by Brent Weeks
“So I’m trivially correct on the latter.” He enjoyed her attention, her growing awe, but he had barely touched her, even when he had excuses to do so. He didn’t lean toward her as they spoke. He was engaged intellectually but not bodily. “But this is no seduction.”
He didn’t look entirely pleased. “Alas, the fire that took so much else has denied me the simpler pleasures of the flesh. Not that I despise such. But no cavorting like a green for me.” Between the immobilization caused by the burn scars on his face and the immobilization of the luxins he was weaving into his skin, it was difficult to read any but the most overt expressions on his face, but she reminded herself that this didn’t mean he didn’t feel readily or deeply. His eyes swirled freely with colors, but Liv thought they, too, were only good indicators of his emotions when he felt something strongly. It made him something of a cipher.
Superviolet loved ciphers. Cracking ciphers.
“Do you know who I was?” the Color Prince asked.
“No.”
“And I’m not going to tell you. Do you know why?”
“Because you don’t want me to know?” she hazarded.
“No. Because superviolets love digging up secrets. And if I don’t set you to work digging up something that doesn’t matter to me, you might be smart enough to dig up something I don’t want known.”
“Diabolical,” she said appreciatively.
Luxin shot out of him, slamming into her chest. She staggered, lost her grip on superviolet, and found something tight around her neck.
Kicking, Liv realized she’d been lifted off her feet. No, not just off her feet. She was suspended, off the edge of the balcony, held by a fist of luxin around her entire head. She grabbed at the fist, trying to pull herself up, trying to breathe, trying to loosen its grip—panicking, not even realizing that loosening its grip was the last thing she ought to want. If she fell from this height, she’d die. Her head felt hot, all the veins bulging, her eyes feeling like they’d explode.
The Color Prince’s eyes were stark red, glowing like coals. He blinked. Yellow flooded to the fore, and she felt herself swung back onto the balcony, released.
She fell, coughing.
“I… The Chromeria has demonized what we do,” the prince rasped. “Literally. They have made us into actual devils, and I won’t tolerate those who call good evil and evil good. I… reacted badly.”
Liv was shaking, and embarrassed of it. She thought she was going to cry, and was furious with herself for it. She was a Danavis. She was brave and strong and she would not break down like a little girl. She was a woman, seventeen years old. Old enough to have children of her own. She would not break down.
She stood and curtsied, wobbling only a little. “My apologies, my lord. I didn’t mean to offend.”
He looked out over the bay, putting his hands on the rail. He’d lost his zigarro. He lit another. “You needn’t be embarrassed of the trembling. It’s the body’s reaction. I’ve seen the most fearless veterans do the same. Your embarrassment of it makes it look like weakness. Ignore it. It passes.”
Painting a placid expression on her face as if it were the stark lines of kohl, Liv drafted superviolet. It helped. She folded her arms, as if against the evening chill but really to bury their shaking. “So, my lord?”
He cocked his head. “So?”
“So you have a plan for me.”
“Of course I do.”
“And you’re not going to tell me what it is.”
“Such a smart girl. I’m going to assign you a tutor to answer almost every one of your questions.”
“Except for that one?”
He grinned. “There will be other omissions as well.”
“Who is this tutor?”
“You’ll know when you see him. Now go. I have grimmer tasks to accomplish before the light dies.”
Chapter 16
Ironfist was standing outside Andross Guile’s chambers when Kip came out. As ever, he was huge and intimidating, but Kip was getting to know the commander of the Blackguard, and the look on Ironfist’s face was more curious than anything else.
“I’ve seen satraps come out of that room looking worse,” Ironfist said.
“Really?” Kip asked. He felt destroyed.
“No. I was trying to cheer you up.” Ironfist started down the hall, and Kip fell in step beside him. “Kip, I’m inviting you to train for the Blackguard.”
Oh, right. Because my father demanded it. Not on my own merits.
Kip thought he’d only thought those words, but by the time he said “merits,” he realized he’d stepped in a big pile of his tongue once again.
Ironfist stopped cold. Turned to Kip, glowering, threatening. “You were eavesdropping?” Ironfist asked.
Kip swallowed. Nodded. I didn’t mean to!
But this time the words didn’t weasel their way past his lips. Excuses dried up in the blast furnace of Ironfist’s disapproval.
“Then you know I have to induct you at the end. It’s up to you how much of an embarrassment you want to make that for both of us.”
It was like someone had put a great chain around Kip’s chest, dropped him in the sea, and told him to swim home. Ironfist headed off once again, and didn’t pause or slow as they left the Prism’s Tower and crossed the great yard between the seven great towers of the Chromeria to a broad staircase that disappeared into the ground.
As they descended, Kip got a notion of just how massive the Chromeria was. It wasn’t merely the huge towers, the spindles that connected them in midair, and the great yard covered with thousands of people going about all the business of the Seven Satrapies. All of it extended below the ground as well, into a huge chamber. The ceiling was fully twenty paces above the floor. Each of the seven towers had its roots down here, and yet more entrances. Buildings and storehouses, barracks, inns, and even a few homes crowded the chamber, reaching in many places from floor to ceiling. Some were constructed of stone, others of luxin. Vibrant colors rioted everywhere, and though the whole area was underground, it was neither dark nor musty. Crystals scintillated in every color like torches, taking sunlight from above and splashing it liberally through the chamber. Great fans set in the ceiling at either side sucked in and blew out air, sending a constant slight breeze over the whole area. There was a great hall in the center, and exercise yards off to one side.
“Beginning of each new class, there’s a lottery. Some numbers are random, but legacies and those who finished just below the cut of the previous training class get to challenge in last. Big advantage. You fight for your spot, but you only have to fight three times. So if you choose spot ten, you might have to fight ten, eleven, and twelve. It’s only a starting point, though; it’s easy to move up in the coming weeks, and easier to move down. I can do this much for your father: you get to choose last. Don’t choose too high or you’ll pay for it in blood, but don’t go too low. We cut the bottom seven each month.”
Ironfist moved purposefully, unfazed by the subterranean splendor. Kip followed, tense. He was squeezing his burned hand. He consciously straightened it, grimaced against the pain. Soon he found himself standing with Ironfist in front of forty-nine young men and women. They were all dressed in loose tan shirts and pants. Everyone wore at least one armband with the color he drafted on his right or left arm. Though Kip knew that women outnumbered men in the Chromeria substantially, this class of potential Blackguards had only ten women.
Everyone was older than Kip, but still young. Kip would guess most were sixteen to eighteen years old. They each had a symbol affixed to their left breast in an old Parian script that Kip could mostly guess at. Numbers, he thought. It looked like they were lined up according to that number, seven lines of seven.
Among all the new things to look at, the thing that stuck out to Kip was the look in his new classmates’ eyes. They barely even noticed him; they were too busy watching Ironfist like he was a god. The class’s teacher hardly looked less impressed than the rest of
them. He was a muscle-bound, short man, shaved bald and wearing a sleeveless black uniform that showed off massive biceps.
Ironfist gestured and the class melted, re-forming into a large circle in moments. It wasn’t flawless, as a few jostled to move from one place to another, but it was pretty impressive for what Kip knew had to be a fairly new class.
“Kip.” Ironfist gestured that Kip was to step into the circle.
Oh no.
Kip stepped in.
“This is Kip Guile. He’s joining the class. As you know, that means one of you scrubs will be leaving. The Blackguard is elite. We’ve no room for deadwood. So, Kip, choose. Fights are five minutes or until one combatant cries mercy or is knocked out. As at all testings, inflicting permanent damage on your opponent will result in your expulsion from this class.”
Kip knew he was going to lose. He barely understood the rules. The only fighting he’d done in his life had mostly been confined to flailing against Ramir, back in their village. And losing, always losing. His greatest skill was taking punishment.
“Do you have any questions, or are you ready to choose your place?” Ironfist asked.
“So if you lose, do you swap places with the person who beat you, or do you just move down one spot?”
“It’s not an arithmetic problem, Kip.”
But that was precisely what it was.
Ironfist grimaced. “You move down one,” he said.
Kip put on a misty look and gazed into the distance. “I see pain in my future.” He jauntily pointed his forefingers like pistols at the tall, slim young Parian who bore a number one on his chest. No one laughed. Maybe they’d laugh when Kip got his ass beat.
The young man stepped into the circle looking concerned—for Kip. “Match rules, Commander?” he asked.
“No spectacles,” Ironfist said.
Kip and Number One handed over their spectacles. The young man was a green/blue bichrome.
Ironfist cleared his throat. “I mean that both ways, Cruxer.”
Cruxer? His name was Cruxer?
“Of course, sir,” Cruxer said. “Sir, his bandaged hand? Can I block it?”
“Don’t target it. But if it gets hurt, it gets hurt.”
The taller youth nodded quickly and moved opposite of Kip. Kip saw flashes of incredulity on the other students’ faces as they looked at him. He supposed he didn’t cut much of a figure. No one believed he could win. Hell, he didn’t believe he could win. Lose with dignity, Kip. Lose in a way that will make them respect you for being plucky.
Plucky? I’m a moron.
Cruxer looked up and made the triangle: thumb to right eye, middle finger to left eye, forefinger to forehead. Then he touched the three to his mouth, heart, and hands. The three and the four, perfect seven. A religious young man. Hopefully he’d remember the virtue of mercy.
Cruxer turned and saluted Kip, fists touching over his heart and bowing slightly. Kip returned the salute.
“Begin,” Ironfist said.
The tall youth moved—fast. He was on top of Kip before Kip could react. He shot into Kip and locked a leg behind Kip’s, blocking Kip’s punch and throwing his hips into Kip’s. Kip went down hard, grabbing to try to pull Cruxer with him.
The slender boy let himself fall. His long limbs wrapped around Kip. Kip threw an elbow, but Cruxer was so close, he barely got any force into it.
Then, somehow, the young man had control of Kip’s arm and rolled him over. Cruxer’s legs scissored around Kip’s head. Tightened and—darkness.
Kip had no idea how long he was out. He blinked rapidly. Not long, he thought. Everyone was still standing around.
“That’s one loss,” Ironfist said. “You’ve got ten seconds until your next bout.”
Kip struggled to his feet. A number of classmates were slapping Cruxer on the back, congratulating him on his effortless victory. Kip couldn’t summon any ill feeling for the boy. He’d destroyed Kip without malice and without causing any unnecessary pain.
The second boy was stocky, blue-eyed like Kip, maybe only half Parian, because his skin wasn’t much darker than Kip’s. He bowed to Kip. Kip returned the bow, wondering what fresh pain was coming his way.
Kip and Number Two circled each other warily, but the boy kept looking up and away from Kip. At first, Kip didn’t know why. Then he saw the boy’s eyes. There were little wisps of blue appearing and disappearing in the whites of his eyes. Down, into his body. Gathering in his fists. If the boy hadn’t been lighter-skinned, Kip wouldn’t have been able to see it. It was one of the disadvantages the lighter-skinned had. It was why, nominally, the Blackguard were black.
But because they weren’t wearing spectacles, the boy could only draft tiny sips of blue light at a time. He had to take his eyes off of Kip, look at one of the blue crystals overhead, take what he could, and look back to Kip. Without blue spectacles, it made for a slow process.
And Kip circling slowly was giving the boy all the time he needed.
“Ah hell,” Kip said. He charged.
Kip threw a punch. It was blocked. The second punch hit the boy’s shoulder—but Kip had thrown the punch with his left hand. He felt cuts rip open. It was like he’d dipped his palm in fire.
A fist caught him in the stomach, and another grazed his arm as he hunched forward. Kip staggered back, his motion taking most of the force out of a punch that caught his nose.
It still made his eyes water, though. He blinked and lurched, surprised the boy had let him go rather than press his advantage.
Then Kip realized the reason why the boy would do such a thing.
A blue staff was forming in the boy’s hands, slowly stretching out like molten glass.
Kip darted in and grabbed at the unfinished staff. He caught it, and as his fingertips sank into the crystallizing structure, he felt suddenly as connected to it as if he’d drafted it himself.
He could feel the other boy through the open luxin, his will, so focused a moment before, now scattered and confused by Kip’s invasion. Kip tore the staff away from the boy and sealed it.
The blue luxin staff was bent from where the boys had grappled for it, but it was still as tall as either of them and as big around as Kip could comfortably hold in his hand. Ignoring the pain as he grabbed it with his bandaged left hand, Kip swung the bottom of the staff for the boy’s knees.
It connected with a crack, and the still-stunned boy dropped. He hadn’t even tried to move. Just stood there like a dumb ox. He crumpled, and Kip stepped over him, putting one end of the staff on the boy’s throat.
“Match!” Ironfist called out.
Kip stepped away. Drafting blue made it much easier to obey orders than drafting green did.
The boy on the ground moaned, dazed, only slowly coming back to himself.
“Commander, sir,” Cruxer asked, “what was that?”
Ironfist was scowling. “Something we don’t teach until a year from now. Kip, who showed you that?”
Kip turned his hands up, helpless.
“Willjacking or will-breaking. Trainer Fisk?”
The muscle-bound teacher stepped forward. “Technically, it’s called forced translucification. Luxin has no memory. There is no your luxin or my luxin. Once a drafter makes physical contact with open luxin of a color that she can draft, she can use it. What just happened here was two drafters fought will to will, and Kip broke Grazner’s will.”
The boy Kip had just defeated said, “But, but, I didn’t know what he was doing!”
The trainer said, “He didn’t know what he was doing either. Did you, Kip?”
“Uh, no, sir.”
“You’re just lucky you weren’t left a blithering idiot, Graz,” Trainer Fisk said.
A boy in the crowd whispered, “Blithering, no. Idiot? Weeelll…”
Several people snickered. A few had the decency to try to cover it with coughs.
“So Adrasteia, you want to challenge Kip?” Ironfist asked.
“Ah hells,” the boy murmu
red. He was the one who’d made the crack about Grazner.
“Sir, I thought if I won I was done,” Kip said.
“Whatever would make you believe such a thing? The winning is just the beginning.”
Kip swallowed.
Adrasteia didn’t look terribly pleased to be fighting Kip either. Alone of all the fighters, he wasn’t wearing an armband showing what color he drafted.
He had straight, shoulder-length dark hair, bound back with a gold scarf. Skin just dark enough for the Blackguard, with Atashian features and striking blue eyes. Short and slender, but wearing a baggy shirt and baggy pants, he looked maybe thirteen years old. Odd haircut, but then Kip wasn’t exactly a man of the world. Maybe long hair was in fashion now. Strange name, too, and rather full lips.
“Oh! You’re a girl!” Kip said. It just slipped out.
The class hooted. Ironfist rubbed his forehead.
Not trying for an insult, but succeeding. Oops.
“No mercy, chubs,” Adrasteia said. Now he could tell she was his age. Fifteen, maybe sixteen, petite, no curves. Fairly pretty, but no knockout.
He hoped she wasn’t a knockout, anyway.
“Form up,” Trainer Fisk said. “Same rules as before—and no willjacking, but then, that shouldn’t be a problem with you, Teia, should it?”
Adrasteia grimaced toward the trainer, face intense. She turned toward Kip, gave a very perfunctory bow.
Kip bowed back. “Sorry, I didn’t—”
“Save it, Lard Guile,” she said.
Several students laughed aloud.
“Oh, I get it, you’re jealous ’cause I have bigger boobs than you,” Kip said. He covered the stab of self-loathing with a condescending grin.
“I can see you naked,” she said. “And I’m not jealous of that.” She sniffed with distaste at his body.
Huh?
But Kip didn’t have time to think about what she could possibly mean, because she attacked him.
He wasn’t in a ready stance, and he wasn’t ready, period. Especially not for her foot to go from the floor to the side of his head in the blink of an eye.