The black prism l-1

by Brent Weeks

  The magister would light a candle and instruct the students to comment on what was happening. This always gave the magisters plenty of opportunities to abuse the bewildered children, who would invariably say, "It's burning." "But what do you mean by this word, 'burning'?" "Uh, it's burning?" The eventual point was that every fire began on something tangible and left almost nothing tangible. When a candle burned, where did all the tallow go? Into power-power we experience as light and heat, with some residue-whether much or little depended on how efficiently the candle burned.

  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.

  The horseman didn't release his lance in time, and was slammed out of his saddle by the force of his own charge.

  Micael ran over to the fallen soldier and drew the man's own vechevoral. With a savage chop, despite the layers of mail, he nearly cut the man's head off.

  But the other horsemen had drawn rein already, and in seconds there was a forest of flashing steel blocking Micael, his brother, and his mother from Kip's view.

  Kip felt like he was going to
throw up. At some signal he didn't see or hear, the horsemen formed back up and charged off toward new victims in the distance. Kip was only glad that they were far enough away he couldn't recognize them.

  Around the rest of the town, the foot soldiers were moving in.

  Mother! Kip had been watching the town burn for several minutes, and he hadn't thought about anything. His mother was in there. He had to go to her.

  How was he going to get into the town? Even if he could get past the soldiers and the fire, was his mother even still alive? The king's men had seen the direction he had run away, too. They would think that the "drafter" they'd seen earlier was the only threat in the whole area. Surely they would be watching for him. In fact, they might have men out hunting him now.

  If so, perching on the highest point in the orange grove was probably not the smartest thing to do.

  As if on signal, Kip heard a branch snap. It might have been a deer. Evening was coming on after all. There were lots of deer in the orange groves after-

  Not thirty paces away, someone cursed.

  Talking deer?

  Kip dropped to his stomach. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't move. They were going to kill him. Just like they killed the Delclaras. Micael Delclara was big. Tough as old oak. And they'd slaughtered him.

  Move, Kip, just move. His heart was a riot in his chest. He was shaking. He was taking tiny breaths, way too fast. Slow down, Kip. Breathe. He took a deep breath and tore his eyes away from his trembling hands.

  There was a cave not far from here. Kip had found his mother there once, after she'd disappeared for three days. There'd long been rumors of smugglers' caves in the area, and whenever his mother ran out of haze and money she went looking for them. She'd finally gotten lucky about two years ago and found enough of the drug that she hadn't come home. When Kip had found her, she hadn't eaten for days. She'd nearly died. He'd overheard someone saying aloud that they wished she had, for his sake.

  Reaching the ground, Kip started jogging, trying to keep the ruin between himself and the man he'd heard. He ran about as fast as Sanson would run if Sanson carried another Sanson on his back. So Kip jogged, trying to be quiet, zigzagging through the straight rows of trees. Then he heard a sound that froze his bones to the marrow: dogs barking.

  Fueled by fear, Kip found a flat-out run. He ignored the burning in his legs, the stabbing in his lungs. He was already headed toward the river; the cave was on its banks. He heard a soldier shouting curses, maybe two hundred paces back, maybe less. "Keep those dogs on the lead! You want to find a drafter while it's still light out?"

  It was getting darker by the minute. So that was why he was still alive. With all colors muted by darkness, drafters weren't nearly as powerful at night. And between the smoke and a bank of black clouds rolling in, the sky was darkening faster than normal. If they'd let the dogs go, they'd have run him down already. But with darkness coming on so fast, they might feel safe to let them go at any minute.

  Suddenly, Kip was on the riverbank. He stepped on one pant leg and almost fell down, barely catching himself with one hand. He stopped. The cave was upstream, away from town, not two hundred paces away. He picked up two stones that fit nicely in his hands. If he had the cave to protect his sides and back, he could… What? Die slowly?

  He looked at the rocks in his hands. Rocks. Against soldiers and war dogs. He was stupid. Insane. He looked at the rocks again, then threw one onto the opposite bank of the river, downstream. He threw the second rock farther. Then he grabbed two more, rubbed them against his body, and threw them as far as he could. The last one crashed through the branches of a willow tree. Lousy throw.

  No time to mourn his ineptitude. Kip's scent trail already was headed upstream-the direction he did need to go. He'd just have to hope. It was a pathetic attempt, but he had nothing else. He kept moving upstream up the bank, trying to ignore the sound of the barking dogs closing in. Then he stepped into the river, careful not to let his clothes touch any dry rocks. The place where he had come to the river was a bend, so soon he was out of the line of sight.

  "Let the dogs go!" the same voice shouted.

  Then Kip was opposite the cave entrance. It was invisible from the river, obscured by boulders that had fallen in front of the opening. But as soon as he stepped out of the river, he'd be leaving scent for the dogs, and a visual trail of wet rocks for the soldiers. He couldn't get out of the water. Not yet. He looked up at the black clouds.

  Don't just sit there. Give me some rain!

  "What's the problem? What's wrong with them?" the soldier demanded.

  "They're fighting dogs, sir, not trackers. I'm not even certain they're on the drafter's trail."

  Kip kept pushing upstream another hundred paces where the bend in the river straightened out and a tree had fallen down the bank into the water. It wouldn't do anything for the scent trail, but it would hide the water he was dripping. He cut up the bank and then stopped. If he headed back downstream, he'd be going closer to the men hunting him. But the soldier's mention of other trails had put a small desperate hope in Kip's breast. Other trails meant maybe other fresh trails. And if it weren't for the dogs, the cave would be the safest place to spend the night.

  Swallowing so his heart didn't jump out of his throat, Kip turned downstream, toward the cave. He thought he felt a cool prick on his skin. Rain? He looked up at the black clouds, but it must have been his imagination. He came to the spot overlooking the cave's entrance.

  Two soldiers were standing almost directly below him. Two others were on the opposite bank. There was one war dog on each side. Either dog's head would have come up to Kip's shoulder, easily. They both wore studded leather coats like horse armor without the saddle. Kip dropped to the ground.

  "Sir, if I may?" one of the men said. Apparently getting permission, the soldier said, "The drafter came straight to the river, then veered sharply upstream before going into the water? He knows we're following him. I think he doubled back and went downstream."

  "With us so close behind?" the commander asked.

  "He must have heard the dogs."

  Which made Kip think of something else: dogs can smell scents on the wind too. Not just on the ground. Kip's throat tightened. He hadn't even thought about the wind. It was blowing from the southwest. His path had taken him east and then north when the river turned-the perfect direction. If he'd gone downstream, toward town, the dogs would have smelled him immediately. If the commander thought about it, he'd surely realize that too.

  "Rain's coming. We might only have one shot at this." The commander paused. "Let's make it fast." He whistled and gestured for the men on the other side of the river to head downstream. They took off at a jog.

  Kip's heart started beating again. He slipped down the bank beside two great boulders. There was a narrow space between the two. It looked like it went in for about four paces and then stopped, but Kip knew that it turned sharply. He never would have discovered it the first time if it hadn't been for the pungent, sickly sweet odor of haze floating out. Orholam knew how his mother had ever found it.

  Now, even knowing it was there, Kip almost didn't have the courage to push between those rocks. There was something wrong, though. It wasn't as dark as it should be. It was fully night outside and Kip was blocking the entrance, so someone was already inside, and they had a lantern.

  Kip froze again until he heard the sound of the war dogs change pitch. They'd found the rocks he'd thrown across the river. That meant it was only a matter of time until they discovered his fraud. The darkness and tightness were suffocating. He had to move, one way or the other.

  He pushed around the corner and into the open space of the smuggler's cave. There were two figures sitting in the wan light of a lantern: Sanson and Kip's mother. Both were covered in blood.

  Chapter 11

  Kip couldn't help but cry out. His mother was seated against the wall of the cave, her once-blue dress dyed black and red with blood dried and fresh. Lina's dark hair was
matted, darker than normal, stringy with blood. The right side of her face was pristine, perfect. All the blood was coming from the left side of her head, traveling down her hair like a wick, blooming on her dress. Sanson sat next to her, his eyes closed, head back, clothes almost as gory.

  At Kip's cry, his mother's eyes fluttered. There was a huge dent in the side of her head. Orholam be merciful, her skull was shattered. She stared in his direction for several moments before she found him. Her eyes were a horror to behold, the pupil of her left eye was dilated, the right a tight pinprick. And the whites of both were completely bloodshot. "Kip," she said. "Never thought I'd be so happy to see you."

  "Love you too, mother," he said, trying to keep his tone light.

  "My fault," she said. Her eyes fluttered and closed.

  Kip's heart seized. Was she dead? Before today, he'd never seen anyone die. Orholam, this was his mother! He looked at Sanson, who looked healthy, despite all the blood on his clothes. "I tried, Kip. The alcaldesa wouldn't listen. I told her-"

  "Even his own family didn't believe him," Kip's mother said, her eyes still closed. "Even when the soldiers rode down his mother and split his brother open, Adan Marta stood there, arguing how our satrap wouldn't possibly do such a thing to his own people. Only Sanson ran away. Who would've thought he was the smart one in that family?"

  "Mother! Enough!" Kip's voice came out whiny, childish.

  "You came back, though, didn't you, Sanson? Tried to save me, unlike my own son. Too bad he didn't try to help me like you tried to help your family, or I might still have a chance."

  Her words touched some deep well of rage. Potent, but uncontrollable. He pushed it down, pushed the tears back. "Mother. Stop. You're dying."

  "Sanson says you're a drafter now. Funny," she said bitterly. "All your life you're a disappointment, and you learn to draft today. Too late for any of us." With effort, she took a deep breath, then opened her eyes and fixed her gaze on Kip, taking a little while to focus. "Kill him, Kip. Kill the bastard." She lifted a narrow, filigreed rosewood jewelry case as long as Kip's forearm from the floor of the cave beside her. Kip had never seen it before.