The Broken Eye(71)
“Doubtless. Prism Spreading Oak was worthless, but Prism Eirene Malargos before him had a way of showing mercy to such. She would, after shriving one who had been an enemy, ask if they had any silent sins for which they could together beseech Orholam’s forgiveness. It’s outside of orthodoxy, you understand, for to speak sins is to let them be exposed to the light, and is theologically necessary, but it was also very merciful. Such things get out, you know. She was well loved.”
“Sounds like a good idea.”
“Prism Malargos lasted two terms, but perhaps only because the Spectrum never had reason to fear her. She never advanced her family, nor any of the goals she held dear. She was a figurehead, nothing more. Consider carefully whether you want that fate.”
He turned to look at the gentle woman who had so often tenderly nurtured him. This steel. Was steel her natural state, just hidden, or was it simply that she would do anything at all to protect her last living son? “I’ve given the satrapies ample reason to fear me, mother. A little love might not go amiss.”
She bowed her head. “As you wish, Father.” Ever the Orange, Felia Guile knew exactly when to tinge that religious title with a playful smirk.
This time she did not. She gave him the respect that he still, as a young man, craved from his own mother. The respect of tens of thousands of others was reinforced rather than hollowed, as only a mother could do.
He certainly didn’t get any respect from his father.
She closed the jar. “The lotion I’ve applied to you will be preserved until dawn by the other oils you were anointed with. It’s a mix of tiny particles of imperfect yellow luxin dust and superviolet. You can use a little superviolet to make your entire body glow, even in a darkened room. It makes quite a sight. Use it sparingly, and don’t get too close to the torches or it will break down. It is incredibly difficult for the yellows to make, and it’s a closely guarded secret. If you like, all the gold in your clothing can be lit as well. These are the last and holiest moments of a drafter’s life. Make them special, Gavin.”
No pressure. “Trinkets and magic tricks?”
His mother took a deep breath. “I seem to remember Dazen awarding his army’s highest honor to a commander after the Battle of Blood Ridge who routed the enemy with illusions that, were those enemies thinking rationally, wouldn’t have deceived them for two heartbeats.”
She waited. But he refused to give her the satisfaction of admitting she was right.
“But at certain moments, two heartbeats is an eternity,” she said, quoting him. “I might suggest that at the moment you slide the knife home, you begin to glow, and shine brighter as the drafter dies, to give her a symbol of her eternal reward. But … you are the Prism, Father.”
She could be astonishingly cynical, his dear mother.
“I’m a fraud,” he whispered.
She slapped his face, fury breaking through a veneer so cool he hadn’t even guessed it was there.
Then, instantly, it was gone again. She rubbed the lotion back into place on his slap-stung cheek. Her voice was quiet, but each word was considered, knife-edged: “We are all of us frauds. We are all of us frauds, and we are all of us doing the best we can to hold up a tower of illusions and ill-placed hopes. Do not fail us, my beloved son.”
The dream skipped forward then, through the long walk to the yard, through the cheers and praises and the prayers of another of the High Luxiats, blessing him and his work. Choice foods and rare wines were laid out. In some cases, whole communities had made the pilgrimage to Little Jasper to say goodbye to a beloved drafter who had served particularly well. Which this year meant drafters who’d been particularly heroic in the war.
Though it was a feast, Blackguards wandered the crowds, keeping their eyes on all the drafters who were nearly wights. Every few years, there was an incident, and in the aftermath of bitter war, they were wise to be on edge.
And then Gavin was ushered into a room, a long, thin dagger pressed into his hand. The closing of the heavy door shut out the cheers of the crowd utterly. He would move from room to room. The rooms were arranged in a circle at the base of his tower. Each room was tiny, with only a few simple decorations, a pitcher of wine and a smaller one of poppy liquor for the fearful, and a cushioned kneeler. Some drafters liked to pass the night in prayer vigils. Others relaxed and talked with family and friends in larger rooms or outside until the luxiats summoned them. As Orholam’s favored, all the female drafters were seen first.
The first one was a haggard drafter of perhaps forty-five. She knelt patiently on the kneeler at the front of the room. Her back was to the small door where the luxiats would take her body, her face to Gavin as he entered.