The Blood Mirror

But now he could hear his father breathing. From old habit, Gavin looked in sub-red, and he could see the man so brightly (though in white tones rather than red) it almost blinded him. Gavin looked down, blinking.

He didn’t want to laugh—it would seem proof of his insanity—but he couldn’t help it. His father’s words were an exact echo of his own thoughts, again, regarding his brother: You’re too dangerous to release, so I’ll imprison you. Your imprisonment is too cruel, so I must kill you.

His father had arrived at the logical conclusion much faster than he had, though. Give him that.

“Fuck him,” the dead man said. It was the first time he’d spoken in a while.

Gavin said, “I’ve murdered hundreds. Maybe thousands. I don’t know if there is an appropriate method of execution for me.”

“I was thinking starvation. Or poison. I can’t imagine I’ll ever have to use this cell again, so either would serve. I could simply leave you here to rot.”

As I did my brother. Or didn’t.

Could you be guilty of things you thought you were letting continue but really weren’t?

Andross said, “I’m going to make a light. I would see your face one last time. Don’t humiliate yourself and embarrass me again by trying anything.”

The dead man said, “Listen to me. You can escape. This is your chance.”

A moment later, light bloomed. Gavin squinted against the glare, but the light itself didn’t command his attention. First, eyes averted from the lantern his father produced, he saw the black luxin. There was barely any reflection off that eerie black. The light that touched it simply died. He cast no secondary shadow from refracted light, and his primary shadow was barely visible, greater darkness against darkness.

Then, pupils constricting, he turned to his father.

“This was a mistake,” Andross Guile said. “I don’t want to remember you like this, this hideous ghost of what you once were.”

“Too late now, isn’t it? I got my memory from you, after all. You don’t forget, either,” Gavin said.

“I suppose not,” Andross said.

“If you were simply going to put me down like a mad dog, you’d have done it without this much bother,” Gavin said. “You came down to say something.”

Andross smirked, but only for a moment. “I suppose I haven’t dealt with madmen enough. Losing your wits doesn’t mean losing your wit, eh?”

The dead man grew more insistent. “Why aren’t you listening to me? Are you frightened, Gavin? Gavin Guile? Frightened?”

“Frightened only of what I might do,” Gavin said below his breath.

“What’s that?” his father asked.

Louder, as if merely repeating himself, Gavin said, “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“How soon did your mother know?” Andross asked. He meant after Sundered Rock.

“Instantly.”

Andross cursed. “Of course she did.”

“Gavin,” the dead man whispered, “you have a way out.”

“When did you figure it out, then?” Gavin asked.

Andross said, “On the seventh year from the real Gavin’s ascension. We had figured out that you—the victor of Sundered Rock—had drafted black luxin, of course. I chalked up all the changes in you to that, and to killing your brother. Would have shaken anyone. But then you never even asked about doing the ceremony again. I didn’t believe that you could have forgotten that.”

“The Prism ceremony?”

Andross waved it away. He wasn’t interested in explaining. “And then, once I could accept that you’d fooled me, it all became obvious. Audacious, though. You played it perhaps as well as it could have been played.”

“Mother coached me.”

“Of course she did.”

“And when you figured it out, there was nothing for you to do but go along with it,” Gavin guessed.

Andross turned his palms up in a small surrender. “Gavin was dead and others believed you were he, so what could be done? I could mourn him. I could make you pay, but what would that accomplish?”

As if you didn’t make me pay.

“We have a way out,” the dead man said.

“I’m sorry, father.”

Andross Guile looked at Gavin as if he were suddenly speaking in some foreign tongue. “We’ll pretend you didn’t say that. I came here for one reason.” He stopped, shook his head. “No, what am I doing here?”

He’s lonely.

The thought tore through Gavin. For some reason, looking at this monster, Gavin felt a sudden unwonted compassion.

He’s lonely. Mother left him. His sons are dead. He’s recovered his health and vitality, but it is nothing to him. His last son insane, and even Kip has fled.

“Let’s play a game,” Gavin said.

“A game?” Andross asked skeptically.

“You always loved games. You and your Nine Kings. You can’t tell me that you haven’t missed matching wits with me. Witless as I may be.” Gavin grinned.

“What kind of game?” Andross asked, suspicious but obviously intrigued.

“Gavin!” the dead man said. “You don’t need to put yourself at his mercy. Andross Guile’s mercy. Andross. Guile’s. Mercy.”

Gavin said, “You tell me about some of the problems facing you, and I try to guess what you’re doing about them. Of course, you have to give me enough relevant information to give me a chance. We’ll call the game, Which Guile Rules the Seven Satrapies Better?”

“There are several weaknesses to this game,” Andross said.

“There are weaknesses to every game,” Gavin countered.

Andross obviously missed sparring. He didn’t think too long before saying, “To clarify: in the game, you’re guessing what I have done, or will do, not what you would do in my place? After all, we have… somewhat different strengths.”

“Exactly,” Gavin said. Anything to keep from going insane. Anything to give himself more chances. Anything to make him valuable to the old man might give him an opening.

Growing more irritated, the dead man said, “You don’t need to do all this.”

“I can play this game,” Andross said. “You know who the White King is?”