The Black Prism

Chapter 18

Karris floated the punt downstream until she rounded a corner and disappeared from sight. She didn’t think the soldiers had seen her leave, so she beached the punt on the opposite side of the river and found a hill from which she could see Gavin. She climbed the hill on her hands and knees. There were several trees and bushes and long grasses between them. Ideal. What wasn’t ideal was the distance. One hundred and twenty paces. She was a great shot, but the bow she’d brought was a simple recurve, not a longbow. Good and portable, very accurate to seventy paces. One twenty was a different question. She shuttled the mental abacus. She should be accurate within four feet, and she could shoot rapidly. If Satrap Garadul stood still, she could shoot four arrows within a few seconds, correcting for her mistakes. Good enough. At least, better than any of her other options. She scooted back from the top of the hill and strung her bow, checked the fletching and trueness of her arrows, and crawled back into position, hidden and deadly.

When Gavin and the satrap talked for a few minutes, Karris relaxed. In conversation, Gavin could tie anyone in knots except maybe the White. Though Gavin was standing amid piles of Rask Garadul’s dead, now it was probably just a matter of how much the satrap would pay Gavin for troubling him.

Making sure she could still see Gavin and that her weapons were close, Karris opened her pack. The White had told her not to read her orders until she’d left for Tyrea, so Karris had put the orders in the bottom of her pack, beneath a change of clothes, spare spectacles, cooking implements, a few flares and grenadoes—thank Orholam those hadn’t ignited when she fell during the fight, but they were worth the risk. She pulled out the folded note. As sensitive orders always were, it was made of the thinnest paper possible, the outer folds covered with scribbles so the translucent paper couldn’t simply be held up to the light to read what was within. The seal had a simple spell trigger: anyone who simply broke the seal would bring two luxin contact points together, and there would be a small but instant fire. It wasn’t foolproof, of course: any careful drafter could disarm it, or any non-drafter could simply cut around the seal, but sometimes simple precautions worked where more elaborate schemes did not.

Karris checked on Gavin. Still talking. Good.

Drafting a bit of green from the grass she was sitting on, she unhooked the trap on the seal. Gavin had told her not to believe what was on this note, which had been written by the White herself. So who was more likely to lie to her? Gavin, ten times out of ten. The thought made her sick to her stomach. No, she was getting ahead of herself. She almost put the note away—she could deal with this later.

But her orders had to do with Tyrea, maybe even with Satrap Garadul, and the satrap was standing in her sight. The orders could be to kill him—or to make sure no one else did. She had to know right now.

She opened the note. The White’s script was a little shaky, but still expressive and elegant. Karris translated the thin code automatically. “Inasmuch as purple may be the new color, we’d all be gratified to know the new fashions.” Infiltrate and ascertain the satrap’s intentions. The Seven Satrapies and the Chromeria are nervous about the new satrap and what he wants.

There was a curlicue on the last “s” to let her know the formal code was ended, but the note continued. “I also have news of a fifteen-year-old boy in a town called Rekton. His mother claims he is G’s. If you have the chance, find out. I’d love to meet them.” Gavin had a bastard in Rekton. Bring mother and son to the Chromeria.

Karris looked toward Gavin in time to see him draft a cudgel and crack it over the back of the boy’s head. It would have been either funny or alarming, except that she felt like she’d been hit the same way. She watched, dumbfounded, as Gavin threw up a luxin wall, quenched an attack, and kept talking—cool to the end.

She was so stunned, she didn’t pick up the bow, didn’t draw. This was Rekton. That boy could draft. It was too much of a coincidence. She had been the one who insisted Gavin turn the flying contraption here. She felt a chill. For them to be here now was nothing less than Orholam’s hand moving. Karris knew Orholam didn’t care about her. She wasn’t important enough. So what was this? A test for Gavin?

Fifteen years old. Son of a bitch. That child had been conceived while she and Gavin were betrothed.

Gavin picked up the boy, straining—the boy was both tall and chubby—and threw him over a shoulder. Then he walked toward the river, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. The man really was walking away from a satrap, leaving thirty of the satrap’s bodyguards dead. As always, Gavin was audacious, unstoppable, unflappable. The ordinary rules just didn’t apply to him.

Never had.

For a single, perilous moment, Karris was sixteen again, with everything she had known, everyone she had loved torn away. She’d wept that day, wept until she realized no one was going to comfort her. She’d drafted red to take comfort from its heat and fury. She’d drafted so much red it had almost killed her. Today, she didn’t even need to draft. The fury was there in a heartbeat. “Don’t believe what’s in your orders,” Gavin had said. Of course he had. The liar. The son of a bitch.

That was why the White had told her not to open her orders immediately. She’d wanted Karris to cool off before she had to face Gavin. To not cause problems.

Nice to see that the two most important people in her life were both manipulating her.

Gavin drafted a scull onto the river and set the boy down. He didn’t hurry, merely let the current take him, not so much as turning. It must have been a near thing, then. He was treating Satrap Garadul like he was a dog and eye contact might provoke him. Being treated like a dog, well, Karris knew all about that, didn’t she?

She found herself on her feet, striding back toward the river. Her spectacles had mysteriously found their perch on her nose. If Satrap Garadul weren’t just two hundred paces away, Karris thought she’d have hurled a fireball at Gavin’s head. He rounded the corner on the punt and saw the look on her face.

He blanched. And, for once, said nothing.

Karris stood on the bank of the river, trembling as he floated nearer and nearer.

Gavin didn’t ask if she’d read her orders, he could tell. “Get in,” he said. “If you have that black cloak, cover yourself. Better that they don’t get a good look at you.”

“Go to hell. I’ll make my own way,” Karris said.

He extended a hand and blasted a fist-size hole in her punt with a bullet of green luxin. “Get in!” he commanded. “King Garadul’s coming any minute.”

“King?” She drafted green luxin to cover the hole. It was petty and dumb, and curse Gavin for making her seem unreasonable. She hated him. She hated him with a passion that made all the world fade. Just let the horsemen come on her now.

“He’s rejected the Chromeria, the Prism, the Seven Satrapies, Orholam himself. He’s set himself up as a king.” Gavin swept a hand toward her punt. Hundreds of tiny fingerling missiles flew from his hand and stuck quivering in the wood along the entire length and breadth of the punt, and then they burst all at once. Woodchip shrapnel and sawdust sprayed over both of them. Gavin said, “Slap me and be done with it, but get your ass in the boat.”

He was right. Karris got in. This was not the time. She rummaged through her pack for the cloak and threw it on, pulling up the hood despite the heat. The boy was still unconscious. Gavin didn’t wait, as soon as she was in, he drafted the oars and straps. They hit the water, and the scull sped forward almost immediately. Karris looked back and wasn’t much surprised to see a dozen horsemen crest a hill, coming after them.

But it was a hopeless pursuit. The land along the river wasn’t smooth, and Gavin’s scull was fast. Gavin and Karris said nothing, not even when the scull entered a long section of rapids. Karris helped widen the platform with flexible red luxin and stiffer green, giving it a wide and high lip. Gavin drafted slick orange onto the bottom of it so when they did hit rocks, they slid right over them.

Within half an hour, they were certainly safe. Still Karris said nothing. How many times could one man hurt you this badly? She couldn’t even look at him. She was furious with herself. He’d seemed so different after the war. His breaking their betrothal had left her with nothing. She’d left for a year, and he’d seemed overjoyed when she came back. He’d respected her distance, never said anything when she had a few affairs to try to purge him from her mind. That had somehow made her more furious. But eventually, she’d been drawn back to the mystery of him, and slowly won over by this man who seemed so completely changed by the war.

How many men come back from war better?

None, apparently.

And how many women come back smarter?

Not this one.

The river was joined by another tributary and widened considerably and Karris’s place at the prow, looking out for rocks, became unnecessary. It was a beautiful day. She took off the cloak and felt the sun’s rays—Orholam’s caress, her mother had told her when she was a little girl. Right.

“They say there are bandits on this river who rob anyone who comes through,” Gavin said lightly. “So maybe we’ll find someone for you to kill.”

“I don’t want to kill someone,” Karris said quietly, not meeting his gaze.

“Oh, you had that look in your eye—”

She looked up and smiled sweetly. “Not someone. I want to kill you.”