"Does this have something to do with superchromats?" Kip asked. He felt like he was finally starting to put together some pieces.

"Yes." She seemed surprised that he'd heard of that. "You're not really going to stand out there all night, are you?"

"Oh." Kip followed her into the tower.

"Superchromats can see finer gradations in colors than most people."

"Are you one?" Kip asked.

"Mmm-hmm. About half of all women are."

"But not that many men."

"There are only ten male superchromats in the entire Chromeria."

Ah, thus Mistress Hag calling Kip a freak. "That doesn't seem fair," Kip said.

"What does fair have to do with it? Because you're blue-eyed you'll be able to draft more than I can. It's not a matter of fair."

Kip frowned. "So you've got to be a superchromat to make yellow stay?"

"Short answer? Yes. In truth, even superchromacy has degrees to it. You took that superchromacy test and there were maybe a hundred blocks with fine gradations? Imagine there were a thousand blocks, with the gradations of color that much finer. To make solid yellow that will stay, you'd have to pass that test-and then have the control to draft yellow in that tight, tight spectrum. The result, though, is the strongest of any luxin."

"Can you do it?" Kip asked.

"No."

"Uh, that was probably a rude question, huh?" Kip asked, wrinkling his face.

"I'm the last person here who's going to hold the minutiae of tower etiquette against you."

"Which is a yes."

"Yes," she said, smiling. Why were dimples so beautiful, anyway? "I still can't believe you're the Prism's… nephew, Kip."

"You're not the only one," Kip said. So Gavin had been right. They all did pause before they said nephew. He guessed it should have felt better than hearing that he was a bastard all the time. It didn't.

They got on another lift and went down. Apparently there was some sort of order of precedence for who got what rooms. When they got into Liv's room, Kip was surprised. It was not only large, but it was a suite of rooms-and facing the sunset. This had to be the kind of room most drafters would kill for.

"I just moved here," Liv said apologetically. "I'm a bichrome. Barely. I'm sure you're exhausted. You can sleep in my bed."

Kip looked at her, flabbergasted, sure that she wasn't saying what he thought she was saying, trying not to let his expression say anything at all.

"I'll sleep in the next room, silly. These new carpets are so thick I can sleep on them like a Parian."

Kip swallowed. "No, I didn't think you were-I mean, I was just-um, I was thinking I shouldn't take your bed. I should sleep in the next room."

"You're my guest, and you've got to be exhausted. I insist."

"I'm, uh, I don't want to get your bed all dirty. I'm sweaty and gross. From the testing." Kip was looking at her bed. It was beautiful. Everything here was beautiful. At least they'd been treating her well.

"The Thresher does that to people. I'll get you a basin and you can sponge off a little before you pass out, but really, I insist."

Liv disappeared into the next room. Kip felt a lump growing in his throat. He hadn't said anything so far about her father, but he could practically feel the subject growing between them. Liv came back in the room with steaming hot water, a sponge, and a thick towel. She set them down and then sat in a chair, facing away from Kip.

"You don't mind if I sit here and chat while you wash, do you?" she asked. "I won't turn around, swear."

"Uh." Of course he minded. She'd turn around when he was half naked and run screaming from the room, for Orholam's sake. It was one thing for someone to know you were rotund, but it was something else entirely for them to see your fat rolls. At the same time, he was her guest and she hadn't asked anything else of him. And he'd been rude.

"So, Kip… how's my father? You haven't said anything about home."

For a long moment, Kip couldn't say anything. Just start talking, Kip. Once you start, you'll be able to tell her everything.

"You're sighing," Liv said. "Is something wrong?"

"You know how the satrap would send messengers to Rekton every year asking for levies?"

"Yes?" Liv said her voice rising more with concern than asking a question.

"You can turn around, I'm not naked."

She turned.

"When Satrap Garadul's son Rask took power, he declared himself king. He sent another messenger. The town sent that one away empty-handed too, so he decided to make an example of us." Kip heaved a deep breath. "They killed everyone, Liv. I'm the only one who got away."

"My father? What about my father?"

"He was trying to save people. But Liv, they completely surrounded the town. No one got out."

"You got out." She didn't believe him; he could see it on her face.

"I was lucky."

"My father is one of the most talented drafters of his generation. Don't tell me that you made it out and he didn't."

"They had drafters and Mirrormen, Liv. I watched the Delclara family get run down. All of them. The whole town was on fire. I watched Ram and Isa and Sanson die. I watched my mother die."

"I don't care about your drug-addled mother. I'm talking about my father! Don't you tell me he's dead. He's not, damn you. He's not!"

Liv left the room in a whirlwind and slammed the door behind her.

Kip stared at the door, his shoulders slumped, tears that he didn't even understand in his eyes.

Well, that went well.

Chapter 47

Seven years, seven great purposes, Gavin.

Gavin held his right hand out and counted up from his thumb, drafting each color in turn: thumb to pinky, to ring finger, to middle finger, to index finger, back to middle, to ring, to pinky. A seven count, each color in turn, from sub-red to superviolet, feeling the little thread of emotion from each.

For Orholam's sake, I'm the Prism. I am the whole man. Master of all colors. In my prime. Stronger than any Prism in living memory. Maybe the strongest for hundreds of years. Most Prisms only lived seven years after their ascension. Only four had made it to twenty-one years. Always in multiples of seven-of course, they could be killed or die of natural causes too, but none burned out except on the multiple years. Gavin had made it to sixteen, so he had at least five years left. In fact, if any Prism could make it past twenty-one years, he would be the one to do it. He felt strong. He felt stronger and more in control of his colors than he had in his whole life.

Of course, it could all be an illusion. He'd been exceptional in other ways; perhaps he'd pitch over and die tomorrow.

He felt that familiar tightness in his chest again at the thought. He wasn't afraid of death, but he was afraid of dying before he accomplished his purposes.

He stood outside his father's apartments in the Prism's Tower. His father's slave-Gavin knew the man's name was Grinwoody, though it was rude to use a slave's name if they didn't reveal it to you themselves-was waiting, holding the door open. It was a door into darkness of more than one kind. There was sharp pain in Gavin's chest. It was hard to breathe.

Andross Guile didn't know Gavin wasn't Gavin. He didn't know his elder son was rotting under the Chromeria. He thought Dazen was dead, and he'd never seemed concerned about it, much less sorry. Traitors were to be dismissed and never spoken of.

"Lord Prism?" the slave asked.

Gavin shook the last tendrils of luxin from his fingers, the waft of resinous smells a small comfort.

Andross Guile's room was kept completely dark. Thick velvet drapes had been hung over the windows, then the whole wall hung with more of the same in layers. An entry chamber had been erected around the entrance so that light from the hallway wouldn't come in with his few visitors. Gavin drew in superviolet light and then stepped into the entry.