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The doors burst open from within as if a giant had smashed them. A gust of air rushed over Kip.

"Enter," Ironfist commanded.

Kip walked in alone to a round chamber. The walls and floor were the same smoky-clear crystal as the door. Seven figures stood in a crescent around a black disk inlaid in the floor. Kip hesitated, and none of them moved. No one told him where to go.

The figures were robed, one for each color. The superviolet wore violet robes and sub-red wore deep red robes for the benefit of those who couldn't see into their spectra, but as Kip widened and then tightened his eyes, he saw that the sub-red was indeed radiating heat and the superviolet was clad in his color, hard pieces of superviolet luxin hooked together like rings of mail.

Still uncertain, Kip walked toward them. As he got closer, he could see beneath their hoods. His fists balled. The sub-red had blackened skin. No eyebrows. No hair. Little flame wisps escaped from its head. The green's face was gnarled as an old oak, its eyebrows like moss, hair strung with lichen. The blue looked like cut glass, features either smoothed out to planes or sharpened to jewel-like points.

Dear Orholam, were these all color wights? Then, from within his sleek goo, the orange blinked. Kip noticed the eyes. All of their eyes.

These were drafters in masks and makeup. They represented the wights of each color. Seven different varieties of death and dishonor. Kip started breathing again, though he couldn't control a little tremble. He stepped onto the black disk facing them.

"I am Anat, I am wrath," the sub-red said. "I am consumed with rage."

"I am Dagnu, I am gluttony," the red said. "I can never be filled."

"I am Molokh, I am greed," the orange said. "I can never be satisfied."

"I am Belphegor, I am sloth," the yellow said. "I withhold my talents."

"I am Atirat, I am lust," the green said. "I desire ever more."

"I am Mot, I am envy," the blue said. "I cannot bear others' good fortune."

"I am Ferrilux, I am pride," the superviolet said. "I would usurp Orholam's own throne."

They were the names of the old gods. Kip had barely even heard of them.

"These are the distortions of our nature."

"The temptations of power." The voices spoke out in turn, smoothly, overlapping, like one consciousness.

"For without mastery of ourselves, we become monsters."

"Shameful and ashamed, hiding in the darkness."

"But we are the sons and daughters of Orholam."

"We are Orholam's gift, expressions of his love."

"His law."

"His mercy."

"His truth."

"Thus we stand unashamed, clothed in his righteousness."

The sub-red stepped forward, pulled off his mask, and stepped out of his robe. He was a young man, muscular, handsome, and naked. "Casting off wrath, I am patience," the sub-red said. He lifted his hands and, even without looking into the sub-red, it was clear that he was drafting. The air shimmered with heat around his whole body. "Orholam's will be done."

The red stepped forward, pulled off her mask, and stepped out of her robe. She was young, athletic, beautiful, and also naked. Kip's eyes widened. He tried to hold them to her face.

Somber ceremony, Kip. Orholam's watching, Kip. Straight to hell, Kip.

"Casting off gluttony, I am temperance," the red said. She lifted her hands and red luxin blossomed through her entire body, eyes, face, down her neck to her breasts, nipples, firm tight stomach, breasts, nipples-Kip! In an instant, she was like a statue, every bit of her skin dyed a perfect red. "Orholam's will be done," she said.

The orange stepped forward. A man, mercifully. "Casting off greed, I am charity," he said. Lifting his hands, he turned a gleaming orange. "Orholam's will be done."

Yellow said, "Casting off sloth, I am diligence. Orholam's will be done." Her body filled with sparkling yellow light.

The green was a disconcertingly if appropriately curvaceous woman who looked Kip hard in the eye. That helped as she disrobed. He thought she might slap his head off if he looked at her generous-oops. "Casting off lust, I am self-control," she said. "Orholam's will be done."

The blue disrobed. "Casting off envy, I am kindness," she said softly. "Orholam's will be done."

The superviolet was the last man, and he was enormously muscular. "Casting off pride, I am humility," he said in a booming voice. "Orholam's will be done."

As one, they brought their hands down and pointed them at Kip's feet. Sprays of pure color blasted the black circle he stood on. It began to rumble and rattle beneath his feet. Then, abruptly, the disk of rock began sinking into the floor-and Kip with it.

In moments, Kip was down to his butt. But the hole was too narrow. His fat caught on the sharp sides of the floor. He had to shimmy just to fit, and as the hole deepened, either his stomach or his butt was pressing against a wall.

"Raise your right hand," the superviolet said.

As Kip did, swallowing convulsively, he saw a rope dropping all the way from a ceiling so high above that he couldn't see past the glare of its brightness. The superviolet caught the rope and put the knotted end in Kip's upraised hand.

"Pull the rope, and it ends," the man said. He had something akin to kindness in his voice.

Then Kip was fully in the hole, and still going down. He stopped below the floor. The light high above in the testing chamber went out. Kip could see nothing.

He tried to take a deep breath, but the chamber was so tight he couldn't even draw a full breath.

There were whispered voices above him. "Dees, will you run this test for me?"

A man's voice replied, awkward, "I've never run one before, my lord. You know, I think we set the tube too narrow. He's fat. He could suffocate."

"He's the Prism's bastard."

"So? He's not here."

"So accidents happen. But I can't be here when they do. The Prism knows I hate him. He doesn't know you. So if an accident happens on your watch-"

Kip couldn't hear the rest because water started pouring over his head. Cold, first a dribble, then a steady stream. It ran down the back of his neck to where his back was pressed tight against the walls. The walls around him pulsed an intense blue. Dear Orholam, they were going to kill him to get back at his father. Just like Gavin had warned him.

The water pooled around his middle. He was too fat for it to drain down to his feet, he sealed the whole tube. Kip's heart was pounding. The intense light emanating through the walls burned from blue down into green, through the whole spectrum in order, even through heat, and then faded into nothing again as the water reached Kip's neck.

Up to his ear. He pushed his body hard against the side of the chamber, and a gap opened between his hip and the wall. The pooled water poured down to his feet. But it kept coming from above.

For a few moments, he was able to intermittently push against the wall and make it drain once more, but soon he was awash, nearly floating. He pushed against the wall again, and the water didn't drain at all. There was nowhere for it go.

The water rose once more to his left shoulder, which was trapped down even as his right was trapped up. Then up to his neck. His left ear.

He didn't notice when the walls pulsed superviolet, but then they passed through blue, to green as the water rose to his chin, to yellow as it touched his lips, orange as it covered his lips-was the water falling more slowly on his head now? He took deep breaths through his nose, wriggled to try to use his body's wedged-in position to climb higher in the tube, and found that there were straps above his shoulders, keeping him down.

This was insanity. Someone was trying to kill him. Kip had to ring the bell. His fingers were claws around the rope. He could try again when there wasn't a murderer around.

No. Quitting meant being put out. It meant failing.

There was barely time to take one last deep breath before the water covered Kip's nose.

The falling water pelting his head abruptly ceased. Kip could imagine it now: "He was so fat, he trapped the water. It wasn't supposed to be that high. We didn't put too much water in… he just panicked. You know, a child, trapped and afraid. He must not have even thought to pull the rope."

So that was it. He either quit and shamed his father more than his very existence already did, or his father's enemies did their best to kill him.

Holding his breath, his lungs just beginning to burn, there was a sudden, stark clarity to the world: pull the rope, go home.

But, there was no home. So, pull the rope, and go farm… somewhere. Or stay, and maybe die. Fail here, and he failed his father and his mother. Fail here, and he was a failure forever.

I'm not pulling the rope.

The chamber went black. The water got hot from the sub-red light, but then even that faded.

I don't like farming. Kip coughed out some of his air, laughing, the thought was so inane. But the pain rapidly squelched wry humor. He couldn't make his heart slow. He couldn't stop his throat from swallowing convulsively, his chest from pumping on nothing. I'm not pulling the rope, damn you. I'm not pulling the rope.

Something shifted. At first, Kip thought it was the water pouring out, but it wasn't. The ground below him was rising, but the stops above his shoulders stayed in place, crushing him in place. The water, far from draining, simply rose up his raised arm. In moments, he squatted down, pushed against his own knees. It squeezed him and he coughed, the last of his breath bubbling out.

He was trying to hold on to nothing. Breathing the water in would be worse than breathing nothing at all, he knew it. He knew it and yet his body overwhelmed him and he sucked a breath in. The water was hot, sharp, acrid in his lungs. He gagged, hunched even tighter against his own knees, his body ripping itself apart. He coughed and, miraculously, water shot out of his mouth into air, blessed, glorious, free, beautiful air!

Gasping, spitting, retching, and still compressed into a ball, Kip breathed. He could breathe! Mostly. His knees hurt from being squashed tighter than his not-so-flexible joints would allow. His back hurt. His ribs hurt. But Orholam, the air was good. If only he could get a full breath.

Nothing happened. It was still utterly black. Kip was sweating now. He was packed in here. It was getting hotter by the second and he was still dripping wet. The colors flashed past him, through the whole spectrum again.

So that's how it was. They saw that he wasn't going to quit, so they weren't going to give him another chance with the colors.

It didn't matter. I'm not pulling the rope. "I'm not pulling the rope!" Kip shouted. Or tried to shout; he wasn't very loud with only a half a breath.

In response, the floor rose even more, crushing him harder against the stays on his shoulders. Kip screamed. He sounded like a coward.

He couldn't even push back against the stays. His knees were bent too far to get him any leverage. If he just pulled on the rope a little, he could get a breath, and then he could go on fighting.

No! Kip deliberately relaxed his fingers, his arm. He concentrated on breathing. Tiny, quick little breaths.

It was enough. It would be enough. He was making it enough.

A succession of colors blurred past. Kip didn't care. Was he supposed to do something? What? Draft? Right. Go bugger yourselves.

The pressure eased suddenly and the floor dropped. Then the walls eased wider. Kip almost fell, but after a moment his rubbery legs were able to take his weight. The walls pulled back farther, farther. He tried to take a wider stance, but there was nothing beyond his little disk except air.

Reaching one hand out, Kip couldn't feel the walls at all. A breeze blew across his skin, giving him the sensation that he was standing on some high place. It had to be an illusion, though, he was in the middle of the school. No way was there a big hole here.

Colors flashed through distant walls, illuminating the chamber for a brief, terrifying moment. Kip stood over an abyss. His disk was the tiny round top of a pillar: a pillar standing alone in the middle of nothingness. The walls were thirty paces away. The ceiling over his head had a single hole, through which only his hand was poking.

Wind buffeted him, and Kip felt his grip go white-knuckled on the rope. He clamped his eyes shut, but then he couldn't tell if he was swaying with the wind or against it or staying still. His heart was beating so hard he could hear his own pulse in his ears between gasping breaths. He screamed words, but he didn't even know what they were.

After an eternity, the walls came back. They closed firmly around him, but comfortably now, and he felt a surge of relief. He'd made it. He'd passed. He hadn't given up. He'd hadn't pulled the-Something touched his leg.

What was that?

It curled around his ankle, twisted around his calf. A snake. Kip looked up and some many-legged thing dropped on his face.

He reached a spastic hand up to sweep a spider away, but felt a manacle snap over his wrist and pull his left arm away, lock it into place. He tried to kick the snake away from his feet. Snap, snap. Shackles closed around his feet and yanked them wide apart.

Kip screamed.

The spider fell into his mouth.

Before he even knew what he was doing, Kip bit down fiercely on it, crushing it in his teeth, sour goo squirting into his mouth. He screamed again, sheer defiance. Something landed in his hair. Dozens of slithering things roped around his feet, climbed his legs. He was going crazy.

"I'm not pulling the rope!" he shouted. "You bastards, I'm not pulling the rope!"

Kip convulsed. Orholam have mercy. His whole body was covered with loathsome things. He was weeping, screaming-and salvation lay in his hand. There was nothing wrong with farming. No one would hold failure against him. He didn't need to see these people ever again. And what did he care what they thought of him anyway? The whole game was stacked against him. He was finished. It was over.

With an inhuman cry, Kip took the rope, with all his loathing and fury and despair rising in him, totally overwhelming him, failure calling his name-and threw it out of the hole. He sank against the wall, burying his face in the rock, crying.

Colors flashed past once more, but the snakes and spiders didn't go. They covered his body.

Still the oppressive darkness continued. Something heavy and hairy landed on his back. Little claws stabbed him through his shirt. A rat. Then one on his thigh. Another landed on his head, scratching him as it slid off his wet hair.

Kip froze. Fear like lightning flashed through his entire body. He was in a cupboard, helpless, starving, parched. He shivered uncontrollably.

His motion disrupted the nasties and something bit him. He yelped, humiliated, furious. He twisted. More prickly bites, stinging bites, savage bites covered his arm, his legs, his groin, his back. Kip thrashed, throwing himself against one wall and then the other, trying to crush the beasts. Rats were climbing up his body on every side, and they refused to let go. He was weeping. He was so ashamed. There was something about the spider. The spider he'd bitten.

It was too much. He couldn't take it anymore. He was finished. Kip couldn't stop himself. He reached for the rope. He was a failure, a shame, a fat, blubbering coward. A nothing.

He felt the rope pressed back into his hand. "Here you go, Tubby," a satisfied voice whispered. The taste, Kip. The taste was wrong, a kind voice said.

What the woman had said didn't quite register. They were all over him.

Kip pulled the rope. Failure.

A distant clang, high overhead. At once, the stinging ceased. Every slithering, crawling, clinging, stinging thing evaporated, disappeared. They weren't real. They hadn't been real rats. Kip should have known from the spider he'd bitten. Would have known, if he hadn't been such a coward. That goo inside hadn't been guts, it had been luxin. It was all illusions, fake fears. He'd been tricked.

He'd failed. As the platform rose, Kip's brain-no longer fogged with terror-realized what the woman had called him: "Tubby." It was what Ram used to call him. Kip died a little. He'd proved Ram right. Again.

As he emerged, though, the men and women were now dressed in festive robes of their own colors, dazzling sapphire blues, emerald greens, diamond yellows, ruby reds. They appeared jubilant.

"Congratulations, supplicant!" Mistress Varidos said, coming to join the circle.

Kip stared at her, dumbfounded.

"Four minutes and twelve seconds. You should be very proud. I'm sure your father will be."

She was speaking some language Kip didn't understand. Proud? He'd failed. He'd shamed himself, shamed his father. He'd given up. The rage and frustration that had been building up suddenly had nowhere to go, leaving him feeling stupid.

"I failed," Kip said.

"Everybody fails!" the incredibly muscular superviolet said. "You did great! Four minutes twelve! I only lasted a minute six."

"I don't understand," Kip said.

The nymphish yellow laughed. "That's how the test is designed. We all failed."

They surrounded him, men pounding him on the back, women touching his arms or shoulder, all congratulating him. It was a bit intoxicating to be so wholeheartedly welcomed by people who were so beautiful. Now that his brain was working again, he noticed that they hadn't necessarily chosen men to represent the old gods and women for the goddesses. Was that because they'd come so far that it simply didn't matter anymore, or was it deliberate disrespect?

"Is it true?" Kip asked Mistress Varidos, who had stood back some lest the jostling crowd knock her over. "Everyone fails?"

She smiled. "Almost everyone. It's not to see if you can make it through the test, it's to see what kind of a person you are. And fear widens your eyes. Those colors you saw flashing past were the real test. Those will tell us what you can draft. Are you ready to see your results?"

"Wait. 'Almost everyone'? Who doesn't fail?" Kip asked.

The jubilant men and women quieted.

The old woman said, "The only person in my lifetime who didn't take the rope was…"

Gavin. Kip knew it. Of course. His father had been the one man who did what no one else could do, what no one else had ever done. Kip had failed him.

"Your uncle," the mistress said.

My "uncle" Gavin, or my uncle Dazen?

Apparently registering his confusion, she said, "Your uncle Dazen Guile, who nearly destroyed our world. Good footsteps not to follow, hm?"

She was speaking that other language again. After all Kip had seen Gavin do, it was Gavin's brother who'd passed?

"Four minutes is wonderful, Kip, but that's just bragging rights. Are you ready to see your colors?"

Chapter 44

Liv dropped into a curtsey, glad for the excuse to break eye contact with the Prism. When she straightened, Gavin Guile was looking at her critically. Obviously she'd been right, not many women answered his summonses in their work clothes and no cosmetics.

"It's been a long time since I've seen a proper Tyrean curtsey," the Prism said.

After your armies left, there weren't many women left to curtsey. "How may I serve you, High Luxlord Prism?" Liv asked instead.

"Lord Prism is sufficient," Gavin said.

"Thank you, Lord Prism."

He was obviously weighing her, thinking. But thinking what? Whatever else that wretched woman Aglaia Crassos had done, she'd made Liv think of the Prism as Gavin Guile-a man, and a good-looking one at that. His eyes were-quite literally-the most entrancing eyes in the entire world.

Magister, Liv. Tutor. Lord. Luxlord. Noble. General. Twice as old as you. Way too old for you. Not a broad-shouldered, muscular man-just another magister. You can go to hell, Aglaia Crassos.

"Have you chosen who you want to be your magister in yellow?" he asked.

Thank you!

See, I'm a disciple. Purely academic. A child in comparison to him. Hopelessly young and ignorant. She pursed her lips. "Honestly, I'd like to study under Mistress Tawenza Goldeneyes." She could barely believe she'd dared say it out loud. The woman only took three disciples a year-and she already had three. The three best yellow disciples in the Chromeria.

Gavin laughed. "That prickly she-bear? A bold choice. She's the best, and she probably won't hate you as much as you think she does for the first year. I'd have you send my compliments to her when I assign her a fourth student, but she'd doubtless take it out on you. Consider it done. How are your apartments?"

She paused. It was almost a personal question. No, he's simply worried-no, not worried, he's checking that his orders have been carried out. Generals do that sort of thing. "They're better than anything I thought I'd ever have, Lord Prism. And the clothes? I used to have three dresses. Now I've got more than fifty and my worst is nicer than my old Sun Day best." Wait, maybe clothes weren't the best topic.

"And yet you decided to come in this," Gavin said, noticing. Oops. His voice didn't intone disapproval. If anything, there was a thin thread of amusement. But his face didn't give her any expression to know if he was irritated. She should have listened to that slave, Marissia. It wouldn't have killed her to freshen up a little. He glanced past her, and she followed his gaze, but the room was empty except for the two of them, and there were no unusual decorations on the walls, just the normal testing crystal.

"You said to come at my earliest convenience." She couldn't keep a defensive tone out of her voice. "I thought you'd not want to be kept waiting." That was better. Nicely assertive, Liv.

"I think you'll do perfectly."

"Lord Prism?"

"You're perfect because you refuse to be impressed, Aliviana. I like that. It-"

"I wouldn't exactly say I'm not impressed!"

He grinned. "You say, interrupting me."

And proving his point.

Liv decided to shut up. Maybe differentiating herself from all the other women who came here-and were unsuccessful in their attempts to seduce Gavin-had not been a good plan.

"It seems every time I summon a woman between the ages of thirteen and sixty, she comes dressed like a Ruthgari courtesan, either overly eager or completely terrified. Like I run a brothel up here."

Oh, Orholam strike me, what if I've done the one thing that makes me more attractive to him? "You're Gavin Guile," Liv said, like that explained everything. It did. Not only would snaring the Prism totally change a woman's own life, but it would change her entire family's life. Immediately and for generations to come, and for the better. Add gorgeous and virile to "Prism," which already meant powerful, respected, and rich, and Liv had no doubt that hemlines soared and necklines swooped. It was a wonder that women didn't come to the Prism naked. How much would Ana have worn if the Prism had summoned her?

On second thought, Liv didn't want to think about that.

"Yes, I am," Gavin said, smirking as if at some private joke. "And I need your help, Aliviana."

Liv swallowed. The truth was, he could ask anything, and there was no way she could say no. "Liv, please."

"Right." Gavin cleared his throat. Why is he clearing his throat? He feels awkward? Does he feel awkward starting an affair with a girl half his age?

Gavin glanced over Liv's shoulder again. "A number of years ago-it feels like quite a number of years ago… I have a… nephew. His mother was Tyrean. I want you to tutor him. It might make him feel more comfortable to learn from another Tyrean. I know you Tyreans don't have it easy here. What do you say?"

Liv spluttered. A "nephew"? A tutor? Kip! Of course! Orholam, she'd gone completely the wrong direction! Idiot! The Prism hadn't even been thinking anything remotely…"W-well, of course, Lord Prism. Is there… why do…" What was she saying? She'd already been impertinent enough. Asking the wrong question about a man's bastard might be a good way to ruin everything. "What color is he gifted with?" She only remembered at the last second to say "he" and not "Kip." She wasn't supposed to know Kip was the Prism's bastard at all.

I would make a lousy spy.

"Green. Possibly blue. He's being initiated right now."

"Right now?" Liv asked. The year's initiations had been completed long ago. Liv had never heard of someone being initiated at any other time of year. "How long has your-how long has he been here?"

"He arrived yesterday."

"And he's being initiated already?!" Liv asked. Poor Kip.

Gavin glanced behind her again. This time, she knew what he was looking at. Throughout the tower, for reasons Liv had never comprehended, there were plain crystals set into the walls. For the whole year, they simply sat and sparkled, dully refracting whatever light they caught from their surroundings, but during initiations at the beginning of each year, they glowed brilliantly. As the supplicants passed through the Thresher, invariably there was the wash of one color after another as each test progressed, the same wash each supplicant saw. As soon as they drafted, the crystal turned a brilliant hue in whatever color they drafted. For Liv it had been superviolet first, then yellow weakly.

The whole time Liv had been here, the Prism had been watching to see how his bastard son was doing.

Come to think of it, if the test had been going on since the first time Gavin Guile had glanced behind Liv, it was taking a really long time. Usually it took less than a minute.

They both turned to look at the crystal. "What did the tester say when they lowered you into the Thresher?" Gavin asked.

"He said something about the only good rebel being a dead rebel, and how he still owed my father blood," Liv said. The point had been, as it always was, to scare the person being tested. Fear made the eyes dilate. Fear made a supplicant draft to the utmost of her abilities. It also helped even the most arrogant young lady or lordling begin their studies with a bit of humility.

"How about you?" Liv asked. Neither of them turned from the crystal.

"Something about my brother," Gavin said. "Turned out to be more right than they knew."

"I'm sorry," Liv said. She wasn't sure if she was apologizing for asking, for the tester, or for the real-life nightmare Gavin had gone through later in having to kill his own brother.

"I never liked that part, scaring them. The chamber is terrifying enough, and the thought of failing is scary enough. They don't have to make supplicants think they're really going to die. It breaks people. It breaks children."

Liv had never thought about it that way. The Thresher just was. Everyone went through it. It was inextricable from drafting, from the Chromeria. If nothing else, every drafter had the Thresher in common.

"The noble girls all knew what was coming," Liv said. "Unlike the rest of us. They knew the test itself wouldn't hurt them, so that bit of talking outside the test was the only thing that made them afraid. Because even if they'd been warned, hearing a tester who claims to belong to your enemy's family say that accidents happen is terrifying."

"Hadn't thought of that," Gavin said. "All my friends were nobles. I thought everyone knew what was coming."

Of course you did. It's just another way the Chromeria's stacked to favor your kind.

Gavin cleared his throat. "Liv, my son might be special, really gifted. We'll find out presently, but I wouldn't be surprised if he's a polychrome. He's Tyrean, his mother just died, he's going to face false friends and unearned enemies just for being my son; he won't fit in anywhere and yet people are going to be watching him all the time. If he's truly powerful on top of that… he could turn into a monster. He wouldn't be the first in my family to handle great power poorly. The gift isn't a pure gift, you know."

Дата добавления: 2015-11-16