"I should go," he said. "I'll get to the bottom of it. This is my mess."

"No," she said flatly. "Now it's Karris's. I'm not sending you to Tyrea, Gavin. You're the Prism. It's bad enough that I have to send you after color wights-"

"You don't send me. You just don't stop me."

It had been their first titanic clash of wills. She refused to let a Prism endanger himself, called it madness. Gavin hadn't made any arguments at all, just refused to be stopped. She'd confined him to his apartments. He'd blown the doors off.

Eventually, she gave in, and he paid for it in other ways.

A moment passed, and she said very quietly, gently, "After all this time, Gavin, after all the wights you've killed and all the people you've saved, does it hurt any less?"

"I hear there's some talk of heresy," Gavin said brusquely. "Someone preaching the old gods again. I could go find out."

"You're not the promachos anymore, Gavin."

"It's not like any fifty of their half-trained drafters could stop-"

"What you are is the best Prism we've had in fifty, maybe a hundred years. And they might have fifty-one drafters, or five hundred at their little heretical Chromeria, so I won't hear of it. Karris will check on this woman and her son and see what she can learn as she investigates this 'King' Garadul. You can expect her return within two months. And speaking of color wights, an unusually powerful blue wight was just seen on the outskirts of the Blood Forest, heading toward Ru."

A blue wight heading toward the reddest lands in the world. Odd. And blues were usually so logical. It was a distraction, but it was a good one, and it left him almost no time to reach Karris. "By your leave, then, High Lady," he said, his good manners always partly ironical. He didn't wait for her approval before he gathered his magic and jogged toward the edge of the tower.

"Oh no you don't!" she said.

He stopped. Sighed. "What?"

"Gavin!" she scolded. "Surely you didn't forget you promised to teach today. It's a high honor for each class to meet with you. They wait months for this."

"Which class?" he asked suspiciously.

"Superviolets. There's only six of them."

"Isn't that the class with the girl always spilling out of her top? Lana? Ana?" It was one thing when women pursued Gavin, but that girl had been throwing herself at him since she was fourteen.

The White looked pained. "We have spoken with that one a few times."

"Look," Gavin said, "the tide is going out, I have to catch Karris. I'll teach that class next time you see me. No excuses, no fight."

"You give me your word?"

"I give you my word."

The White smiled like a sated cat. "You enjoy teaching more than you admit, don't you, Gavin?"

"Gah!" Gavin said. "Goodbye!"

Before she could say anything else, he sprinted for the edge of the tower and leapt into space.

Kip was staring at Isa's body. After she'd seen the soldiers kill Ram, she'd looked back at Kip. She'd been looking for safety, for protection. She'd looked at him, and she'd known he couldn't save her.

A sound and a sudden absence next to him made Kip tear his eyes away from Isa. Sanson was running toward the village. Sanson wasn't smart, but he'd always been practical. He hadn't done anything so dumb in his life. But Kip couldn't blame him. They'd never seen anyone die, either.

But there was no way the soldiers could fail to see Sanson, and now he'd die too if Kip didn't do anything.

Kip had stood around enough, doing nothing while his friends died. He didn't think. He acted. He ran-the other way.

Kip hated running. When Ram ran, it was like watching a hunting hound speed after a deer, all hard lean muscles and flowing strength. When Isa ran, it was like watching the deer flee, all easy grace and surprising speed. Kip running was like a milk cow lumbering out to pasture. Still, no one was expecting him.

He made it to Ram's body and to full speed before he heard a shout. He crashed up the bank of the river, barely slowing. Once he got his mass moving, it took a lot to stop him.

A dead tree, its trunk rising to shin level, mostly hidden in the long grasses, counted as a lot. Kip's shin cracked into wood in midstride, and he pitched forward. He skidded on his face and then flopped over like a fish. Pain blurred his vision black and red. For a second, he thought he was going to throw up, then he went lightheaded. He looked down, fully expecting bone to be jutting out of his leg. Nothing. Wimp.

Tears streamed from his eyes. His hands were bleeding again, fingernails torn. He heard the men on the bridge shouting. They'd lost him for the moment, but horsemen were coming. He wasn't fifty paces away. The grasses were only knee high. The horsemen would see him any second now, and then he'd die. Just like Isa.

He staggered to his feet, his shin afire, tears blurring the world. He hated himself. Crying because he fell down. Because he was clumsy. Because he was weak.

The horsemen gave a yell as he stood. Kip had seen King Garadul's horsemen pass through town before, but never in full battle harness. When they passed through Rekton, their harnesses were always stowed. Rekton wasn't even big enough to be worth showing off for. The two horsemen galloping toward Kip were both part of the lower cavalry. Barely able to afford their own ponies, weapons, and armor, they served only during the dry season. Amateur warriors, hoping to bring home loot and lies before the harvests. Both were dressed in mail-and-plate jackets. Lighter and cheaper than the full plate worn by the lords and King Garadul's Mirrormen, these long jackets bore six narrow rows of thin, overlapping plates down the front, with four-to-one riveted mail for the sleeves and back. Each wore a toep, a round helmet with a spike on top and vulture plumes sticking up beside them. A mail aventail draped down over the shoulders, protecting the neck and giving double-thickness mail over the upper chest. Neither carried a lance. Instead, they bore vechevorals, sickle-swords. The weapons had a long handle like an ax and a crescent-moon-shaped blade at the end, with the inward bowl-shaped side being the cutting edge. The horsemen were jostling each other for the better line, laughing, competing to see who would hack the child.

The laughter did it. It was one thing to give up and die, it was something else to let some giggling morons murder you. But there was no time. The horsemen had reached a full gallop, trampling the tender, radiant green grass the way they would trample Kip. They finally split, one switching his vechevoral to his left hand so they could cut Kip down simultaneously.

Kip lashed out, jumping, determined to at least punch one stupid grin to oblivion before he died. It was a poor jump, and far too early. But as Kip's body rose to meet the extended lances, a radiant green mass rose through him. He felt energy rush out from his body. A dozen blades of grass rose through his hand, with his punch, tearing his skin as they ripped out of him. They thickened to the width of boar spears as green light poured from him, and became blades in truth. As he threw them into the air, Kip was thrown back down to the ground. The butts of a dozen radiant jade spears thunked into the ground around him.

The horsemen barely had time to jerk on their reins before they rammed into a wall of spears. Their vechevorals went flying out of their hands as their horses were impaled, lifted off the ground by the angle of the spears, snapping those in front with the force of their impact, only to find more behind those and be impaled further. The riders were thrown from their saddles into the waiting green spears. The lighter of the two caught and was held, five feet off the ground. The heavier rider snapped off the spears and fell flat on his back beside Kip.