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.

"For without mastery of ourselves, we become monsters."

"Shameful and ashamed, hiding in the darkness."

"But we are the sons and daughters of Orholam."

"We are Orholam's gift, expressions of his love."

"His law."

"His mercy."

"His truth."

"Thus we stand unashamed, clothed in his righteousness."

The sub-red stepped forward, pulled off his mask, and stepped out of his robe. He was a young man, muscular, handsome, and naked. "Casting off wrath, I am patience," the sub-red said. He lifted his hands and, even without looking into the sub-red, it was clear that he was drafting. The air shimmered with heat around his whole body. "Orholam's will be done."

The red stepped forward, pulled off her mask, and stepped out of her robe. She was young, athletic, beautiful, and also naked. Kip's eyes widened. He tried to hold them to her face.

Somber ceremony, Kip. Orholam's watching, Kip. Straight to hell, Kip.

"Casting off gluttony, I am temperance," the red said. She lifted her hands and red luxin blossomed through her entire body, eyes, face, down her neck to her breasts, nipples, firm tight stomach, breasts, nipples-Kip! In an instant, she was like a statue, every bit of her skin dyed a perfect red. "Orholam's will be done," she said.

The orange stepped forward. A man, mercifully. "Casting off greed, I am charity," he said. Lifting his hands, he turned a gleaming orange. "Orholam's will be done."

Yellow said, "Casting off sloth, I am diligence. Orholam's will be done." Her body filled with sparkling yellow light.

The green was a disconcertingly if appropriately curvaceous woman who looked Kip hard in the eye. That helped as she disrobed. He thought she might slap his head off if he looked at her generous-oops. "Casting off lust, I am self-control," she said. "Orholam's will be done."

The blue disrobed. "Casting off envy, I am kindness," she said softly. "Orholam's will be done."