For a long, stupid moment, Kip had no idea what had happened. He heard a shout from the bridge: "Drafter! Green drafter!" He looked at his hands. Radiant green was slowly leaking from his bloody fingertips-the exact shade of the grass, and the spears. There were cuts at his knuckles, wrists, and under his nails, like something had ripped the skin on its way out. A scent like resin and cedar filled the air.

Kip felt woozy. Someone was cursing in a low, desperate voice. He turned.

It was the soldier, bleeding on the ground near him. Kip had no idea how the man was still alive. There were four spears through his body, but they were disappearing now, bowing under their own weight, shimmering as if on some tiny level they were boiling away into nothingness. The soldier sucked in a breath. The movement made the two spears through his chest shift. The soldier whimpered and cursed, and slowly the spears disappeared, leaving only chalky green grit to mix with his blood. Despite the mail hanging askew across the man's face, Kip could see the gleam of his dark eyes, shining with tears.

For a few moments, Kip had felt connected. The green was unity, growth, wildness, wholeness. But as it slipped from his fingers, the great spears bowing like wilting flowers, he felt alone once more. Scared. The smaller rider who'd been held off the ground was released with a thump and the clanging of mail as he hit the ground. The spears shimmered, dissipated, and blew apart like heavy dust.

Kip heard weeping. It was the bigger rider, still cursing. The man drew in a great breath and abruptly coughed, spitting blood all through the mail over his face. He turned over onto his stomach, and more blood poured out of his broken toep.

Kip turned away. He looked toward the bridge. The king's soldiers were gone. Kip could only guess that they had assumed that some trained drafter had shown up to rescue him. Maybe they would wait until dark to come after him, or maybe they had their own drafter back at camp. Either way, Kip had to run, fast.

He turned on wobbly legs, fingers stinging, his brain thick with grief and exhaustion, and stumbled toward the orange grove.

Gavin Guile plunged past classrooms and barracks and knew that not a few people would rush to the windows to see what came next. In fact, this was the first day of drafting classes for the dims, so he was probably about to be a perfect illustration of one of the primary lessons every magister taught.

The magister would light a candle and instruct the students to comment on what was happening. This always gave the magisters plenty of opportunities to abuse the bewildered children, who would invariably say, "It's burning." "But what do you mean by this word, 'burning'?" "Uh, it's burning?" The eventual point was that every fire began on something tangible and left almost nothing tangible. When a candle burned, where did all the tallow go? Into power-power we experience as light and heat, with some residue-whether much or little depended on how efficiently the candle burned.

Magic was the converse. It began with power-light or heat-and its expression was always physical. You made luxin. You could touch it, hold it-or be held by it.

Halfway down, Gavin drafted a blue bonnet and a harness from the cold blue of the sky with some green added for flexibility. It unfurled with a pop and slowed his fall. When he was a few paces from the ground, he threw down blastwaves of sub-red that slowed him enough that he could land lightly in the street. The bonnet dissolved into blue dust and green grit and a smell like resin, chalk, and cedar. He strode toward the docks.

He found her within minutes, just arriving at the docks herself, a bag slung over her shoulder. She'd changed from her Blackguard uniform, but was still wearing pants. Karris only wore a dress once a year, for the Luxlords' Ball, where it was required. She'd also somehow dyed her hair almost black so as not to stand out so much in Tyrea.

Of course, it was impossible not to stand out with those eyes, like an emerald sky adorned with ruby stars. Karris was a green/red bichrome-almost a polychrome. It was an "almost" she'd hated all her life. Her red arc extended into the sub-red so far that she could draft fire, but she couldn't draft stable sub-red luxin. She'd failed the examination. Twice. It didn't matter that she could draft more sub-red than most sub-red drafters, or that she was the fastest drafter Gavin had ever seen. She wasn't a polychrome.

But on the other hand, polychromes were too valuable to be allowed to join the Blackguard.

"Karris!" Gavin called out, jogging to catch up with her.

She stopped and waited for him, a quizzical look on her face. "Lord Prism," she said in greeting, ever proper in public-and still, evidently, not having read the note.

He fell in step beside her. "So," he said. "Tyrea."

"The armpit of the Seven Satrapies itself," she said.

Five years, five great purposes, Gavin. He'd given himself purposes since he'd first become Prism as a focus and distraction. Seven goals for each seven-year stint. And the first was-the first had always been-to tell Karris the whole truth. A truth that might ruin everything. What I did. Why. And why I broke our betrothal fifteen years ago.

And you can rot in that blue hell forever for that, brother.

"Important mission," he said.

She shrugged. "How come the important missions never take me to Ruthgar or the Blood Forest?"

He chuckled. Ruthgar was the most civilized and prosperous nation in the Seven Satrapies, and of course, as a green drafter, Karris would feel a strong fondness for the Verdant Plains. Alternately, the Blood Forest was where her people were from, and she hadn't walked among the redwoods since she was young. "Why don't you make it a quick trip, then? I can scull you there."

"To Tyrea? It's on the opposite side of the sea!"

"It's on my way to a color wight I've got to deal with." And I may not have many more chances to be near you.

She scowled. "Seems like there've been a lot of wights recently."

"It always seems like there've been a lot recently. Remember last summer, when there were six in six days, and then none for three months?"

"I guess so. What kind?" she asked. Like most drafters, she felt a special outrage when a wight had come from her own color.

"A blue."

"Ah. So I'm guessing you'll be right on your way." Karris knew about Gavin's special hatred for blue wights. "Wait, you're hunting a blue wight… in Tyrea?" she asked, turning to look at him with her haunting green eyes with red flecks.

"Outside Ru, actually." He cleared his throat.

She laughed. At thirty-two, she had the faintest lines on her face-more frown lines than smile lines, sadly, but she still had the same dimples. It just wasn't fair. After years of knowing her, a woman's beauty shouldn't be able to reach straight into a man's chest and squeeze the breath out of him. Especially not when he could never have her. "Tyrea's a thousand leagues from Ru!"

"Couple hundred at most. If you stop wasting daylight arguing with me, I might be able to get you there before nightfall."

"Gavin, that's impossible. Even for you. And even if it were possible, I couldn't ask you-"

"You didn't. I volunteered. Now tell me, would you really prefer to spend two weeks on a corvette? It's clear today, but you know how those storms come up. I heard the last time you sailed, you got so green you could draft off your own skin."

"Gavin…"

"Important mission, isn't it?" he asked.

"The White's going to kill you for this. She's got an ulcer named after you, you know. Literally."

"I'm the Prism. There's got to be some advantages. And I like sculling."