The Black Prism
Page 11

Magic was the converse. It began with power—light or heat—and its expression was always physical. You made luxin. You could touch it, hold it—or be held by it.
Halfway down, Gavin drafted a blue bonnet and a harness from the cold blue of the sky with some green added for flexibility. It unfurled with a pop and slowed his fall. When he was a few paces from the ground, he threw down blastwaves of sub-red that slowed him enough that he could land lightly in the street. The bonnet dissolved into blue dust and green grit and a smell like resin, chalk, and cedar. He strode toward the docks.
He found her within minutes, just arriving at the docks herself, a bag slung over her shoulder. She’d changed from her Blackguard uniform, but was still wearing pants. Karris only wore a dress once a year, for the Luxlords’ Ball, where it was required. She’d also somehow dyed her hair almost black so as not to stand out so much in Tyrea.
Of course, it was impossible not to stand out with those eyes, like an emerald sky adorned with ruby stars. Karris was a green/red bichrome—almost a polychrome. It was an “almost” she’d hated all her life. Her red arc extended into the sub-red so far that she could draft fire, but she couldn’t draft stable sub-red luxin. She’d failed the examination. Twice. It didn’t matter that she could draft more sub-red than most sub-red drafters, or that she was the fastest drafter Gavin had ever seen. She wasn’t a polychrome.
But on the other hand, polychromes were too valuable to be allowed to join the Blackguard.
“Karris!” Gavin called out, jogging to catch up with her.
She stopped and waited for him, a quizzical look on her face. “Lord Prism,” she said in greeting, ever proper in public—and still, evidently, not having read the note.
He fell in step beside her. “So,” he said. “Tyrea.”
“The armpit of the Seven Satrapies itself,” she said.
Five years, five great purposes, Gavin. He’d given himself purposes since he’d first become Prism as a focus and distraction. Seven goals for each seven-year stint. And the first was—the first had always been—to tell Karris the whole truth. A truth that might ruin everything. What I did. Why. And why I broke our betrothal fifteen years ago.
And you can rot in that blue hell forever for that, brother.
“Important mission,” he said.
She shrugged. “How come the important missions never take me to Ruthgar or the Blood Forest?”
He chuckled. Ruthgar was the most civilized and prosperous nation in the Seven Satrapies, and of course, as a green drafter, Karris would feel a strong fondness for the Verdant Plains. Alternately, the Blood Forest was where her people were from, and she hadn’t walked among the redwoods since she was young. “Why don’t you make it a quick trip, then? I can scull you there.”
“To Tyrea? It’s on the opposite side of the sea!”
“It’s on my way to a color wight I’ve got to deal with.” And I may not have many more chances to be near you.
She scowled. “Seems like there’ve been a lot of wights recently.”
“It always seems like there’ve been a lot recently. Remember last summer, when there were six in six days, and then none for three months?”
“I guess so. What kind?” she asked. Like most drafters, she felt a special outrage when a wight had come from her own color.
“A blue.”
“Ah. So I’m guessing you’ll be right on your way.” Karris knew about Gavin’s special hatred for blue wights. “Wait, you’re hunting a blue wight… in Tyrea?” she asked, turning to look at him with her haunting green eyes with red flecks.
“Outside Ru, actually.” He cleared his throat.
She laughed. At thirty-two, she had the faintest lines on her face—more frown lines than smile lines, sadly, but she still had the same dimples. It just wasn’t fair. After years of knowing her, a woman’s beauty shouldn’t be able to reach straight into a man’s chest and squeeze the breath out of him. Especially not when he could never have her. “Tyrea’s a thousand leagues from Ru!”
“Couple hundred at most. If you stop wasting daylight arguing with me, I might be able to get you there before nightfall.”
“Gavin, that’s impossible. Even for you. And even if it were possible, I couldn’t ask you—”
“You didn’t. I volunteered. Now tell me, would you really prefer to spend two weeks on a corvette? It’s clear today, but you know how those storms come up. I heard the last time you sailed, you got so green you could draft off your own skin.”
“Gavin…”
“Important mission, isn’t it?” he asked.
“The White’s going to kill you for this. She’s got an ulcer named after you, you know. Literally.”
“I’m the Prism. There’s got to be some advantages. And I like sculling.”
“You’re impossible,” she said, surrendering.
“We all have our special little talents.”
Chapter 10
Kip woke to the smell of oranges and smoke. It was still hot, the evening sun slipping through the leaves to tickle his face. Somehow, he had made it to one of the orange groves before collapsing. He looked down the long, perfect rows for any soldiers before he stood up. His head still felt foggy, but the smell of smoke drove away any thoughts of himself.
As he approached the edge of the orange grove, the stench grew stronger, the air thick. Kip caught flashes of light in the distance. He emerged from the grove and saw the sun setting behind the alcaldesa’s mansion, the tallest building in Rekton. As he watched, the sun went from a beautiful deep red to something darker, angry. Then Kip saw the light again—fire. Thick smoke billowed suddenly into the sky, and as if on signal, smoke billowed up from a dozen places in the town. In moments, the smoke blossomed to raging fires towering dozens of paces above the roofs.
Kip heard screams. A ruin of an old statue lay in the orange grove. The townsfolk had always called it the Broken Man. Much of it had dissolved in the centuries since its fall, but the head mostly remained. Someone had long ago carved steps into the broken neck. The head was tall enough to watch the sun rise over the orange trees. It was a favorite spot for couples. Kip clambered up the steps.
The town was on fire. Hundreds of foot soldiers surrounded the town in a vast, loose circle. As the flames drove some townsfolk from their hiding place, Kip saw King Garadul’s horsemen set their lances. It was old Miss Delclara and her six sons, the quarrymen. The biggest one, Micael, was carrying her over one burly shoulder. He was shouting at the others, but Kip couldn’t hear what he was saying. The brothers ran together toward the river, apparently hoping to find safety there.
They weren’t going to make it.
The horsemen lowered their lances as they reached a full gallop, maybe thirty paces away from the fleeing family.
“Now!” Micael yelled. Kip could hear it from where he stood.
Five of the brothers dropped to the ground. Zalo was too slow. A lance punched through his back and sent him sprawling. Two of the others were skewered as their pursuers quickly adjusted their aim and caught the men low to the ground. Micael’s pursuer dipped his lance too, but missed. He caught the ground instead, and the lance stuck.