put-on? Another trap?

But from where Dazen was seated behind the old man, he hadn’t been able to see his face, couldn’t tell if this was just another game, another manipulation, and already Andross was back to his scripted remarks.

“This is the project we begin. As we fought together, we will work together, all of us: luxiat and noble and drafter and farmer and fisherman and smith. We will mourn together, and we will celebrate our victories and Orholam’s. We will bind up the wounds of these Seven Satrapies, and we will make them stronger, and more just and more honorable than they were before. By the grace of Orholam, despite our many losses, the list of our allies and friends has grown in these dark hours, and those who sacrificed to serve in our darkest hours shall not go unrecognized in the light.”

Andross was a plain speaker, given to sentences too long for many people to follow, and it wasn’t the kind of speech designed to draw forth applause, but it did anyway. These people needed it.

“Oh. There is one other matter,” Andross said with obvious relish and a smile. “The much-delayed official wedding of my son to Karris White Oak. This will begin tomorrow. The party will continue for a week. And as a special additional pleasure, my grandson, Kip, will soon celebrate his own long-delayed official wedding to Tisis Malargos as soon as her family arrives. As we’ll be celebrating already, I’d like to join my ascension celebration to their parties. Naturally,” Andross Guile said, “you are all invited.”

He smiled, and the years sloughed off him as the people roared their applause. He actually looked more than surprised; he looked delighted, as if the acclamation was soaking long-dry soil in his heart.

Dazen, obedient