“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.