by Brent Weeks
“Do your best not to lose the sub-red and the superviolet. We don’t know how to make spectacles like those anymore,” Gavin said.
Drawing the sub-red and putting them on, Kip gasped as he saw what Gavin meant. Usually you had to relax your eyes and let them lose focus to see the heat of things. With these glasses, Kip could see in the sub-red spectrum and the visible spectrum at the same time.
“You’ll still have to relax your eyes to draft sub-red, but it makes finding good sources much easier.” Gavin buckled the belt onto Kip and showed him how he could draw a pair of spectacles quickly, flick his wrist to snap the earpieces open, and put them on. Then he flicked the spectacles to one side, which snapped one earpiece closed, and then hooked the other in, letting the pouch close the other and hold it firmly.
Gavin gave Kip the binocle and said, “You can draft when we get into the fight, but I want you to keep an eye out. It’s easy to get tunnel vision. Even for me. I’m going to be steering and drafting and shouting orders and dodging fire and magic. You keep your head about you. If another ship is bringing its guns up to rake us with a broadside, I might not even see it. Head on a swivel, got it?”
“Yes, sir.” Kip didn’t know what else to say, how to thank his father for the spectacles, but Gavin didn’t seem to require anything. He went to the pipes and motioned forward. With everyone on their own, the big skimmer picked up speed quickly.
In no time at all, they were hurtling across the waves at incredible speed, with the Gargantua getting bigger and bigger all the time.
Ahead of them, Kip saw the stern gunports yanked open, and big, big cannons pushed out the holes.
“On my signal,” Gavin said. “Wait for it. Wait for it!”
Chapter 99
As usual, Liv woke next to Zymun. It was early, and the young man’s breath was even, regular. He was a heavy sleeper. Their tent wasn’t large, barely tall enough to stand in, and they slept on piles of furs and blankets on the ground. Liv rolled over, careful not to disturb Zymun. He insisted she sleep naked, and sometimes he liked to start his day the way he liked to end it. It was flattering to be desired so much, but sometimes she thought she simply happened to be the most convenient way to sate his hungers.
She blinked, aware of some change in the atmosphere, a freer brush of the wind than a closed tent should allow.
The Color Prince stood outlined against the morning light in front of the open tent flap. He held up a finger so she didn’t speak and wake Zymun. He motioned that she was to come with him.
A wave of shame went through her. She felt like a whore, caught by her father with a boy she didn’t even love. The feelings crested, and she quickly drafted superviolet. It was like the first puff of ratweed in the morning, except the luxin made her think more clearly. The feelings were the vestiges of small-town religiosity. Besides, the Color Prince believed in freedom, free choices. She was young. She could do whatever she wanted. There was no need to feel shame here.
She stood, briefly forgetting in the superviolet rush that she was naked. Koios White Oak looked at her frankly, and she soaked up his regard as boldly as if it were light itself. She waited a long second until she saw the twinge of regret hit him, and moved as soon as she saw it, gathering up her shift and pulling on her dress so that he might think she hadn’t seen it. There were other kinds of power than magic and the sword. But some power works best in silence.
In silence, she dressed in her most practical dress and held her long dark hair out of the way. The Color Prince buttoned the last buttons for her, then she followed him out into the camp.
As the Blood Robes had marched on, rolling over town after town, their ranks had swollen. Liv was never sure how many of those who joined them believed in their cause, or if they merely believed in victory and plunder. She wanted to despise those who joined out of convenience, but she was using superviolet too much to be more than coolly amused most of the time. Besides, men believe in power, and what is victory but the demonstration of power?
Parts of her still mourned it, but everywhere she looked, she saw that the Color Prince was right. Power. All human interactions came down to power.
The Color Prince gave sermons every day, and he had disciples now, both drafters and munds, who wrote down every word and did their best to make a coherent system of it all. He talked about Dazen coming back and championing their cause. He talked about freedom. He talked about the tributes they all paid to the Chromeria. Though his words melded politics and religion and history and civics and science, Liv thought she discerned less of an incredibly nuanced system underneath his rhetoric, and more of a belief created simply by the strength of his believers’ faith that it must be rational, or their great leader wouldn’t profess it. She couldn’t tell how much of it the Omnichrome believed, but she knew that if he was going to accomplish his great purposes, he needed loyal followers. And those followers needed something to believe in, to unify them.
He didn’t preach to the mob about power, just as he didn’t allow them to call him Koios. Familiarity and knowledge both were for the privileged. Sometimes Liv thought the Color Prince probably didn’t give a damn what all the people believed, that he tapped the heresies he tapped because he figured he might as well exploit every resentment against the Chromeria.
“Have you figured out your great purpose yet, Aliviana?” the prince asked. He nodded to a group of green wights who barely stirred at his presence. Greens weren’t much good at veneration either.
“Aside from bait for my father?”
“I told you from the beginning you were that, and no, I haven’t given up all hope for Corvan. But a hostage needn’t be given privileges or the freedom you have. Surely you’ve gone past that.”
“I’m the best superviolet you’ve got. It has something to do with that,” Liv said.
“A broad guess,” the prince said. “But not long ago you would have said ‘one of the best.’ ” He seemed amused.
“I’ve changed,” she said. She was more confident now; she had cut away the Chromeria’s false humility. “And I’m right.”
“Mmm.”
The Red Cliffs loomed above the whole camp. There were spidery trails everywhere up those cliffs, but the prince had opted to send almost everyone along the coastal road. Only his cavalry had traveled along the high road, foraging and ready to put down any armed resistance.
The army was big enough now that some days there were skirmishes that Liv didn’t even find out about until after dark. The Atashian army had probed the Blood Robes for weakness, but with the number of drafters the prince had, they hadn’t found much. Zymun had speculated, though, that they were going to find out how much steel was in the Atashians’ spines soon. The army was to reach the narrowest pass between sheer cliffs and the ocean tomorrow.
“Are they going to crush us at the Gates of Sand?” Liv asked.
“No,” the prince said.
“Really? Zymun thought that was the best chance they had of stopping us before we get to the grasslands around Ru.”
“It was. But you need naval support to hold the Gates, and our Ilytian allies crushed the Atashian navy five days ago.”
Liv hadn’t even heard a whisper of that. “Ilytian allies? But the Ilytians don’t believe in anything.”
“They believe in gold.” The Color Prince gave a grim smile. Together, they climbed up an exposed rock promontory. The soldiers standing there snapped salutes. The prince reached the top and did something with his eyes. He expelled a disappointed breath. “Not yet. Maybe tomorrow.”
“My lord?”
“Close your eyes, Liv. Can you feel it?”
She closed her eyes and tried to feel. She felt the coolness of the morning, smelled the latrines, the campfires, the cooking meat, her own body. She felt the hummingbird weight of light on her skin, light as a wind, passing in soft billows from the rising sun. She heard the sergeants calling out to training men, the clash of sticks on armor, the neighing of horses, the laugh o
f a woman, the tread of feet. She heard the faintly unnatural hiss of the Color Prince’s breath.
Opening her eyes, she looked over to the man who was shaking the world to its foundations. Shook her head, disappointed in herself.
“Tomorrow. Tomorrow maybe you’ll see it. Go now, and send up Dervani Malargos and Jerrosh Green.”
They were the two best green drafters the Blood Robes had, the teachers for every green who hadn’t yet broken the halo. Liv went down and called for them. They seemed to be waiting, and the two of them went up on the promontory.
Liv watched them as the prince spoke to them, wondering if they would see or feel what she had not, wondering if she was failing in some way.
“Good morning, beautiful. Always with the tests and mysteries, huh?” Zymun said, coming up beside her. He put a possessive arm around her. Sometimes that annoyed her, but she’d been worried yesterday that Zymun was already losing interest in her, so she said nothing.
“I suppose,” she said. “It’s not capricious, though.”
“You think,” Zymun said. He was the only person Liv knew who dared to speak derisively of anything the Color Prince did. At first she’d wondered at that, but a little yellow and superviolet meditation had made it plain: Zymun was jealous. He felt threatened, less of a man around the most powerful man in all the world.
That was the mystery to her.
“So what was it today?” Zymun asked.
“Asked me if I saw something. I didn’t.”
“Looks like they didn’t either,” Zymun said, nodding toward Dervani and Jerrosh. “Those two hate each other, and both want to lead the greens. As if the greens can be led. Idiots and fools.”
The men were bickering, faces turning red, furious. Liv could almost make out the words from here. But she watched the Color Prince instead. From the set of his overlarge shoulders, she could tell he was furious himself, though nothing else betrayed it. He raised one hand, as the people in the camp around seemed torn between watching and not being caught watching.
The two greens stopped abruptly. The Color Prince said something else, and they both dropped to their knees, apologizing. Odd to see a green on its knees.
Its. She’d thought its knees, not his knees. Wasn’t that curious? Another remnant of my childish beliefs, that a person ceases to be a person when he breaks the halo. Our very language has been corrupted to make the murder of drafters palatable.
The Color Prince drew a pistol and shot Jerrosh Green between the eyes.
A spray of blood, atomized, drifted to the ground slower than the chunks of red-gray brain matter liberated from their bony home via lead. Jerrosh Green’s body dropped backward and tumbled down the bare rock of the promontory. The camp was suddenly silent. Pistol still smoking, the prince bound a slender choker with a black jewel on it on Dervani’s neck. He gestured for Dervani to stand.
The drafter stood and left without a word.
“Funny thing is,” Zymun said, “I still can’t tell which of those two is more brainless.”
She looked at Zymun from deep within the grip of superviolet—she hadn’t even noticed drafting it again, but now it was like a friend to her—and realized that the boy wasn’t hard and callous. At least he wasn’t only those. He was terrified. He was imagining his own brain painting the rocks.
He looked at her, and she saw in his eyes that he feared her, too. He was tiring of her, but not out of boredom or for her lack of enthusiasm under the blankets. He didn’t want an equal; he wanted to be worshipped. Zymun was far more dangerous than she had realized. She would need to be rid of him, but carefully, cleverly, so he thought it was his own idea.
“I don’t know how you do it,” she said. She dropped the superviolet. He could sometimes tell by her voice when she was drafting it. “I don’t know how you can see that and not be afraid.” The shudder she let through wasn’t wholly feigned. It also wasn’t the shudder of desire she hoped he thought it was. She turned her eyes to his and moistened her lips and said softly, “Take me back to our tent. Right now.”
Chapter 100
The big guns on the Gargantua’s top deck belched flame and smoke, the sight of hell’s bounty outracing its sound. Two jets of water, fifty paces ahead of the skimmer, announced the miss an instant before the roar of the cannon revealed it had even been fired.
One of the guns on the second deck went off next, and Gavin shouted, “Now!”
Around the skimmer, Kip saw that the Blackguards were grouped into pairs, one at the reeds and one archer. Each team’s archer had a rope in hand, and starting at the outside teams, they pulled.
Before Kip realized what was happening, the skimmer split, each team suddenly freed, one driver and one archer, the sea chariots breaking off from the skimmer smoothly and multiplying their force instantly. Two, four, six, and eight split off, leaving only Gavin and Ironfist and Kip on the now much smaller skimmer in the center.
The water behind them cratered and jetted as Kip heard the roar of the cannon again. Then it seemed the world turned to cannon fire. The Gargantua loomed larger and larger and the eight skimmers cut the waves with perfect grace, none so close to the others that a single cannon shell could hit two of them.
The seas were rough today, so Kip was glad that his father had made supports, both up behind his back so he wouldn’t tumble off the stern and also handles so he could brace himself. Kip saw that the deck of the Gargantua was actually open, contrary to what Gavin had expected, but then, even in the few seconds that Kip was watching, the great wooden screens that were the blindages were brought down by scrambling sailors. Seen in sub-red through Kip’s spectacles, the men glowed as if lit from within, still clearly visible despite the screen.
The skimmer cut hard to port and Kip barely caught himself. He didn’t see any danger, but he decided that even as he was scanning the big ship and trying to keep an eye out for more distant dangers, he should copy his father’s and Ironfist’s stance. Each man had his legs set wide and knees bent, keeping his weight low.
The great rudder of the Gargantua turned hard, and the lumbering great ship, sails full, began to turn. Along the broadside, Kip could see gunports snapping open, on at least three different levels. Not all at once, but as each crew was ready.
There were a lot of guns.
From the nearest crow’s nest, a ball of luxin the size of a cat arced out.
“Drafter! First crow’s nest!” Kip called out.
The luxin ball split in midair and ignited. It landed on the water only a dozen feet from the starboard side in a curtain of flame—and floated, flames two feet high.
The first sea chariot cut hard to port, nearly plastering itself against the Gargantua’s hull. The next must not have seen the fire in the swelling of the waves, but those same swells saved it as the swells and the Gargantua’s wake made a ramp that flung the chariot into the air and neatly over the fire.
Gavin and Ironfist cut wide around the burning slick and then cut close to the ship.
“Musketeer! Third—fourth crow’s nest!” Kip shouted. He couldn’t even yell his warnings right.
There were half a dozen men along the high castle manning swivel guns. They had to aim between the bars of the blindage, but they didn’t seem to be having much trouble. Kip threw sub-red at them, had no idea if he’d hit anything, and then hit the deck as one of the big cannons went off mere feet from his head as the skimmer pulled even to the ship. The world disappeared as cannons roared and great billowing clouds of black smoke and cordite gushed from their throats.
Seen through the sub-red lenses, the world was delineated into great flashes of exploding guns, the sharp tongues of spitting muskets, the muted bursts of the grenadoes, and the ghostly shadows of men.
Then they were out of the smoke. They immediately cut hard to port, passing in the very shadow of the beakhead. Gavin and Ironfist both hurled grenadoes into that deck overhead. Gavin’s was wrapped in red luxin, and stuck; Ironfist’s was spiked, and stuck. Twin
explosions and showers of wood and flame announced their success. None of the cannons on the port side of the Garguntua had been fired, so Kip was able to see clearly once more.
Flames sprang up on the mainsail—and were immediately extinguished in sprays of orange luxin. A few of the lines had been successfully cut, but those that had been merely set aflame were also saved.
“Brace!” Gavin shouted.
The skimmer curved to starboard to get some separation, and just as they rose out of a trough, Gavin shot a huge ball of flaming red luxin at the first crow’s nest. The drafter saw it coming and tried to blast it aside, but the ball merely shattered and drenched him and the crow’s nest in flame.
But Kip barely saw that, because the concussion of Gavin throwing something so massive just as they went airborne threw the skimmer hard to the side, and had they not hit the crest of another wave, they probably would have capsized.
Instead, they simply slowed to a crawl as Ironfist and Gavin were thrown off the reeds for a moment, and the skimmer turned the wrong way, bobbing in the waves. Kip saw two men training swivel guns on them even as a man engulfed in flames pitched out of the crow’s nest, tangling in the lines as he fell, shrieking.
Then the gunners disappeared in a wash of flame and exploding yellow light as four of the sea chariots closed around the Prism.
The port-side cannons began firing, and Kip saw one of the archers on the back of her chariot simply disappear. The blindage was afire, and Kip saw the sailors and soldiers above them struggling to throw it over the side. One of the Blackguards had painted a line of red luxin down the entire length of the Gargantua’s hull, and as the cannons roared, it lit.
Within seconds, Gavin and Ironfist had the skimmer back up to speed. Musket balls whistled past them, dimpling the water. Several of the archers were firing now at great speed. And Kip could tell that the soldiers were only beginning to make it to the deck.
