With a snapping pop-pop, Karris shot out two horseshoes of green luxin. One whistled harmlessly through the twisting, expanding net. But though it missed the net, the horseshoe did catch the staff-swinger in the cheek, blasting him off balance. The second horseshoe snagged the net as it passed through and whipped it back into several men, its leaden weights suddenly becoming a flail.
The horse was rearing now, screaming in pain, a hideous sound. Its entrails spurted out in a bloody, ropy mass. But Karris barely heard it, barely saw it. She saw only chaos, and chaos was her friend, chaos was her advantage when fighting these odds.
Men were falling away from her on every side. Karris flung little balls of fire at the tents nearest her, blocking her view, curse being short! Where was the man shouting orders? The tents went up in flames, but it didn't seem to faze anyone but Karris. Everyone was fleeing.
She was just beginning to get a sense of how many men were in this camp-there were dozens of tents, maybe a hundred men? Orholam, she had to get out! Then she heard a thunderous roar. The ground around her feet jumped into the air as musket balls struck and the concussion of their fire rolled over her.
She looked up and saw a wide half-circle of musketeers, at least forty of them. Half were reloading in smooth, practiced motions. Unhurried. Well trained. The other half had their muskets, still loaded, trained on Karris.
"The next volley takes your life, Karris White Oak!" a man shouted. He was lean, mounted, wearing rich garments that announced he was King Rask Garadul, if the smug expression on his face hadn't. "The sword and the luxin. Now," he said.
Karris looked at the semicircle of blasted dirt in front of her, trying to gauge the accuracy of the king's musketeers. Pretty damn good. They were only twenty paces away. It would take a miracle. King Garadul's armor was, of course, mirrored, and he had Mirrormen and drafters to his left and right. What about Corvan?
If Corvan ran as fast as she had, he might get here at any time-Karris always lost track of time once fighting started. Maybe he'd already seen what she had gotten into. Either way, not even he could do anything against these odds. He certainly couldn't save Karris from twenty musketeers with an easy shot at her.
Karris pulled off her eye caps and dropped them and threw her sword away and let the green and red dribble from her fingertips. Usually, when she let the luxin go, she felt less wild, less angry. Not this time.
"Galan?" King Garadul said, gesturing to someone behind her.
Karris was starting to turn when something heavy cracked her over the head.
Chapter 43
Kip followed Commander Ironfist up another flight of steps, which disgorged them in front of the biggest double doors Kip had ever seen. The doors were a slightly smoky glass filled with slow waves of every hue, a great lake of color.
Commander Ironfist lifted one great silver knocker and pounded it onto the door three times. It was as if he'd thrown three rocks into a pond of light. Though the door itself didn't move, the light within it cratered and threw ripples out in every direction. It took Kip's breath away. He put a hand on the door, and where his fingers touched, tiny ripples formed.
"Don't touch," Ironfist barked.
Kip pulled back his hand as if burned.
"There are a few things you need to know before you go in, Kip," Ironfist said. "First, it's all real. We lose one out of every ten supplicants."
"Lose as in…"
"They die. Second, you can make it stop whenever you want. There will be a rope put in your hand. Pull the rope, and it will ring a bell. They'll stop immediately. Third, if you quit, you're finished, you can't stay. It costs a lot of money for a satrap to maintain a drafter, and not one of them will waste money on a coward. Gavin has instructed me that should you fail, I'm to give you enough silver to buy a small farm and put you on a ship to the destination of your choice. It's better than most failures get, but you'll not be allowed to return here ever again. You're a shame enough as it is."
Apparently tact wasn't part of the test. "I'm shameful?" Kip asked, a lump rising in his throat. Gavin hadn't treated him like that.
Ironfist blinked. "The life of a drafter is hard and short. I don't have time for lies, no matter how comforting. You're a bastard. That's a common enough shame for a great man, but it's a shame nonetheless. Anyone who can do simple arithmetic will know that you were sired while the Prism was betrothed to Karris White Oak, a woman most of us hold in high regard. Prisms are held to a higher standard, so you're a greater shame than usual. Even if you're excellent in every regard, you'll be a shame. If you're a failure, it's worse. That's the truth. Dressing it up in silk and lace isn't going to change it.
"Now, fourth, they say Orholam himself watches every initiation. Failing means failing him, farmboy. Ready?
If Kip failed, he'd be put off the island. Not only would he shame the man who'd saved his life, but he would lose his only chance for retribution on the man who'd taken his mother's.
Kip wasn't going to fail. He'd die first.
Ironfist saw the look on his face. "Good."
The great doors in front of Kip rippled once more, the molten iridescent hues undulating gently and then seeming to spill left and right. It was as if something huge were surfacing from unimaginable depths. Kip's heart seized as a great face appeared, so fast he couldn't even comprehend all the details, just white hair, eyes like stars, and water of every shade bursting away from his features as he burst free-and opened his mouth, a yawning cavern of blackness that overwhelmed the doors. Kip flinched as it seemed the mouth would swallow him.
The doors burst open from within as if a giant had smashed them. A gust of air rushed over Kip.
"Enter," Ironfist commanded.
Kip walked in alone to a round chamber. The walls and floor were the same smoky-clear crystal as the door. Seven figures stood in a crescent around a black disk inlaid in the floor. Kip hesitated, and none of them moved. No one told him where to go.
The figures were robed, one for each color. The superviolet wore violet robes and sub-red wore deep red robes for the benefit of those who couldn't see into their spectra, but as Kip widened and then tightened his eyes, he saw that the sub-red was indeed radiating heat and the superviolet was clad in his color, hard pieces of superviolet luxin hooked together like rings of mail.
Still uncertain, Kip walked toward them. As he got closer, he could see beneath their hoods. His fists balled. The sub-red had blackened skin. No eyebrows. No hair. Little flame wisps escaped from its head. The green's face was gnarled as an old oak, its eyebrows like moss, hair strung with lichen. The blue looked like cut glass, features either smoothed out to planes or sharpened to jewel-like points.
Dear Orholam, were these all color wights? Then, from within his sleek goo, the orange blinked. Kip noticed the eyes. All of their eyes.
These were drafters in masks and makeup. They represented the wights of each color. Seven different varieties of death and dishonor. Kip started breathing again, though he couldn't control a little tremble. He stepped onto the black disk facing them.
"I am Anat, I am wrath," the sub-red said. "I am consumed with rage."
"I am Dagnu, I am gluttony," the red said. "I can never be filled."
"I am Molokh, I am greed," the orange said. "I can never be satisfied."
"I am Belphegor, I am sloth," the yellow said. "I withhold my talents."
"I am Atirat, I am lust," the green said. "I desire ever more."
"I am Mot, I am envy," the blue said. "I cannot bear others' good fortune."
"I am Ferrilux, I am pride," the superviolet said. "I would usurp Orholam's own throne."
They were the names of the old gods. Kip had barely even heard of them.
"These are the distortions of our nature."
"The temptations of power." The voices spoke out in turn, smoothly, overlapping, like one consciousness.