“Yellow is usually the least stable luxin. It shimmers right back into light at the least movement, like water boiling away in a moment. That’s why they call it brightwater. But do you remember when that harper played a few years ago back in Rekton, and he stopped between every song to retune his harp?”

Kip nodded. “It didn’t seem to make any difference to me.” Dangerous ground, talking about anything back home, but if he could keep her talking until he collapsed from exhaustion, he might avoid telling her the news for one more day.

Liv said, “The thing was, he could tell when his harp was even a fraction out of tune. No one else could, though. There are people who can do that with light. To make luxin of any color, you have to hit the right note within the color or the luxin won’t form. If you are only approximately on pitch, the luxin is much more likely to fail. You can cover some mistakes with more will, but you need someone really special to do work like this.”

“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.