Kip and Winsen were blasted back, and then up the line, into the air, halfway up to the mainmast. Blinded, and with lungs half-full of water, they were dropped, zipping down the line back to the deck as the wave crest passed and the prow suddenly dove, racing down the back side of the wave.
The rest of the Mighty were still crouched, clinging to the deck in a low, luxin-imbued circle like a tick burrowed into the ship’s skin.
As soon as Kip’s feet hit the deck, he was running. He threw Winsen toward the squad, not even aware of releasing the solid yellow luxin he’d drafted—solid yellow? That fast?
He leapt over the forecastle rail out onto the beakhead as the ship bottomed out between the waves, and lashed himself down with yellow luxin as the ship began its climb again.
A deep breath, and the beakhead plunged into the next wave, the waters pouring over him, scouring at him as if he were an offensive stain.
But then air. This second wave was smaller than the first had been.
Kip popped to his feet, reaching for the lens holster on his left hip. If yellow was out of balance, that meant… If the center of the spectrum was out of balance, it could be out of balance only with the ends of the spectrum. Kip’s lens holster had seven pairs of spectacles, ending at sub-red and superviolet, which balanced each other.
But there was one color beyond sub-red: Teia’s color, paryl. In legend, there was another in the opposite direction, beyond superviolet: chi. Kip had no idea how he’d draft chi. Hell, all he knew about drafting paryl was that Teia’s eyes went so wide open the black of her pupils took over the entire eye. Lashing one hand onto the line that held the foreyard to the figurehead, Kip moved forward as far as he could.
There was no third wave. A bit of luck, finally.
“Breaker! Whatever you’re going to do, do it fast!” Cruxer yelled.
The sea had gone still, again. An unnatural flatness that defied reason after the titanic waves that had just passed.
Lightning passed low over the waves to sizzle against the galley’s hull. For the first time Kip could recall, he saw fear in Cruxer’s eyes as they both realized that the next pillar of fire and light was going to spring up directly beneath the galley.
There was no way the ship or anyone in it would survive.
Kip turned to the waves. He stared straight down and widened his eyes, wider, despite the pain, despite the brightness. Into sub-red, and then beyond. It was like opening his mouth too wide, discomfort turned to pain, and the light stabbed daggers into his face.
And wider.
And wider still.
He almost gagged—and then paryl snapped into focus as if it had been waiting for him.
Paryl was racing below the waves, like clouds blowing through a storm-swept sky, and Kip’s awareness was pulled along with the gale to its center, where it swirled beneath the galley. A hard knot of paryl and something else—chi?—was forming, buzzing like the lightning-catcher atop each of the Chromeria’s seven towers. Kip could feel the charge building, building.
Oh hells.
The paryl and that other color were just touching, and slowly twisting together, like partners coming together to dance. Kip could feel the pressures massing behind each.
And they twisted together hard, spinning together, lightning crackling—
Kip flung them apart with all his will.
The seas exploded, and his paryl-wide eyes were blinded. Everything was lost in the twin roaring to his left and right, and great jets of water streaming skyward pressed in on him. He could feel the jets twining together in the sky above the ship like wire and discharging the imbalanced yellow.
The paryl and chi wanted to snap together, wanted to crush Kip in their embrace. Kip stood, hands extended, arms extended, shoulders knotted with effort, his screams lost in the cacophony. He wept in agony, tear water blending with seawater and brightwater, salt to salt, deep to deep, magic to magic.
Nothing but magic.
Kip barely dared blink, though the world was a wash of undifferentiated light stabbing him. He couldn’t lose the colors. His head lolled, chin down, arms out, shaking, exhausted, defiant. It didn’t matter where he looked with his blind eyes: the magic was everywhere. Magic was all.
And it was crushing him. It was like holding apart two rams who wanted to butt heads to show their dominance, each side lurching and twisting, ever lunging in.
Kip’s arms were stone. He dropped to his knees, still holding the paryl and chi streams apart.
His arms sagged, halfway to his sides, his will almost extinguished.
He wanted to drop dead, drop into the sea, and be no more.
But before his arms fell, he felt a presence behind him, embracing him, propping his arms up. “I’ve got you, Kip. Come on, Kip, we’re almost through!”
Kip? Everyone on the squad called him Breaker. Who…
“Help me!” Tisis shouted.
And Kip felt another pair of hands on him. “Breaker, you can do this!” Cruxer said, pulling him to his feet.
Kip was weeping. Oh, Orholam, it hurt. Stabs of pain shot through his eyes, down his spine. His arms were gelatinous. His will was dust.
“Another ten count, Breaker,” Cruxer said. “Give me just another ten.”
Mumbling through his tears, Kip counted with Cruxer.
“Captain, tell me when we’re through!” Cruxer shouted over his shoulder. “Eight, nine, and—keep going, Breaker, I know you, you’ve got five more—”
But Kip is gone.
“You’ve got five more, I know you, Andross Guile. Plans within plans,” the young woman says. Katalina’s the kind of awkward girl whose beauty has unfurled with a crack like a sail suddenly filling with wind: luminous dark skin, rare blue eyes, and a shy smile. It’s Andross’s luck that he’s the first suitor to come pluck this flower—it’s a good bit of luck, too, because he would have had to woo her regardless of her beauty or lack thereof: she has what he needs.
He waggles his eyebrows at her, and she laughs and puts another pile of scrolls on the desk. But she holds two back. “But I can’t possibly show you these two. If anyone learned, I’d lose my position here and shame my family and the entire Tiru tribe. I’m the youngest under-librarian in Paria.”
“‘If anyone learned,’ huh?” Andross smiles recklessly. “Oh, what could I possibly do to convince you of my discretion?”
She feigns a frown, and that feigned frown hits Kip like a slap in the face. He didn’t recognize the smile. He didn’t recognize those clear eyes. He didn’t recognize the beauty. But he knows that frown.
Kip gasped.
He was weeping, blind, and hands were lifting him, carrying him. “You did it! Kip, you did it! Orholam’s mercy, you saved us,” she said.
It’s not her speaking. No, it’s Tisis. Tisis was the one who’d come to him, caught him. Saved him.
He was weeping, and he was ashamed of his weeping.
“What’s wrong with his eyes? One is—and the other—”
“Cover his eyes! He’s staring at the sun, you fools!” the captain shouted.
And people were shouting orders and suggestions back and forth. Kip heard a door bang open, and he was bustled inside. His knees hit what had to be his own bed, and he sat, gentle hands guiding him.
“We should strip him out of—” a concerned woman said.
“Just let him breathe, Verity,” Tisis said.
Kip looked up, and despite that his eyes were closed and now bound with cloths, he could see three figures in the room. Three? Verity and Tisis moved about, trying to take care of him, their bodies luminous in a color beyond purple, their clothes and hair translucent wisps, any bits of metal—buckles and jewelry and hairpins—glowing bright white. He was seeing in chi.
The third figure was glassine, but in full, natural color. She smiled, her lips full, her hair a great curly halo around her head. Rea Siluz, the warrior, the librarian, the immortal somehow more real than real.