The Black Prism
Page 2

Kip still wasn’t putting it together. No one in Rekton trusted the soldiers who came through, and the alcaldesa had told the town’s young people to give any soldiers a wide berth for a while—apparently the new satrap Garadul had declared himself free of the Chromeria’s control. Now he was King Garadul, he said, but he wanted the usual levies from the town’s young people. The alcaldesa had told his representative that if he wasn’t the satrap anymore, he didn’t have the right to raise levies. King or satrap, Garadul couldn’t be happy with that, but Rekton was too small to bother with. Still, it would be wise to avoid his soldiers until this all blew over.
On the other hand, just because Rekton wasn’t getting along with the satrap right now didn’t make this man Kip’s friend.
“So you are a criminal?” Kip asked.
“Of six shades to Sun Day,” the man said. The hope leaked out of his voice. “Look, boy—you are a child, aren’t you? You sound like one. I’m going to die today. I can’t get away. Truth to tell, I don’t want to. I’ve run enough. This time, I fight.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will. Take off my hood.”
Though some vague doubt nagged Kip, he untied the half-knot around the man’s neck and pulled off the hood.
At first, Kip had no idea what the prisoner was talking about. The man sat up, arms still bound behind his back. He was perhaps thirty years old, Tyrean like Kip but with a lighter complexion, his hair wavy rather than kinky, his limbs thin and muscular. Then Kip saw his eyes.
Men and women who could harness light and make luxin—drafters—always had unusual eyes. A little residue of whatever color they drafted ended up in their eyes. Over the course of their life, it would stain the entire iris red, or blue, or whatever their color was. The prisoner was a green drafter—or had been. Instead of the green being bound in a halo within the iris, it was shattered like crockery smashed to the floor. Little green fragments glowed even in the whites of his eyes. Kip gasped and shrank back.
“Please!” the man said. “Please, the madness isn’t on me. I won’t hurt you.”
“You’re a color wight.”
“And now you know why I ran away from the Chromeria,” the man said.
Because the Chromeria put down color wights like a farmer put down a beloved, rabid dog.
Kip was on the verge of bolting, but the man wasn’t making any threatening moves. And besides, it was still dark. Even color wights needed light to draft. The mist did seem lighter, though, gray beginning to touch the horizon. It was crazy to talk to a madman, but maybe it wasn’t too crazy. At least until dawn.
The color wight was looking at Kip oddly. “Blue eyes.” He laughed.
Kip scowled. He hated his blue eyes. It was one thing when a foreigner like Master Danavis had blue eyes. They looked fine on him. Kip looked freakish.
“What’s your name?” the color wight asked.
Kip swallowed, thinking he should probably run away.
“Oh, for Orholam’s sake, you think I’m going to hex you with your name? How ignorant is this backwater? That isn’t how chromaturgy works—”
“Kip.”
The color wight grinned. “Kip. Well, Kip, have you ever wondered why you were stuck in such a small life? Have you ever gotten the feeling, Kip, that you’re special?”
Kip said nothing. Yes, and yes.
“Do you know why you feel destined for something greater?”
“Why?” Kip asked, quiet, hopeful.
“Because you’re an arrogant little shit.” The color wight laughed.
Kip shouldn’t have been taken off guard. His mother had said worse. Still, it took him a moment. A small failure. “Burn in hell, coward,” he said. “You’re not even good at running away. Caught by ironfoot soldiers.”
The color wight laughed louder. “Oh, they didn’t catch me. They recruited me.”
Who would recruit madmen to join them? “They didn’t know you were a—”
“Oh, they knew.”
Dread like a weight dropped into Kip’s stomach. “You said something about my town. Before. What are they planning to do?”
“You know, Orholam’s got a sense of humor. Never realized that till now. Orphan, aren’t you?”
“No. I’ve got a mother,” Kip said. He instantly regretted giving the color wight even that much.
“Would you believe me if I told you there’s a prophecy about you?”
“It wasn’t funny the first time,” Kip said. “What’s going to happen to my town?” Dawn was coming, and Kip wasn’t going to stick around. Not only would the guard’s replacement come then, but Kip had no idea what the wight would do once he had light.
“You know,” the wight said, “you’re the reason I’m here. Not here here. Not like ‘Why do I exist?’ Not in Tyrea. In chains, I mean.”
“What?” Kip asked.
“There’s power in madness, Kip. Of course…” He trailed off, laughed at a private thought. Recovered. “Look, that soldier has a key in his breast pocket. I couldn’t get it out, not with—” He shook his hands, bound and manacled behind his back.
“And I would help you why?” Kip asked.
“For a few straight answers before dawn.”
Crazy, and cunning. Perfect. “Give me one first,” Kip said.
“Shoot.”
“What’s the plan for Rekton?”
“Fire.”
“What?” Kip asked.
“Sorry, you said one answer.”
“That was no answer!”
“They’re going to wipe out your village. Make an example so no one else defies King Garadul. Other villages defied the king too, of course. His rebellion against the Chromeria isn’t popular everywhere. For every town burning to take vengeance on the Prism, there’s another that wants nothing to do with war. Your village was chosen specially. Anyway, I had a little spasm of conscience and objected. Words were exchanged. I punched my superior. Not totally my fault. They know us greens don’t do rules and hierarchy. Especially not once we’ve broken the halo.” The color wight shrugged. “There, straight. I think that deserves the key, don’t you?”
It was too much information to soak up at once—broken the halo?—but it was a straight answer. Kip walked over to the dead man. His skin was pallid in the rising light. Pull it together, Kip. Ask whatever you need to ask.
Kip could tell that dawn was coming. Eerie shapes were emerging from the night. The great twin looming masses of Sundered Rock itself were visible mostly as a place where stars were blotted out of the sky.
What do I need to ask?
He was hesitating, not wanting to touch the dead man. He knelt. “Why my town?” He poked through the dead man’s pocket, careful not to touch skin. It was there, two keys.
“They think you have something that belongs to the king. I don’t know what. I only picked up that much by eavesdropping.”
“What would Rekton have that the king wants?” Kip asked.
“Not Rekton you. You you.”
It took Kip a second. He touched his own chest. “Me? Me personally? I don’t even own anything!”