As the six girls took their places-there were no boys in the class-the Prism saw them. He pulled himself away from the edge of the tower and walked to the head of the class. As when they sat in their normal class-though mercifully the days of solid book learning were mostly past-Liv took the second row, her Poor joining her friend Vena's Oblivious Artist and Arana's Plain Merchant's Daughter. The girls who somehow embodied beautiful, rich, connected, noble, preening, and gifted into only three bodies took the front row, as they always demanded. Magister Goldthorn, barely three years older than her disciples, did everything those girls wanted.
Gavin Guile came to stand in front of the class. "Hail, disciples," he said. It was the traditional teachers' greeting.
"Hail, Magister," they said in unison, answering without thinking about whether they actually should address him by some other title. He was the Prism, after all.
"Good," he said, giving a lopsided grin. Orholam, he was cute. "Today, I am only a magister. And you are only glims."
"Gleams," Liv corrected without thinking.
She shrank into her chair as Magister Goldthorn hissed and all the girls turned disbelieving stares at her. Correcting the Prism! He could say up was down and everyone should nod and smile. But he didn't look upset. He just stared at Liv for a long moment with those unsettling prismatic eyes.
"Ah, yes," he said. "Well, since you are advanced students, I suppose you have questions for me? What's your name?"
"Me?" Liv asked. Of course he meant me, he's looking right at me. "Um, Liv."
"Umliv?"
She blushed harder. "Aliviana. Liv. Liv Danavis." Had she added that last part hoping he would notice? Wouldn't she have just said Liv otherwise? Was she trying ingratiate herself, just as her Ruthgari masters wanted?
"Well done," Beautiful whispered from the front row. "Only took you three tries."
"Related to General Danavis?"
Liv swallowed. "Yes, sir. He's my father." Committed now. Well done, Liv.
"He was a good man." He said it as if he genuinely respected the man who'd been responsible for so many of his own men's deaths.
"He was a rebel." She couldn't keep the bitterness out of her voice. Bitterness that her father had lost everything in the war, including her mother. Bitterness that she was always going to be different. Bitterness that her father never spoke of the False Prism's War, never even tried to justify fighting for the wrong side.
"And not many of the rebels were good men, making your father even more remarkable. Do you have a question, Aliviana?"
All the students were supposed to have prepared questions, but Beautiful, Rich, and Connected in the front row usually dominated any time the class had with important drafters, so Liv hadn't expected to get the chance to ask hers. She hesitated.
"I have a question," Beautiful said. Her real name was Ana, and she leaned forward eagerly, crossing her arms under her breasts. It was reasonably warm on top of the Chromeria, but Ana had to be cold, considering how little of her body that dress covered. The combination of Ana's frustratingly effortless natural beauty, short skirts, and deep cleavage was rarely lost on male magisters.
"Wait, I do have a question," Liv said. She'd already brought up that she was Corvan Danavis's daughter. The only way she could be more interesting to him-and make him suspect more that she was a spy-was by volunteering that she was from Rekton and knew Kip.
And the only way out was to go much, much further. Dear Orholam, please…
"Yes, Liv," Gavin said. But he didn't look at her. Face expressionless, he was staring hard at Ana. He glanced down at her propped-up cleavage then back to her eyes and shook his head just a fraction. Yes, I see. No, I'm not amused.
Ana blanched. Her eyes dropped, she sat up and shifted in her chair to pull her skirt down. Thank Orholam Liv was in the back row, because she couldn't suppress her grin, despite everything.
"Liv?" Gavin asked, turning those prismatic eyes on her. Entrancing.
She cleared her throat. "I was wondering if you could talk to us about uses of yellow/superviolet bichromacy."
"Why?" Gavin asked.
Liv froze. Her prayer was answered. A chance.
Magister Goldthorn interjected. "How about we talk about superviolet/blue bichromacy instead? It's far more common. Three of my disciples are bichromes. Ana here is nearly a polychrome."
Gavin ignored her.
Liv hadn't thought this moment would ever come. She'd been trapped so long in this class, with these girls. In one more year, she'd be finished. In fact, she'd mastered enough drafting that she could take the final examination right now and pass easily. She hadn't because there was nothing good waiting for her when she finished. A terrible position decoding official, non-secret communications for the Ruthgari noble who held her contract. She wouldn't even be trusted with secret communications. No matter that she'd been a babe in arms during the war and felt no loyalty to the rebels, she was Tyrean. It was enough to curse her in the Chromeria's eyes.
Each of the Seven Satrapies was responsible for the tuition of its own students. It was an investment every satrapy gladly made because drafters were so vital to every part of their economies, their armies, their construction, their communications, their agriculture. But Tyrea had nothing. The corrupt foreign governors of Garriston sent a pittance every year. Those students who came from Tyrea mostly had to pay their own way. The Danavises' wealth had been stolen during the war, so Liv had needed to pledge her services to a Ruthgari patron just to stay at the Chromeria.
If Liv were from any other satrapy, her ambassador would have forced her patron to pay for bichrome training for her or surrender her contract. But there was no Tyrean ambassador anymore. There was an official bursar's purse for "hardship" cases like hers, but it had long ago become a slush fund for bureaucrats to reward their favorites. Tyrea had no voice, no place.
"Liv asked because she's a yellow/superviolet bichrome," Vena said.
Gavin turned and looked at her. Vena was an artist and dressed like one. Boyishly short hair, artfully disheveled, lots of jewelry, and clothing she'd tailored for herself. Half the time you couldn't even tell what country's style she was borrowing from, if any. But despite not being pretty, she was always striking and-in Liv's opinion anyway-looked great. Today, Vena wore a flowing dress of her own invention, with silver embroidery at the hem reminiscent of the Tree People's zoomorphic designs. The designs in the visible spectrum were echoed cleverly in the superviolet.
"What a marvelous young woman you are," Gavin said to Vena. "And a good friend. I love your dress." As Vena blushed crimson, Gavin turned to Liv. "Is this true?"
"No, it's not," Magister Goldthorn said. "Liv's Threshing was inconclusive, and since then she's shown no further abilities."
Liv pulled out the broken yellow spectacles-really only a monocle-that she'd bought secretly two years before. She held it up, squinted through one eye, and stared at the white stone of the Prism's Tower. In a moment, yellow luxin filled her cupped hands.
It sloshed like water. Yellow luxin's natural state was liquid. It was the most unstable of any luxin, not just sensitive to light but also to motion. At its best, it could be used mainly for two things: if held with will in liquid form, it made great torches. Or, in a thin, sealed sheet, it would slowly feed light to other luxins, keeping them fresh the same way that lanolin and beeswax rejuvenated leather.
Liv threw the cupped liquid aside. It didn't even make it to the ground, instead flashboiling in midair into pure yellow light.
Magister Goldthorn spluttered, "This is outrageous! You are forbidden to draft-"
"You are forbidden," Gavin interrupted her, "to squander the gifts Orholam has given you. You're Tyrean, Aliviana?"
Magister Goldthorn stopped cold. One did not interrupt the Prism himself, not twice.
"Yes," Liv said. "Little town not far from Sundered Rock, actually. Rekton."