The Black Prism(14)

For a moment, Gavin wondered at the old crone. The White was being kind, no doubt, but she had also orchestrated this situation to happen right in front of her—and the only reason for her to do that was so she could see Gavin’s most honest reaction. It was kind and cruel and cunning all at once, and by no means accidental. Gavin reminded himself for the hundredth time not to get on the wrong side of Orea Pullawr.

“I have no recollection of this woman. None. But it was a terrible time. I, I cannot swear it.” He knew how the White would take that. She thought he was admitting to cheating on Karris during their betrothal, but that he believed he’d always been careful. But young men make mistakes.

“I should go,” he said. “I’ll get to the bottom of it. This is my mess.”

“No,” she said flatly. “Now it’s Karris’s. I’m not sending you to Tyrea, Gavin. You’re the Prism. It’s bad enough that I have to send you after color wights—”

“You don’t send me. You just don’t stop me.”

It had been their first titanic clash of wills. She refused to let a Prism endanger himself, called it madness. Gavin hadn’t made any arguments at all, just refused to be stopped. She’d confined him to his apartments. He’d blown the doors off.

Eventually, she gave in, and he paid for it in other ways.

A moment passed, and she said very quietly, gently, “After all this time, Gavin, after all the wights you’ve killed and all the people you’ve saved, does it hurt any less?”

“I hear there’s some talk of heresy,” Gavin said brusquely. “Someone preaching the old gods again. I could go find out.”

“You’re not the promachos anymore, Gavin.”

“It’s not like any fifty of their half-trained drafters could stop—”

“What you are is the best Prism we’ve had in fifty, maybe a hundred years. And they might have fifty-one drafters, or five hundred at their little heretical Chromeria, so I won’t hear of it. Karris will check on this woman and her son and see what she can learn as she investigates this ‘King’ Garadul. You can expect her return within two months. And speaking of color wights, an unusually powerful blue wight was just seen on the outskirts of the Blood Forest, heading toward Ru.”

A blue wight heading toward the reddest lands in the world. Odd. And blues were usually so logical. It was a distraction, but it was a good one, and it left him almost no time to reach Karris. “By your leave, then, High Lady,” he said, his good manners always partly ironical. He didn’t wait for her approval before he gathered his magic and jogged toward the edge of the tower.

“Oh no you don’t!” she said.

He stopped. Sighed. “What?”

“Gavin!” she scolded. “Surely you didn’t forget you promised to teach today. It’s a high honor for each class to meet with you. They wait months for this.”

“Which class?” he asked suspiciously.

“Superviolets. There’s only six of them.”

“Isn’t that the class with the girl always spilling out of her top? Lana? Ana?” It was one thing when women pursued Gavin, but that girl had been throwing herself at him since she was fourteen.

The White looked pained. “We have spoken with that one a few times.”

“Look,” Gavin said, “the tide is going out, I have to catch Karris. I’ll teach that class next time you see me. No excuses, no fight.”

“You give me your word?”

“I give you my word.”

The White smiled like a sated cat. “You enjoy teaching more than you admit, don’t you, Gavin?”

“Gah!” Gavin said. “Goodbye!”

Before she could say anything else, he sprinted for the edge of the tower and leapt into space.





Chapter 8





Kip was staring at Isa’s body. After she’d seen the soldiers kill Ram, she’d looked back at Kip. She’d been looking for safety, for protection. She’d looked at him, and she’d known he couldn’t save her.

A sound and a sudden absence next to him made Kip tear his eyes away from Isa. Sanson was running toward the village. Sanson wasn’t smart, but he’d always been practical. He hadn’t done anything so dumb in his life. But Kip couldn’t blame him. They’d never seen anyone die, either.

But there was no way the soldiers could fail to see Sanson, and now he’d die too if Kip didn’t do anything.

Kip had stood around enough, doing nothing while his friends died. He didn’t think. He acted. He ran—the other way.

Kip hated running. When Ram ran, it was like watching a hunting hound speed after a deer, all hard lean muscles and flowing strength. When Isa ran, it was like watching the deer flee, all easy grace and surprising speed. Kip running was like a milk cow lumbering out to pasture. Still, no one was expecting him.