Except it was no egg, and not nearly an empty shell. Probably the rock debris between the two halves had simply been cleared by looters certain that here at the epicenter of the holocaustic finale of the Prisms’ War, there must be treasure hidden.
Maybe there had been, once. The Color Prince had gotten his black luxin from somewhere.
Oddly, Samila Sayeh had affected few of the usual traits of a wight, much less a god. Her skin wasn’t crystalline, except her left hand, as if she were still running the experiment to see how blue luxin might function as skin in an application that required so much dexterity, sensitivity, and motion. The rest of her looked severe and beautiful. The olive skin of an Atashian, but barely wrinkled even at forty-four years and seventeen days old, because she’d been a noble, and careful to protect her skin. She was slender and striking, her naturally blue eyes now solid cerulean, irises and sclera both.
But her dress was murex purple. A simple preference? A sign of her obscene wealth now? Of trying to find some common ground with Liv and her superviolet? Was it a sign of not caring to wear blue every day—‘Yes, I’m the blue goddess, I needn’t wear blue constantly, thank you’? Or… was the color in honor of her Usef Tep, the Purple Bear?
How much of the old Samila Sayeh was left in the new Mot?
Regardless, in Liv’s new sight, the older woman crackled with power. A throbbing heartbeat of blue will scattered its near cousin superviolet with every breath, and spectral bleed made her glow in superviolet like a sword plucked from the forge and held in the air for a few long moments: the color dulled quickly from white hot to angry red to a sullen gray, but you’d still be a fool to touch it with your hand.
They were mirrors to each other: outsiders, logical women, cool and rational, both captured, both entwined, but Liv young and Samila older, Liv unproven and Samila renowned, Liv with all her tales before her, Samila with her legends behind, and, most importantly, Liv free while Samila wore the Color Prince’s black jewel at her throat. If she disobeyed him, or attempted to remove it, it would behead her.
“Hail, Lady of Sorrows,” Samila said across the great gap between them.
Liv had never heard the term before. She was probably supposed to ask about it. But she had no idea what games the Color Prince would be playing here nor any interest in playing them. “Hello, Samila. Lady Mot, is it now?”
“You’ve taken the seed crystal,” Samila said. “Without taking a slave collar. Impressively done.” She turned to the side and said, “No, Meena, I think it’s important to give credit where it’s due.”
There was no one there, though. Not even in superviolet. Not even as an afterimage of power.
Now that was interesting. Was Meena Samila’s version of Beliol?
Liv coughed, clearing her throat. “Can she see you?” Liv asked as she covered her mouth.
“No,” Beliol said. “Though she knows I’m here. You might find it in your best interest to hold back as much information as possible.”
That they both had… invisible helpers attending them, but that those were invisible even to other gods, meant something, but Liv wasn’t certain what. And had that been Samila slipping in letting her know about her own attendant, or had it been on purpose?
“Beautiful ring,” Samila said. “Is that where you keep the seed crystal?”
“Thank you, but no. A ring on the finger seems an awfully vulnerable place to keep such power, doesn’t it? On the other hand—sorry, no pun intended—I did want a small physical reminder of my power to flash about when such things might prove helpful.”
Samila Sayeh seemed to like the idea. It was a lie, though. The same lie Liv wanted Beliol to believe. She’d sent him to get her a suitable ring, and while he was gone, she’d turned her powers to making a gem that would sparkle and glow only when he was near.
Then, because it glowed every time Beliol did appear, he simply thought it glowed at all times.
She’d encouraged him to think it merely part and parcel of her vanity by also sending him for dresses and ermine and other jewelry. It was lovely to have such an obedient and powerful servant, but Liv had spent too much time being bent to the will of others to actually trust him.
“Where do you keep yours?” Liv asked, as if they were exchanging fashion tips.
“Oh, incorporated with my body, of course. As you keep yours. I simply wanted to see if you’d try to mislead me, make me think you were ignorant where you are not.”
And Liv, of course, had. Caught. Dammit. Liv had a brief flash of the same rage she’d felt before at Samila when she’d humiliated her by figuring out the problems of the Great Mirror so easily. “You do serve the man who tried to enslave me,” Liv said, smiling at the bitch.
“He enslaved me first.”
“There are many ways one might react to that,” Liv pointed out.
“There is no black luxin here,” Samila said, ignoring her.
“Is there not?” Liv asked.
“It was all carried away, long ago. You’re wasting your time if you came here looking for it.”
“Is that why I came here?” Liv asked.
“You grew up in bloody Rekton, yonder,” Samila said. “I told the White King you might be visiting there, to say goodbye. To mourn your dead. He thought the only reason you’d come would be for this battlefield.”
No, neither, actually. “The White King?” Liv asked.
Samila Sayeh shrugged. “One who brings all the colors together, perchance? The opposite of a Prism?”
“That’s not how prisms work,” Liv pointed out. “To bring light back together, you’d use another prism.”
“We had two Prisms at the same time once. Before your time,” Samila Sayeh said sarcastically. “It didn’t give us white.”
You old hag. “So Koios sent you to stop me from wasting my time?” Liv asked, amused. “So kind of him.”
“He wants you to rejoin him,” Samila said. “You don’t wear his collar, but our kind cannot hide from each other. He can find you anywhere in the world. On the other hand, you will also be able to feel him or any of the rest of us coming for you. It would make for a tedious chase. Instead he offers you a kingdom. Ilyta, specifically, traditional home of Ferrilux.”
“What do I care for Ilyta?” Liv asked.
“What do you care for any human land? You’re a god now. But it is good to have a home, and a people who will rally to you. And worship you.”
“He really thinks he’s going to win, doesn’t he?” Liv asked.
“At this point, it’s nearly inevitable. The question is really where you’ll be standing when the fighting stops. He also offers the superviolet bane, without which you will never reach your full power.”
“My bane? He has it?” Liv asked.
“Oh, now you’ve tipped your hand, haven’t you?” Samila said.
Liv didn’t know what she was talking about.
“Never mind. He guessed as much.”
“Guessed what?” Liv asked.
“You are the reason why the Chromeria hides so much knowledge, Aliviana Danavis. You incorporated your seed crystal before it made a bane. If you’d waited until the bane had formed around the crystal and then incorporated it, you’d have both your powers and the place that magnifies them. Having incorporated the seed crystal too early, it will never form a temple. Unless you can figure out something even our ancestors struggled with. A Ferrilux would be the one to figure it out if any would, though, I suppose. Good luck.”
“He’s found a second seed crystal?” Liv asked.
“Not yet. As you might guess, with it being invisible and with superviolet drafters of any skill so rare, superviolet seed crystals are the hardest to find. But he has teams looking for it. You understand, it is both the carrot and the stick. He can give it to you if you will serve him, or if he finds it, he can kill you and make a new, empowered Ferrilux who will be loyal to him.”
Liv’s heart fell. She might be the most effective searcher for supervi
olet, but the other gods would be attuned to such a thing, and the White King could search many, many places at once. It would be a race to the death.
There was no way of knowing if another seed crystal had even formed yet. Liv might spend every moment for decades searching for something that didn’t exist—and would have to, because her life would depend on it. Meanwhile, the White King would simply have subordinates do it.
“That’s your deal?” Liv asked. “I may live as a slave queen?”
“His deal. I don’t care what you choose. Technically, you’ve rebelled. Being offered to live is generous in itself. But you’re special, and superviolet has always been different, and, bluntly, weak. You will never have to wear the hellstone collar. But yes, you will bend the knee. Servient omnes. All shall serve, child.”
“I won’t,” Liv said, but it sounded hollow.
Samila Sayeh sighed. “Seasons come and seasons go, but youth will always think they know more than their elders.”
“And sometimes they’ll be correct.” But Liv knew she was being immature. That was fine. Perhaps it would make them underestimate her.
Something more human entered Samila’s tone when she said, after a pause, “I do hope this is one of those times.”
Then she simply turned and left.
“Wait,” Liv said to the retreating form. “That’s it? No trap? No bartering?”
“Between gods?” Samila said. “Unwilling gods at that. No. If you take his offer, you’ll know where to find him. You’ll feel him, perhaps do right now, even from here. But if I may…”
“Please,” Liv said.
“Take the time to visit your village. Whyever you came here, you’re here now. You’ll never find another good reason to visit a place so out of the way. Not with what you’ve become. You’ll regret it if you don’t go see what’s become of the places you loved.”
Liv looked at the older woman for a long moment. “Thank you. One question.”
“We’ve come all this way,” Samila Sayeh said.
“Do you hope to escape?”
The Mot fell silent for quite some time. She waved off a silent voice speaking to her. “No,” she said finally. “I save hope for things that are possible.”
“On my way here, I came through Garriston,” Liv said. “Most of those who died in the battle were buried in mass graves.”
Samila Sayeh stopped breathing.
“But some of the slum dwellers who remained thought the drafters’ bodies might be worth a ransom to their families. Especially Blackguards and… bichromes.” Liv didn’t say the name Usef Tep. She could see it was dangerous ground. Never break the emotions of those who pride themselves on logic. “Enter through the Hag’s Gate. Take the third alley on the left. Blue door at the end. Ask for Ordoño.”
Then Liv left. To burn the time until Mot was far enough away that she wouldn’t know where Liv was going exactly, she went to the dead village of Rekton. Eventually her feet took her to Kip’s old hovel—somehow unburnt. She took in his scent deeply, deeply enough to send a message for him in superviolet, wherever he was now. He was the only wild card left, the only hope for victory.
Would he even understand it? Superviolet, Kip. Who else could send you a message in superviolet? But he was half the world away, and she had not the control yet to make her message clear.
It was probably hopeless.
She unbarred a closet. What a shithole. There were little scratch marks and dark stains on the inside of the door. A rats’ nest sat on the ground, with old bones and fur and rat droppings. She’d had no idea Kip had lived in such squalor.
“Why are you crying?” Beliol asked her.
There was indeed wetness coursing down her face. Both sides. “I don’t know,” she said honestly.
Chapter 42
“We have a problem,” Conn Arthur said as his skimmer bumped ashore on the little island where Kip and the Mighty had camped. “I’ll explain as we go.”
Kip and Cruxer helped push off and jumped aboard. The Mighty’s skimmer would follow. They were off instantly, if clumsily. The Ghosts were still figuring out the skimmers.
Conn Arthur said, “There was a red wight yesterday who escaped our clash at the warehouse. Distinctive. No skin on his forearms. Several other wights and soldiers escaped as well, of course. But him… him we recognized. Name’s Baoth. He’s a former novice of Shady Grove who left us years ago. It was not an amicable parting. His gifts lay… elsewhere. Clearly he’s been exploring those gifts, and now he’s found a home for them with the Blood Robes.
“Trouble is, he recognized us. One of our scouts caught sight of him, last night. He was carrying some scroll cases. We think he’s heading back to the main army to report everything that happened here, both above and below the falls. And, of course, who we are. Regardless, we get those papers, and we get some idea of what they know.” He grunted, and it sounded like a bear huffing as it tore apart a fallen log, looking for grubs.
“And you want to go after him,” Kip guessed.
“One of our women who grew up here said she knows a river valley he’ll have to pass through tonight. It’s narrow enough we can be sure he won’t slip through our fingers there. After that, he’s gone. We don’t know exactly where the White King’s army is, and there are many paths available to him. Most of them not on the river. These skimmers are our biggest advantage right now. Here’s our chance to use their speed.”
Kip looked to Cruxer for his take.
“Anything we can do to minimize what the Blood Robes know about us…” the young commander said.
“Can we go after him and still get back to Fechín Island the day after tomorrow?” Kip asked. He’d promised to meet the Cwn y Wawr there.
“It’ll involve some backtracking, but… with the skimmers? Not a problem,” Conn Arthur said.
So they skimmed up the wide river for a few hours. Kip noticed that one of the Ghosts with the conn—a newly established bodyguard—had a white spear etched with many yellowing runes. The leaf-blade of the spear was hellstone. “That a sharana ru spear?” Kip asked.
The young man looked immensely pleased. “My great-great-grandfather was given it from the hand of Zee Oakenshield. He liked to say he should have changed history with this spear. He coated the blade with poison before the battle, and during it, he stabbed Darien Guile in the arm, but it turned out the wise man who’d mixed the poisons was a charlatan—gave Darien nothing more than an itch for three days! Later my father served in Darien Guile and Selene Oakenshield’s household. Grandpa Sé said he was worried he’d be killed for that scratch when his betters made their peace and married. But the Guile laughed about it with him instead. Kept Grandpa Sé close for many years. Even came when my great-great-grandfather was on his deathbed and laughed with him about it one last time. Great man, Darien Guile. Wish our family could have stayed with yours through the Blood Wars, my lord.”
There had been so many back-and-forths in that interminable conflict that Kip wasn’t even sure when the houses might have been pulled apart. “Well, the good news is that we’re on the same side again,” Kip said. “What’s your name?”
“Garret, sir.”
“Well, Garret, if you ever want a rapt audience who will ask you a million questions about that spear, talk to Ben-hadad. In fact, if you don’t want to talk about it, you’ll probably have to hide.”
Just then, there was a shout as one of the conn’s skimmers blew off one of its reeds.
Half an hour later, ashore, Ben-hadad hobbled over on one crutch and reported, “Repair shouldn’t take more than an hour.” He was taking the failure personally.
Kip didn’t blame him. There was simply no way to expect reliable drafting out of amateurs. He blamed the masters of Shady Grove. What the hell kind of drafters went their lives without drafting? Sure, you’d live for seventy years instead of forty or fifty, but a drafter was a candle. She was made to bring light and be consumed in the process. These were candles who lived and die
d having barely touched a flame.
To one who’d always heard that drafters were given their powers and privileges for their communities’ betterment, it seemed astoundingly selfish.
Still, in purely utilitarian terms, it did give him more of their drafting lives to use, if he could teach them quickly enough to keep them from getting killed.
Kip didn’t want to split up the platoon if he could help it, so he consulted with the woman who knew the valley Baoth would pass through, and decided they could lose two hours without losing their chance to catch it. Ben had asked for one.
“You have an hour and a half,” he told Ben-hadad. Everything always takes longer than you think it will.
In the meantime, as the others kindled a fire and made lunch and checked their own skimmers for damage, Kip memorized maps and made plans for where they would beach the skimmers, who would stay with them, and how the rest would spread out through the woods. The Ghosts would look for tracks to find the red wight’s trail if he was ahead. If they’d passed him, they would prepare an ambush point. Otherwise they would wait until after dark when he could no longer draft and set upon him at his camp. Baoth was a red, so Kip figured the wight would light a campfire to give himself a source. It would make him much easier to find.
“You’re confident in your trackers?” Kip asked the conn.
The conn nodded. “Not that I wouldn’t mind having me a Daimhin Web.”
“Daimhin Web?” Kip asked. There was an odd buzzing low in his ears at the name.
“Young man. Scary. Way over on the other side of Green Haven last I heard, though. In the old tongue, they call him Sealgaire na Scian.”
“He Who Hunts with Knives?” Tisis asked.
Conn Arthur said, “I know it doesn’t sound very imposing, but—”
But it hit Kip between the eyes.
Everything disappeared in a rush of leaves.