The Blinding Knife
Page 120

He imagined Gavin coming back down here, grinning that lopsided grin at him, taunting—
Wait. Gavin came down here. When Gavin came down here, he had to traverse this geometrical space.
Even without luxin, Dazen felt a burst of energy, life. Gavin came down here. That meant he had tunnels. He came close enough that he could talk to Dazen. That meant those tunnels were very, very close.
If Dazen could find one of those tunnels, he wouldn’t simply get past the yellow prison, he’d break out of all of the prisons. He didn’t have to break out of each in turn, he could simply leave.
Salvation was that close. His heart leapt. His heart burned within him. It was as if his fever was still burning him.
No, this was real joy. It had been so long since he’d felt it, he almost didn’t recognize the giddy, skittish thing. He laughed aloud. Then he started moving around the chamber surrounding the great green egg that had been his prison, knocking on the walls.
Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tonk.
Tonk, tonk, tonk. The hollow sound was like a choir singing the Sun Day salutations.
Just to be sure, just to be careful, Dazen checked the rest of the chamber. Nothing. This one section, almost four paces long, was the thinnest. He looked for hidden hinges, but he couldn’t find any. Not that he expected them. After the prison was finished, Gavin doubtless would have fully sealed the tunnel. No reason to leave a weakness where Dazen might find it.
Going back to the green cell was like going back to scoop up his own vomit and eat it. But back he went. Shivering with revulsion, he clambered through the hole he’d made and grabbed the husk of his blue bread.
He’d left all of the crust, broken open now to give him the maximum surface from which to draft.
He climbed back out of the green cell, but stood in its light. It took him another quarter of an hour to draft enough blue. It was a relief, though, when it came. The clarity of blue was a boon. He’d lived with blue for sixteen years, and he needed it. With the blue slowly filling him, he became aware once again of how fragile his health was. It had only been months since his fever had passed. The nasty cut across his chest had mostly healed in a nasty scar. His body had won the fight against the infection, but that didn’t mean he was up to full strength.
He didn’t know how long he had. He needed to blast the wall open, draft green for the necessary strength, and go as fast and far as he could. Once he found a safe place, he could worry about healing. It was a gamble, and his blue self hated gambles, but this was a gamble he had to play or die.
He thought of going back to the stone wall to knock again, to double-check, but he didn’t need to. He’d drafted blue for so long that he could practically see lines overlaying his vision that denoted the exact outline of the hollow space. He could envision the probable thickness of the stone. It was granite, and from some class he’d taken as a boy and had thought long lost, he remembered how granite broke.
That was blue for you, dredging up details from your own mind that you couldn’t believe you remembered. Granite broke in predictable wedges, Xs at sixty degrees and one hundred twenty degrees. Of course, the blue couldn’t tell him at what angle those wedges lay to him. So he braced himself and grasped his right wrist in his left hand. He gathered his will. The first missile would need to be about the size of his thumb or the granite might not crack and show him the appropriate angles.
He took a deep breath and gave the short, sharp cry. It tightened stomach, chest, and diaphragm, gave tension and a stable firing platform, and a small animal boost to the will. Mechanics meets the beast.
The blue bullet burst from him and smashed into the wall, in and through with a small explosion of granite dust and granite shrapnel.
No alarm sounded. At least none that he could hear. Dazen strode to the wall. It was too dark to see the hole well, but he traced his fingers around it, felt the fractures. Aha, tilted about twelve degrees.
His blue-enhanced mind laid the lines out easily, compensated for the angles, picked out lines along which it would fracture, and exactly where he would have to shoot the next missiles to make the hole big enough to climb through.
Taking his place back far enough that he wouldn’t get hit with the shrapnel but would still easily hit his targets, Dazen braced himself, one foot back, turned, both hands up. Each hand would shoot two missiles simultaneously: there and… there.
He shouted, and the missiles blasted out from him, hitting the wall in a blue explosion as parts of the luxin were torn back into light. Dust filled the tunnel, and Dazen choked on it, feeling suddenly empty. He staggered over to the green cell and drew in liquid life.
Looking at the hunks of blue bread at his feet, he had the passing thought that he should draft in blue as well, at least some, some thread—he ate the bread. There’d be plenty more blue where he was going. He needed the strength.
A tiny part of him protested, but it was little, and weak.
He pushed through the dark hole into the dark tunnel. He drafted imperfect green into his hand. Green made lousy torches, and even in the state he was in, he knew not to use all of his luxin up just to make it slightly brighter.
The tunnel—Gavin’s tunnel—was simple, rough-hewn. It was a workspace, barely wide enough for a man. Not really wide enough for a man with a torch, if he didn’t want to risk burning the hell out of himself. Of course.
Gavin would have used a luxin torch. Bastard.
Dazen hesitated once inside the tunnel. One way might gently slope up, and the other seemed to gently slope down, but he couldn’t be certain. His instinct was to choose the upward direction, but when he thought about it rationally, there was no guarantee that simply because this one tiny section of tunnel had a slope that the slope continued all the way to the surface. Really, he had no idea which way was out. If he went the wrong way, of course, he could simply turn around, but he’d be wasting time. Time that might be valuable. And he’d certainly be wasting energy, and even with the green alive inside him, he knew his bucket had holes in the bottom of it. He was emaciated, unhealthy underneath the veneer of wild energy green lent him. So he forced himself to hold still, wait.
The blue saved him. He wasn’t drafting it, but it had changed him in all those years. He stayed still and held his meager green light. The granite dust, still settling from the explosion and still settling from his own passage into the tunnel, now resumed its natural patterns.
There was a slight breeze between the two newly connected passages, too slight for Dazen to feel on his skin, but enough to see the dust slide into the tunnel and… up. If the wind was blowing that way, that was the way that was open. That was his way out.
Dazen went up. Up was good. Up was out.
A sudden sob racked his frame. Up was out. Dear gods. Up was out.
Chapter 82
“Here’s what I’m curious about,” Teia said as they sat down in Kip’s room. She was tired and her hair was askew from training with Karris White Oak. “I think Aram is the second best fighter in the scrubs.”
“He’s the tall kid, muscular?” Kip asked.
“And fast. And a yellow/green bichrome. He’s gotten some unlucky matchups, but I’m wondering if he’s playing sand spider.”
“Sand spider?” Kip asked. She’d said it like it was a saying he should know.
“Hiding in his hole so he can jump out at exactly the right time. He is a yellow. Maybe he thinks that he’s another Ayrad.”