Likes making people feel stupid, doesn’t she?
Kip had noticed that the distances between the colors weren’t even. Some colors were wide bands—blue stretched over a huge area, and red, too, but yellow and orange were tiny.
“Why does blue cover so much area? We might point to this”—she pointed deeper in blue—“in our humanness, and call it violet. Why can’t we draft violet? Anyone?”
No one said anything. Not even Kip.
“It’s simple, and it’s a mystery. Because luxin doesn’t resonate there. You can’t make a stable luxin from violet. It doesn’t work. Seven is the holy number. Seven points, seven colors, seven satrapies. Instead of demanding that the mystery surrender itself to the hammer blows of our intellects, we align ourselves with the mystery, and when we find perfect alignment with the piece of his creation that Orholam has given us, we draft perfectly. This is what we strive for. When you’re not exactly in the center of his will, your blue will fall to dust, your red will fade, your yellow will shimmer away to nothingness. Those points, that perfection, that alignment with Orholam himself is what we seek, every time we draft. And when we do it perfectly, we become conduits of his will. This is what makes us better than the dullards out there, the munds, the norms, the non-drafters who only absorb light rather than reflect it. This is why bichromes—those who can draft two colors—are honored more highly than those who can draft only one. Bichromes are closer to Orholam, they partake of more of his holy creation. Each color has lessons to teach us, lessons about what it is to be human, and lessons on what it is to be like Orholam.
“And this, of course, is what makes the Prism so special. He is the only man on earth to commune perfectly with Orholam. He alone sees the world as it is. He alone is pure.” She stared directly at Kip, walked toward him. “And this is why we oppose any who would taint the Holy Prism’s light, or any who would dim his glory and bring shame upon him.”
It took Kip’s breath away. She hated him because she revered his father and Kip brought shame upon him?
The worst part of it was that it made sense. It wasn’t fair. He hadn’t chosen to be a bastard, but it did make sense.
“Remember, Kip,” Magister Kadah said quietly, “you’re not untouchable now.”
What?
Ben-hadad raised his hand, rescuing Kip, and Magister Kadah called on him.
“Isn’t that a bit dogmatic?” Ben-hadad asked. “With the whole color spectrum being so wonderfully not even, not regular, not arrayed right around the seven colors, doesn’t that suggest that there’s room for ever greater understanding? I mean, what about the other resonances?”
Other resonances?
“I already said we’ll talk about sub-red and superviolet later.” The brief, ugly look that passed across her face told him that she had hate enough in her for Ben-hadad as well. Here Kip had thought he was special.
“Your pardon, Magister, but I didn’t mean those. I meant the secret colors,” Ben-hadad said.
Teia buried her face in her hands.
“Friend of Kip’s, are you?” Magister Kadah asked.
“What? No. I mean, not really.” Ben-hadad scowled as if that came out harsher than he meant. “I mean, I barely met him.”
“Uh-huh,” Magister Kadah said. “This is one of the early lectures. It’s to cover basic topics. Yes, there are other, weaker resonances. Some believe, as I do, that the use of those resonances are examples of man forcing nature to do things Orholam never intended. Some even call those who use the unnatural colors heretics.”
Kip couldn’t help but glance at Teia. She was pale, but her jaw was set.
Magister Kadah said, “The seven colors are in Orholam’s will. The seven are strong. This we know. If you want to have fifth-year debates, you can wait until fifth year.”
Chapter 25
Kip caught up to Teia on the way to Blackguard practice. “What was that all about?” he asked.
She didn’t answer immediately. Didn’t look at him.
They came to the lift and had to wait, and Kip thought she wasn’t going to answer him, that he’d somehow been rude without knowing it. He would have started up a conversation about something else, but he couldn’t think of anything to say.
“You know how you’re a superchromat?” she said quietly.
“Freak,” he said. Though other than making him different, as far as he knew, it was a pure advantage, with no drawbacks. “And how did you know?” She wasn’t in his engineering class.
“Everyone knows everything about everyone here, Kip, especially about the new kids, especially when the new kid has a grandfather who’s a Color… or a father who’s the Prism.”
Oh.
“Anyway,” she said, setting her scarf on her head to pull back her hair, but still not making eye contact. “I’m a subchromat. Color-blind. It happens as rarely for girls as superchromacy does for boys, so I’m as much of a freak as you, but you’re a freak in a good way.”
“But, but, how’s that work?”
“Reds and greens look the same to me. Sometimes, I try really hard and convince myself I can tell the difference. But I can’t.” She flushed, as if she hadn’t meant to say so much. “Our lift.” She gestured.
“But what’s that got to do with the secret colors?”
“Nothing.”
“And what are the secret colors?”
She stared hard at him. “Our lift, Kip.”
“Do you draft one of the—”
“Kip!”
They got on the lift. An older student took care of counterweights. They didn’t let first-year students operate the lift. Too many fatalities, they said.
Not reassuring.
“So, while we’re trying to join the Blackguard, what is everyone else doing?” Kip asked.
“Work,” Teia said. “And after we’re done, there’s practicum until dinner. Then another work period every other day of the week. On alternating days, they assign readings. Color theory, mechanics, drawing, religion, arithmetic, hagiographies, politics, lives of the satraps, that sort of thing. It’s a lot of work to maintain the Chromeria, and they say it’s good for us to know what all of that work is, so that when we take over one day, we know it all.”
“What other kinds of work are there?”
“For dims? Mostly cleaning. Every floor, every window, every study mirror. If you’re unlucky or being punished, you get latrines or stables or kitchens. If the older students are busy, we help in the jobs that take more skill or are more physically demanding: lifting the counterweights and the water, manning the great mirrors, carrying magisters’ books back to the libraries. Later still, students who are rich or have good sponsorships are able to bring slaves to do their work for them. Or hire servants or poor students.”
Like you, Kip realized. But not like me, not anymore. A Guile would definitely go into the rich category.
“You should have some sponsors coming around soon, Kip. Just make sure you don’t sell out cheap. They’ll act like they’re your friend, but at the end of the day, they don’t care about you. They’re just scouts, and they get paid out of the difference between what the sponsor is willing to pay and what the drafter is willing to take.”