The Black Prism(30)

“I can’t believe we got—” Sanson started.

“Away?” Kip asked. He had abandoned trying to tie his shoe with one hand and was sniffing hard, trying to keep blood from dripping all over him. Even as he finished the knot, though, he knew why Sanson had stopped speaking. They were bathed in a harsh red glare.

Looking up, Kip saw a red flare hanging in the sky above them, marking their location for the rest of the king’s army—who had to be nearby. The flare’s smoke trail led back to the top of the falls, where the two drafters stood, looking at them.

Kip and Sanson had escaped two drafters. Now they had to escape the rest of the army.

Kip hopped to his feet, sniffing hard. He thought he was going to hyperventilate. Then he saw a horseman on the ridge that wound from above the waterfall down to the Sendinas’ farm. He abruptly forgot about his bleeding nose. The horseman would have to go farther to go around, but he had a horse. Kip and Sanson had to make it down the trail along the rapids and get to the farm before the horseman did.

Then Kip saw three other horsemen join the first. And then another, and another.

He and Sanson started running.

The waterfall kicked up huge clouds of mist, day and night, and the valley stayed dark for hours longer than the surrounding country. When the flare winked out, Kip lost sight of both the horsemen and the trail.

He stopped, terrified. Broad-leafed plants, slick with the mist, obscured both sides of the tiny trail. One foot set on those, and he would plunge down the rocky incline to the river. In the rapids, he’d be battered to death.

He needed to see. He tried to look at things out of the corners of his eyes, the way Master Danavis had taught him. The part of your eye that focused on things was best at seeing colors, but outside the focus area was better at seeing light and dark.

“Move!” Sanson said.

Kip looked over his shoulder. Sanson’s face looked like it was on fire. Kip took a step back and tottered on the sharp edge of the trail. Everywhere Sanson’s skin was exposed, he looked hot. Kip could even see the steam evaporating off his arms in little orange whorls.

“What’s wrong with your eyes?” Sanson asked. “Never mind. Move, Kip!”

Sanson was right again. It didn’t matter what Kip was seeing, or how. He turned and started forward. Somehow, the wonder of it all crowded out his fear. The plants were like torches lighting his way, even gently illuminating the trail between.

One hand still hitching up his wet, heavy pants, Kip began jogging as fast as he could, fearless despite the slick rocks, narrow trail, and death beckoning from every side.

There were bodies in the river, caught up in the rapids. Dear Orholam, there were bodies at the Sendinas’ farm, little lumps nearly as cold as the surrounding ground. Smoldering, ruined buildings burned hot in Kip’s vision. More important for him and Sanson, he saw a flat-bottomed punt tied at the Sendinas’ dock. He and Sanson hit the bottom of the trail at a full run. They rounded a corner and in the morning sun saw thirty mounted Mirrormen, drawn up in battle formation.

“We wanted to take you alive,” the red drafter said. His skin was crimson, and fury tinged his voice. “A drafter with your potential doesn’t come along every day. But you’ve killed two of King Garadul’s men, and for that, you die.”





Chapter 15





“You’re not really going to crash us,” Karris said as Gavin brought them over the scrub desert.

“Oh, I see. When I’m flying, we’re flying, but when we’re crashing, I’m crashing.”

Gavin banked the condor to the right so they wouldn’t be seen from Garriston. There was still a good chance some farmer or fisherman would spot them, but who would believe a lone fisherman who said he’d seen a giant flying man-bird? If a whole city saw them, it would be a different story. Garriston, despite being the most important port in Tyrea, wasn’t much. The bay was overfished, the land was hot and dry with bad soil, the Ruthgari governor corrupt, his men worse.

It hadn’t always been this way. Before the False Prism’s War, there had been a vast system of irrigation canals that had brought this scrub desert into bloom, with two or even three harvests a year. There had been locks that fed trade to dozens of small cities up and down the Umber River. But canals and locks required drafters and maintenance. Without either, this land had withered, punished for the sins of dead men.

“Gavin, I’m serious. Are we really going to crash?”

“Trust me,” he said.

She opened her mouth, then shut it. He guessed what she hadn’t said: Because that’s worked out so well for me before?