by Brent Weeks
Gavin’s arms were shaking, shoulders burning from the muscular effort of pushing his entire body, his entire boat across the seas. Harder. Dammit, harder!
The sea demon arched upward just as Gavin’s skimmer shot out of its mouth. Its tetraform jaws snapped shut, and it launched itself into the air. He shut his eyes and screamed, pushing as hard as he could.
He shot a look over his shoulder and saw the impossible: the sea demon had breached. Completely. Its massive body crashed back down into the water like all seven towers of the Chromeria falling into the sea at once.
But Gavin was faster, up to full speed. Filling with the fierce freedom of flight and the luminous lightness of life, he laughed. Laughed.
The sea demon pursued him, furious, still burning red, moving even faster than before. But with the skimmer at full speed, Gavin was out of danger. He circled out to sea as the distant shapes of men cheered on the decks of every ship of the fleet, and the creature followed him.
Gavin led it for hours out to sea; then, circling wide in case it headed blindly in the last direction it had seen him go, he left it far behind.
As the sun set, exhausted and wrung out, he returned to his fleet. They’d lost two sailing dinghies, but not a single life. His people—for if they hadn’t been his before, he owned them heart and soul now—greeted him like a god.
Gavin accepted their adulation with a wan smile, but the freedom had faded. He wished he, too, could rejoice. He wished he could get drunk and dance and bed the finest-looking girl he could find. He wished he could find Karris somewhere in the fleet and fight or fuck or one and then the other. He wished he could tell the tale and hear it retold from a hundred lips and laugh at the death that had come so close to them all. Instead, as his people celebrated, he went belowdecks. Alone. Waved Corvan away. Shook his head at his wide-eyed son.
And finally, in his darkened cabin, alone, he wept. Not for what had been, but for what he knew he must become.
Chapter 4
Karris hadn’t joined the revelers celebrating surviving their brush with the sea demon. She woke before dawn and made her ablutions, and brushed out her hair to give herself time to think. It didn’t help.
The secret was rubbing Karris like a burr under the cinch strap. She bound hair black as her mood back in a ponytail as usual. She’d spent the last five days putting pieces together: Gavin “falling ill” after the last battle of the war against his brother Dazen; Gavin breaking their betrothal; Gavin being astonished at learning about his bastard son Kip; Gavin being different.
Then she’d wasted time wondering how she’d been so dense. She—and everyone else—had attributed the changes to the trauma of war, the trauma of killing his own brother. His prismatic eyes had been proof, proof that Gavin was Gavin. Gavin was brilliant and quite the liar, but he shouldn’t have been able to fool her. She knew him too well. More to the point, she knew Dazen too well.
That was finished. She made her way to the forecastle as she had every morning and began stretching. She went crazy if she didn’t do some calisthenics every day. Her superior, Commander Ironfist, had thoughtfully brought her two sets of blacks to wear, and both tunic and pants were cotton infused with luxin—snug in spots, flexible everywhere, made for movement foremost and secondly to show off the Blackguards’ hardened physiques. But though grunting and sweating were part and parcel of her life, that didn’t mean she wanted to share it with every cretin on deck.
“May I?” Ironfist asked, coming onto the deck. The commander of the Blackguard was a huge man. A good leader. Smart, tough, and intimidating as hell. When Karris nodded, he removed his headscarf and folded it neatly. It was a Parian religious custom, the men covering their heads in respect to Orholam. But there were exceptions, and like many Parians, Ironfist believed the injunction only applied once the sun had risen fully above the horizon.
Ironfist had once plaited his wiry black hair, but after the Battle of Garriston and the death of so many of his Blackguards, he’d shaved his head completely bald in mourning. Another Parian custom. The headscarf that had once covered his glory would now cover his grief.
Orholam. All the dead Blackguards, many of them killed at the same time by one exploding shell, a lucky shot that cared nothing for their elite skills in drafting and fighting. Her colleagues. Her friends. It was a yawning pit, devouring everything but her tears.
Coming to stand parallel to Karris, Ironfist brought his hands together, then separated them to a low-high guard. It was the beginning of the Marsh ka. A suitable beginning, when muscles weren’t warm, and the ka didn’t range far, so their moves could fit within the small confines of the forecastle. Sweep low, turn, back kick, roundhouse, land on the other foot, balance—not as easy a task as usual on the bobbing deck.
Ironfist led, and Karris was glad to let him do so. The sailors assigned to the third watch stole glances at them, but Karris and Ironfist weren’t much visible in the predawn gray, and the gazes were unobtrusive. The motions were second nature. Karris focused on her body, the aches of sleeping on a wooden deck quickly worked out, the older aches more stubborn—the training injury that always made her hip ache, the stiffness in her left ankle from when she’d sprained it fighting a green wight with Gavin.
Not Gavin. Dazen. Orholam curse him.
Ironfist moved to Korick’s ka, ramping up the intensity quickly, again, a good choice for this tight of a space. And soon Karris was focusing on getting just a little more length on her spinning roundhouse kick, getting full extension and height on the back kick. She wasn’t nearly as tall as Ironfist, but he could flick his long limbs out into kicks and spear hands with unbelievable speed. She had to work hard to keep up with the pace he set.
The sun rose and they stopped only when it had almost cleared the horizon. Apparently Ironfist had wanted some hard work, too. As she breathed and gasped, leaning over with her hands propped on her thighs, he mopped his brow, made the sign of the seven to the new-risen sun, breathed a short prayer, and put his ghotra on his shaven head.
“You want something,” he said.
He picked up another cloth and threw it to her. Of course he’d brought two. He was conscientious like that. It also told her that he’d not joined her morning calisthenics by accident. He’d come to talk.
Classic Ironfist. Comes to talk, and says five words in the course of an hour.
Still, he was right. So Karris said, “The Lord Prism is going to leave the fleet. He’ll either try to do so without your knowledge or he’ll at least try to get you to agree not to send any Blackguards with him. I want you to send me.”
“He told you this?”
“He didn’t have to tell me. He’s a coward; he always runs away.” Karris thought she’d worked out the rage in her calisthenics, but there it was, hot and crisp, ready to fling her skyward in an instant.
“Coward?” Ironfist leaned against the railing. He looked at it. “Hmm.” Not a pace from where they stood, the railing was broken. Had been broken by a rampaging sea demon.
A rampaging sea demon that Gavin had faced down.
She grunted. “That last part wasn’t supposed to come out.”
Ironfist wasn’t amused. “Come here. Eyes.”
He took her face in his big hands and stared at her eyes in the rising sunlight, measuring, intense. He said, “Karris, you’re the quickest drafter I have, but you’re also the quickest to draft. Uncontrollable rage? Saying things aloud you didn’t intend? Those are the hallmarks of a red or green who is dying. Half my Blackguard is dead, and if you keep on drafting like you have, you’ll break the halo in—”
“Hope I’m not interrupting,” a voice intruded. Gavin.
Ironfist was still holding Karris’s face in both hands, staring into her eyes. Standing on the deck in the soft warm light of dawn, they both realized at the same time what it probably looked like.
Commander Ironfist dropped his hands, cleared his throat. Karris thought it was the first time she’d ever seen him embar
rassed. “Lord Prism,” Ironfist said. “Orholam’s eye grace you.”
“And a good morning to you, Commander. Karris. Commander, I’d like to meet with you in an hour. Please summon Kip as well; I’ll require him after our conversation. I believe he’s on the first barge.” Gavin’s white tunic, accented with gold embroidery, was actually clean—on a ship, in the middle of fleeing from a battle, someone had laundered his clothes. He mattered that much to people. Things just magically worked out for Gavin without his even trying. It was infuriating. At least his face looked drawn. Gavin never slept well.
Ironfist looked like he wanted to say more, but he simply nodded and walked away.
Which left Karris alone with Gavin for the first time since she’d thrown a fit after learning he’d sired a bastard during their betrothal. She had jumped out of their boat then. It was the first time they’d even been face-to-face since she’d slapped his smiling face—in the middle of the Battle of Garriston, in full view of his entire army.
Maybe she had been drafting too much red and green. Anger and impulsivity shouldn’t be a Blackguard’s most prominent traits. Or a lady’s. “Lord Prism,” she said, determined to be civil.
He looked at her silently, that restless intelligence in his eyes weighing, always weighing. He looked at her almost mournfully, eyes touching her hair, her eyes, pausing at her lips, traveling quickly down her curves and back up to her eyes again, maybe flicking just for a moment to the sides of her eyes, where the wrinkles were starting.
He spoke softly: “Karris, you look better when you’re a sweaty mess than most women look in their Sun Day best.” Gavin was handsome, charming, and willful in all senses of the word, but something people often forgot was that he was smart, too.
He didn’t want to talk. He was stalling. Getting her confused and defensive about something that had nothing to do with anything. Bastard! She was sweaty, sticky, stinky, how could he compliment her now?
How dare he be nice after she’d slapped him in the face?
How dare his stupid little gambit work despite that she knew what he was doing?
“Go to hell,” she said, and walked away.
Nicely done, Karris. Professional, ladylike, civil. Bastard!
Chapter 5
How could a woman make you want to throw her ass into the sea and kiss her breathless at the same time? Karris walked away and Gavin couldn’t help but admire her figure.
Damn woman.
He saw that some of the sailors on deck were appreciating her figure, too. He cleared his throat to get their attention and lifted an eyebrow at them; they quickly found work to do.
“Is this perfectly necessary, Lord Prism?” a voice asked, coming up behind Gavin. It was his new general, the man who’d worked with him sixteen years ago when he’d been Dazen’s most effective general, Corvan Danavis. They’d had to do some clever work to make everyone believe Gavin’s “enemy” would now take orders from him.
“By this, you mean this?” Gavin pointed at the rope ladder up to the crow’s nest.
“Yes.” General Danavis was the kind of man who prayed before a battle, just in case, and then went about his business as if he had absolutely no fear of death. Gavin didn’t think he experienced fear in the way other men did—but he absolutely hated heights.
“Yes,” Gavin said. He climbed up the rope ladder first. As he pulled himself into the observation box, he was struck once again by a thought he had regularly: his whole life was based on magic. He climbed this height fearlessly because he knew that if he fell, he could draft quickly enough to catch himself. Though he might appear fearless, he wasn’t. There was simply hardly ever any danger for him—totally unlike most people. People would see him do incredible things, and think him incredible. And they would be totally misunderstanding.
The sudden stab of fear was so sharp that he thought for a moment someone actually had hit him in the gut. He took a deep breath.
Corvan came up, eyes locked on the crow’s nest, hands in a death grip on each rung. Gavin hated to do this to his friend, but there were some conversations that one simply couldn’t risk having overheard.
Gavin helped him into the box. He let the general catch his breath. At least the safety rails up here were nice and high and stout. Below, the sailors were going about their work. The morning wind was rising, and the first watch was out, checking lines and knots, the captain on the poop with a sextant, making sure of their position.
“I’ve lost blue,” Gavin said. Get it out. Clean it up afterward.
He could tell from the expression on his face that Corvan Danavis had no idea what he was talking about. He stroked the red mustache he was growing back. He’d been known for dangling beads from that mustache, back during the Prisms’ War. “Blue what?”
“I can’t see blue anymore, Corvan. It’s a sunny morning, I’m staring at the sky and the Cerulean Sea—and I can’t see blue. I’m dying, and I need your help deciding what I should do.”
Corvan was one of the smartest men Gavin knew, but he looked lost. “Lord Prism, such a thing isn’t—wait, tell me one piece at a time. Did this happen during your fight with the sea demon?”
“No.” Gavin looked over the waves. The rocking of the ship was soothing, perfectly complemented by the harmonious blues of sky and sea. He could remember the color so clearly he could swear he almost saw it. He was a superchromat, one who could differentiate colors much more finely than other men. He knew blue from its lightest to its darkest tones, from its violet hues to its greenest ones, blue of every saturation, blue of every mixture.
“After the battle,” Gavin said. “When we sailed away with all the refugees. I woke the next day and I didn’t even notice for a while. It’s like looking at a friend’s face and realizing you don’t know her name, Corvan. Blue’s there; it’s close. It’s like the color is on the tip of my eyes. If I don’t concentrate, I don’t even notice it, except that the world seems washed out, flat. But if I concentrate as hard as I can, I can see gray where the blue should be. Exactly the right tone and saturation and brightness, but… gray.”
Corvan was silent for a long minute, red-haloed eyes squinting. “The timing isn’t right,” he said. “Prisms are supposed to last some multiple of seven years. You should have five years left.”
“I don’t think what’s happening to me is normal. I was never ordained the Prism. Maybe this is what happens when a natural polychrome doesn’t go through the Spectrum’s ceremony.”
“I don’t know that that’s quite—”
“Have you ever heard of any Prism going blind, Corvan? Ever?” The last Prism before Gavin—the real Gavin—had been Alexander Spreading Oak. He’d been a weak Prism, hid in his apartments mostly, had likely been a poppy addict. The matriarch Eirene Malargos had been before him. She’d lasted fourteen years. Gavin had only the barest recollection of her from the Sun Day rituals when he was a young boy.
“Gavin, most Prisms don’t last sixteen years. Maybe the Spectrum’s ceremony would have made you die earlier. If you’d died after seven years or fourteen, you’d never have experienced this. We can’t know.”
That was one problem with being a fraud. You can’t elicit information about something that’s terribly secret that you should already know. The real Gavin had been initiated as Prism-elect when he was thirteen years old. He had sworn never to speak of it, not even to once-best-friend and brother Dazen.
It was one oath that, so far as Gavin could tell, each member of the Spectrum had honored. Because in the sixteen years he’d been impersonating his brother, no one had said a word about it. Unless, of course, they had made sidelong references to it—which he never picked up, and thus didn’t respond to, and thus let them know that he valued the secrecy of the ceremony highly and they should, too.
In other words, he was caught in a trap of his own devising. Again.
“Corvan, I don’t know what’s happening. I may wake up tomorrow and not be able to draft green, and the next day and not be
able to draft yellow. Or maybe I’ve just lost blue and that’s all, but I have lost blue. Best-case scenario, if I manage to stay away from the Chromeria and am absent during every blue ritual, I’ve got one year left—until next Sun Day. There’s no way I could maintain a fraud through the ceremonies, or skip them. If I can’t draft blue by then, I’m dead.”
Gavin could see Corvan realizing all the consequences. His friend expelled a breath. “Huh. Just when everything was going so well.” He chuckled. “We’ve got fifty thousand refugees that no one is going to want; we’re running low on food; the Color Prince has just had a major victory and will now doubtless gather thousands more heretics to his banners; and now we’re losing our greatest asset.”
“I’m not dead yet,” Gavin said. He grinned.
Corvan grinned ruefully back, but he looked sick. “Don’t worry, Lord Prism, I’m the last man who would count you out.” Gavin knew it was true, too. Corvan had accepted disgrace and exile to make Dazen’s defeat look credible. He’d spent the last sixteen years in a backwater village, poor, unknown, quietly keeping an eye on the real Gavin’s bastard, Kip.
Another problem.
Corvan looked down, blanched at the height, and gripped the rail tightly again. “What are you going to do?”
“The more time I spend with drafters, the more likely it is that someone will notice something’s wrong. And if I’m at the Chromeria too long, the White will ask me to balance. If blue goes under red, I might not even be able to tell, much less balance it out. They’ll remove me.”
“So…”
“So I’m going to go to Azûlay to see the Nuqaba,” Gavin said.
“Well, that’s one way of keeping Ironfist from accompanying you, but why do you want to see her?”
“Because in addition to their capital having the largest library in the world—where I can study without the entire Spectrum knowing what I’ve looked at within an hour—the Parians also keep oral histories, including many that are secret and some that are doubtless heretical.”