The Burning White (Lightbringer #5)

by Brent Weeks

Let the haunting begin.

“Turtle-bears can do many things, but one thing they’re shit at: they don’t know how to give up.”

“And here’s thing,” Gunner said. “I kin understand it when a man throws back a few too many drinks on a lonesome night, gets sour inside, and sucks at the teat of a musket for jus’ long enough so that big ole ‘fuck you’ we scream at the world bounces back as ‘fuck me’ and he pulls the trigger. I kin understand when a girl climbs a tree and tries on a noose necklace for size and once she got it on thinkin’, ‘I come this far, why not?’ and takin’ that hop. Prob’ly e’ryone who looks oft a cliff thinks a taking the sharp drop with a sudden stop. E’ery sailor has thought of takin’ that swim what fattens sharks. We all got the black moment when the evil eye of the barrel dares a starin’ contest. And we’re all a hair trigger’s pull from the musket’s dare. It’s the devil’s gift, ain’t it? It’s the heritage o’ man, aye?”

Shit. There goes my righteous fury. That was the trouble of a consistency in moral affairs: holding yourself up to the measure you judge others by is three clicks past irritating.

Sinking into sarcasm is the heart’s last rebellion against a mind choosing helplessness.

Triumphant, with a cloak of fire and a crown of blood, Dazen the Black would return. He would bring down heaven and he would raze hell.

eons. “Gunner? Captain? Let’s go find God. I’ll bring the sword, just in case He’s a dick.”

“Impossible is what I do.”

Of all the things that die, hope is the most easily resurrected.

“It won’t be more than I can handle.” “You trust me too much,” Karris said. He laughed suddenly. “I don’t trust you at all!” She stepped back, offended. She was the White. And Quentin’s owner. “I’ve offended you. I’m sorry,” he said. “But you misunderstand. I mean I don’t place the locus of my trust in you or on your judgment, but in Orholam alone. You needn’t take on His burden. Being the White would be too much for anyone to bear alone!”

You are that kid from Rekton, Kip.” “‘Aren’t,’ you mean,” he said. “Sorry, not important. You just misspoke. Go on.” She shook her head. “I didn’t misspeak.” Yes, you did. He flashed a quick smile. It really didn’t matter. She rolled her eyes skyward. “Did you really have to give him a loud silent yes, too?!” “You know,” Kip said, “I usually feel smarter than this. And I don’t usually feel all that smart.” She took his hands, and she was the comfort of a lantern in darkness. “You are that wounded, fearful child stuck in the closet with the rats.” Her voice cracked momentarily, and lightning of her righteous wrath at what had been done to him flashed in the distance, but she went on. “And you are this man. And I have seen you…” Her eyes filled with tears, but she ignored them. “Kip, when you bring that little boy’s heart and his compassion for brokenness into your rule, I have never seen anyone so powerful.” She wet dry lips, mastering herself. “I think you owe that child abandoned in a locked closet with rats something, Kip. That boy? That boy you’ve poured scorn on, who you called a fat fuck? He survived because he fought. I think you owe him more than your contempt.”

Tisis said, “Every slave stops fighting the chain. But some run every time the chains do come off. And you’re here, Kip. And you have friends. And you trust people. And you love. Are those the hallmarks of the weak and contemptible?” “Not… so much,” he admitted. “So what I’m looking forward to seeing is you pushing back at that old distorted mirror. I can’t wait to see you repay that hurting boy for his gifts to you by finally bringing your piercing wisdom back to that child.

Why is there evil if Orholam loves us and has the power to stop it? My answer is that we are the apprentice painters, working under the master’s watchful eye. He is a good master, and He has sworn not to make our work meaningless. Every smudge and every blot and every unsteady line we draw will remain. The master will soften a line or turn the darkest graffiti to chiaroscuro, but never will He take the palette knife to gouge out an imperfect piece of the work, for if He erased the imperfections made by our hands, where would He stop erasing? Everything we paint we paint imperfectly.”

“What do you call it when you realize you’ve been an asshole your whole life?” Gavin asked. “A good start?” Orholam offered.

“Strength is a choice. Courage is a habit. Unfortunately, cowardice is, too.”

She sighed quietly. “Are you reassuring me or yourself?” But she didn’t wait for him to answer. “Kip, he’s dangerous to you because you admire him so much. You hate what he’s done, sure. But you’ve compared yourself to him from the first time you met him. You’ve aspired to be what he is. And you’re actually so much more than he is.” “He’s smarter than I am.” “Sure. So? A man whose intelligence is leavened with humility is doubly wise.” “He’s more cunning. More connected. More masterful. More knowledgeable. More—” “He’s a hundred things more! And not one of them matters. I worry what you’ll see when you look in his eyes, Kip. Because he’s warped. People come away from meeting him hating themselves and hating the world. People meet with you and they come away with hope. You’re a thousand times the man he’ll ever be—no matter what happens. No matter what.”

“Not ‘Breaker.’ I prefer ‘Diakoptês,’” Kip said. For some reason Grinwoody flinched at that. “My father told me once that the odds were against us, but that odds are for defying.”

“Dazen, if Orholam came to speak to you in the flesh, you still wouldn’t listen. Didn’t, for your whole climb and for your whole life. But you listened to me. So who’s the right messenger to send to you?” “You’re not a messenger. You’re a hallucination.” But tears were flowing. He was so ashamed and he could hide none of it now.

What I know is this. If God needed perfect mirrors to bring His light to the world, it would be a world forever dark.

Gavin scoffed, pointing at himself. “Imperfect?! What, you see this as mildly flawed? Look at me! You know what I was! What I am.” “I see. I see and I’m not turning away.” “How can you not?” Sevastian pierced him with a gaze that combined the best of Felia and Andross Guile and yet was somehow fully his own. “Because I love you, brother. I see the you that’s you, under all this. Yes, it’s ugly, it’s disgusting, but you can be more. I know what you can become, even still. There’s still work for you to do.”

“You tricked me! You’re not Orholam!” The old man leaned on the gun-sword. He smiled. “Oh, but I Am.”

“Oh, I’m not above using others’ garbage. I’ll use a stone the builders reject as a cornerstone, but you can’t give Me as tribute what’s garbage to you. That’s no sacrifice. I’m a healer to healers and a servant to servants, but to kings I’m a king—not a slave.”

Dazen glanced up, but it was still old man Orholam. “The giant? Was that…?” he asked. As if that were the most pressing question to ask Orholam Himself. “The same one from your dream? Of course. You’ve had such a terrible attitude about prophets, so I made you one.”

Orholam laughed aloud, and Dazen was struck by the sound. He was actually enjoying Himself, as if talking with Dazen was something that could bring Orholam joy. Absurd! And yet, here it was.

Impossible magic, against impossible odds? That’s what I do.

“Who do you say I am?” She looked up and through her tears she said, “I say you’re the one who holds the wind in his fists. I say you’re the one who wraps up the oceans in his cloak. I say you’re the one whose every word proves true. I say you’re the Lord of Lights. I say you’re stronger than death, and…” She sank farther, lying prostrate, her face on the very cobblestones, stretching her hands toward the old man as if he were unimaginably far away. “I say I’ll praise you, though you slay me.”

You’re in my bubble of causality now, bitch.

Don’t just win. Live victoriously.”

Andross grew thoughtful, then scowled. “You know,” he said, “I can’t tell if you’re wise beyond your years or just a dumb kid full of slogans.” “Me, either,” Kip said.