The Blinding Knife(99)

The woman stared at Teia, and her eyes dilated unnaturally wide, the iris a tiny band of brown around a huge pupil.

Teia made a moue of appreciation.

“That’s to see sub-red,” the old drafter said. Then her pupils flared again, stretching the sclera itself, her entire eye going an eerie black, pushing the white to nothingness.

Teia flinched and shrank back.

The woman’s eyes went back to normal in a blink. “That’s what your eyes look like when you’re viewing paryl, Adrasteia. Our eyes themselves are different, the lenses far more malleable, blessed by Orholam to see differently. Can you see superviolet?”

“No. And I’m color-blind, red-green.” Best to get it out right away.

“Unfortunate.”

“Are you?”

“Color-blind? No, but it’s more common among us. We can see a vast spectrum of light, far more than other drafters. But that doesn’t necessarily overlap with what others see. My own mistress’s master Shayam Rassad was completely blind in the visible spectrum, but navigated perfectly with sub-red and paryl. But, dangers. First, the physical: if you dilate your eyes so much in bright light too often, you will go blind. Slowly, usually, but you need to take extreme care with mag torches and bright sunlight. Now, enough talk. Let’s see what you can do.”

So they began practicing, Magister Martaens asking Teia what she could see, drafting substances of her own, picking out sources distant and near, asking Teia to draft it herself. The paryl as Magister Martaens explained it was more like a gel than anything, albeit a gel that was lighter than air. It made good markers because the gel floated and frayed apart, constantly emitting paryl light.

“So you made the markers for my mistress,” Teia said. She was stupid not to have realized it earlier. Of course the woman had! There weren’t exactly hundreds of paryl drafters around.

The woman’s face went very still.

“How many of us are there?” Teia asked.

“Only two right now,” Magister Martaens said. She looked to either side as she spoke, glancing nervously over at Cruxer, who was still pretending to be working out, without moving her head. “You and me.”

“But that can’t be right,” Teia said. “I saw a man craft solid paryl and—”

Marta Martaens hissed—actually hissed. Teia froze up.

Magister Martaens smoothed her features and calmly walked toward the exit, beckoning Teia to join her. When they were out into the huge, bright underground cavern beneath the Chromeria, she went around the corner of the building where they couldn’t be seen. When Teia joined her, she saw the woman was livid.

“I don’t know what you thought you saw,” Magister Martaens said, “but you are never to speak of it again. Do you understand?”

“I—I’m sorry, but no,” Teia said.

“You don’t need to understand, you need to be silent. Especially about such things.”

“No!” Teia said. “You’re my tutor. Teach me. I need to know everything if I’m to get into the Blackguard. You can’t hold back on me.”

“I can and I will. You’re my discipula; you will obey me.”

“Then I’ll take my questions to Commander Ironfist.”

The woman went gray. “I want you to think very carefully about what you’re considering, young lady.”

“Going to someone I trust, someone in authority over me, with a simple question, that’s what,” Teia said, getting angry.

“Tell me what you think you saw. Quietly.”

So Teia did.

Magister Martaens was shaking her head even before Teia was finished. “No. No. I’ve tried to make paryl solid a thousand times a thousand. It doesn’t work that way.”

“But what if it did?” Teia said.

“Yes, exactly,” Marta Martaens said.

Teia lifted her palms, more mystified than angry now. Maybe drafting paryl really did make you crazy.

Magister Martaens looked around, again, though there was no one to overhear them. “Think about what you’re suggesting: a color that’s invisible to nearly everyone, even every drafter—a color that could kill, without leaving a mark, without leaving any evidence, that looked like a natural death. Please use your tiny brain to think about how people would react to such magic.”

Teia licked her lips. They would react exactly as she had, with terror.

“Anytime someone dies mysteriously, it becomes the fault of a paryl drafter. Anytime some obese noble keels over from a burst heart, people whisper that it’s the work of his enemies—and every noble has enemies, and most of them are fat. Think first about what that does to nations, when any death could have been an assassination. Then think what that does to paryl drafters. When the Office of Doctrine sent out luxors to stamp out paryl drafters, they weren’t authorized solely or even mainly because the Spectrum thought we were heretics.”