The Black Prism(206)

“It’s done,” Gavin said. “Your only choice now is how you face it.”

“My family will hear of this!” Crassos said.

“Then let them hear you died like a man,” Gavin said.

It was like Gavin had slapped the man across the face. His family obviously meant everything to him.

Gavin drafted a blue platform out into the water. “You wanted to flee, Lord Crassos? Go.”

Without hesitation, Lord Crassos walked down the steps of blue luxin and out onto the water, carrying his trunk. He got out about fifteen paces before the luxin cracked and he fell into the water. In moments, he was kicking to keep the buoyant chest from bobbing over his head and drowning him.

The tide was just turning, so he merely sloshed back and forth, neither pushed in closer to shore nor washed out toward the other piers or toward the Guardian and the open sea.

A thousand pairs of eyes watched him, silently. In a minute, he wasn’t having to kick so hard to keep the trunk from pushing him under—because the trunk wasn’t floating as high in the water. He was trying to stare defiantly toward the dock, toward Gavin, but his wet hair was falling in front of his eyes, and he couldn’t seem to shake his head enough to get it out of them.

He screamed something right before he went under. Gavin couldn’t understand him. More death. He hadn’t liked Crassos, hated his attitude, hated the type of noble he represented, who took and took and never thought to give a crumb back. But he’d just killed a man, made enemies of his family—and this in the midst of a war that would have done the job for him.

Gavin watched for the bubbles and didn’t see any. Crassos had floated too far out. Gavin raised his hands, and then brought them in. “Orholam have mercy,” he announced, bringing the adjudication to a close. He’d already spent too much time here. He turned.

Behind him in the bay, a shark’s fin cut the water like an arrow headed for its target.





Chapter 78





At sunset, Gavin had finished the most public of the rituals of the day. It was a big show, and he did his best to make each one special. It was one part of the day he could feel good about. He always performed nearly naked. Colors bloomed and raced through his body, out of his body, and gave the appearance of going back into him.

It hurt a little to use so much magic after yesterday’s fight, but it was one thing he wouldn’t compromise.

All too soon, however, it was over, and people were retiring to their parties. The parties would go all night. Sun Day lasted until the next dawn. The parties of those to be Freed would begin at full dark. He was sitting in a little chapel in the fortress. He had a few minutes, supposedly to pray.

There was a time when he had used it to pray. No more. If Orholam was real, he was busy, he was asleep, he didn’t care, he was taking a shit. Time was different to Orholam, they said. That would explain why he’d been doing it for Gavin’s entire life.

Gavin’s chest felt tight. He was having trouble breathing. The chapel seemed too small, too dark. He was sweating, cold, clammy sweat. He closed his eyes.

Get some balls, Gavin. You can do this. You’ve done it before. This is for them.

It’s a lie. It’s all a lie.

It’s better than the alternative. Breathe. This isn’t for you. You want to go out there and tell those drafters waiting for you that their entire lives are a fraud? That their service is a waste? That Orholam doesn’t see their sacrifice? That what they’ve done, what they’ve given, doesn’t matter? Everyone dies, Gavin, don’t rob it of meaning for these people. Don’t make them see themselves as worthless. Their sacrifice as empty. All life as meaningless.

It was the same debate he had with himself every year. He’d even brought a bucket with him into the chapel, along with extra incense. He threw up, some years.

There was a knock at the door of the chapel.

“Lord Prism, it’s time.”


Kip wasn’t blindfolded the next night. Instead, they gave him darkened glasses, bound them around the back of his head, pulling them tight against his eyes, and ripped the sleeves off his shirt. It would be hard to draft, and anyone around him would have ample warning.

“Apparently there’s something they want us to see,” Karris said as the guards, Mirrormen and drafters, hustled them out of the wagon they’d been sharing.

They were brought to a security perimeter out away from the tents. It was oddly separate from the rest of the camp, given far too much room. The perimeter itself was simply a rope strung between posts pounded quickly into the ground, but it was huge—and no one from the camp even came close to violating the circle. Inside, looking tiny compared to the size of the circle, was a crowd gathered before a platform. The sun had fully set, but it wasn’t yet dark.