As he sat, Gavin smiled at the hairy caterpillar perched on her brow. Jia beamed.

The others came in together, chatting. They were friendly, but tense. Delara Orange, the red/orange bichrome whose bosom was so large it ought to have had its own vote, looked drawn, grim, older than Gavin had ever seen her. She represented Atash: her country had been invaded by the Color Prince, and doubtless she would advocate war. Doubtless, she had been advocating war since she’d first heard of the invasion.

The Sub-red was Arys of the Greenveils. She was perhaps eight months pregnant now, serially pregnant always. In her, the passions of sub-red were wedded to a cultural imperative for drafters to breed so as to replace the dead for the once-interminable wars between Blood Forest and Ruthgar. She was, Gavin thought, perhaps thirty-five, and she had twelve children. Not a one, if rumor was correct, by the same father. She had a curtain of straight red-red hair, freckles, and blue eyes sparkling with the crystalline detritus that marked a longtime sub-red. She had perhaps two years left. Her thirteen—or by then probably fourteen—children would grow up honored in Blood Forest. They would also grow up without a mother.

“Where’s Lunna Green?” Gavin asked Klytos.

Klytos blanched. “I’m so sorry, Lord Prism…”

Lunna, despite being Ruthgari, was Gavin’s. He’d carefully built up enough credits with her that if he called them all in, she would do almost anything for him.

“What?” Gavin asked. Oh no.

“She had a stroke. She died.”

“She wasn’t even forty-five,” Gavin said.

“I’m so sorry, Lord Prism. She was right at the verge of breaking the halo for some time, and…” Klytos lowered his voice. “There were rumors she wasn’t going to take the Freeing. You understand?”

That she was trying to become a green wight, and she’d failed. No, she wouldn’t. Would she?

But that was the thing about facing death and insanity, wasn’t it? You never knew what a person would do. Gavin had seen all sorts over the years.

This was a disaster. A declaration of war required a simple majority. Eight votes were possible—one for each Color, and one for the Prism. In case of ties, the White got a vote. Gavin’s count had included Delara Orange, who was Atashian and would definitely vote for war, and Arys Greenveil, whose Blood Forest was directly on the warpath and who wasn’t averse to war regardless. His own vote, with Lunna’s, would bring it to four. That would kick it up to the White, who he thought would vote for it. She wasn’t a fool.

But without Lunna, Gavin would have to sway Jia Tolver or Sadah Superviolet. Jia voted with him often, but the Aborneans had no stake in a war, and wouldn’t mind seeing Atash burn for a while as they pretended that their reluctance to help put out the flames was born of pure, high-minded pacifism. Sadah Superviolet was even harder to judge. Paria was also far away from the fighting, and wouldn’t want to send its young men or its wealth—but Sadah would do what was right. He hoped.

Gavin would have to move fast if he was going to have a chance.

Perhaps the new Green would be amenable. If she or he wasn’t, Gavin could structure the vote. His father would have already sent in his vote on war as a no, but if Gavin was tricky and quick, he could make there be votes on issues that the Red hadn’t sent his vote down for. By not calling a straight up-or-down vote on declaring war, Gavin might be able to outmaneuver the old spider. Difficult, but possible. He would turn the old man’s proud disregard for the Spectrum on its head.

For all the satisfaction you get out of despising us, father, there are costs.

Lunna Green, though? She wouldn’t have gone wight, would she?

But if she hadn’t… Dear Orholam, the murder of a Color? Surely the Order wasn’t that good.

This wasn’t the right way to do this. He knew that. He wasn’t prepared for this meeting. Not that it was his fault—they’d called for an emergency session weeks ago, to be held as soon as he got back. So he couldn’t wait, couldn’t put it off. The longer he spent with these people, the more opportunities they had to notice that something was wrong with him. His eyes had still looked prismatic when he’d only lost blue—he’d asked Corvan. But then, his eyes’ natural color was blue. Now that he’d lost green, wouldn’t his eyes start changing color?

This was all madness and stumbling in the dark.

There was conversation from the hall and, wearing a luxurious green silk cloak, in came none other than Tisis Malargos, the astoundingly beautiful young green who’d sabotaged Kip’s test. The woman who hated Gavin, because her family had reason to hate the real Gavin. The woman whose father had been murdered on Felia Guile’s orders, because he could have exposed that Gavin wasn’t really Gavin.

She laughed at something her interlocutor said outside, then shot a look at the Prism. Hazel eyes, heart-shaped face, pale skin, the preciously rare blonde hair, generous curves. An exotic beauty who hated him for nothing he had actually done. Perfect. Very, very young to be on the Spectrum, though. How had that—

And then her interlocutor stepped into view, wearing large blacked-out spectacles under a crimson hood, and robes the color of blood.

“Father,” Gavin said, his heart icing over. “What a surprise.”

Chapter 75

Trainer Fisk was running the scrubs through takedown drills when Karris White Oak came in. Teia immediately took notice. For one thing, she wasn’t very good at the throws they were practicing—it was one area where her lack of body weight made things much more difficult for her. She could still throw a boy who weighed twice as much as she did, but she had to get the leverage perfect. Getting things perfect seemed beyond her right now.

Second, Karris was her hero. Everyone respected Karris. She was known to be one of the best fighters in the entire Blackguard. Fast and tough, mentally and physically and magically. Smart, confident, and beautiful on top of it all. She was everything Teia hoped to be, even if some of those last things were out of reach.

Third, learning that Kip was a full-spectrum polychrome had kind of frightened her. And it had scared Kip, too. Attending Blackguard training? That was normal. She could handle that.

“Watch Captain White Oak, it’s an honor to have you come,” Trainer Fisk said.

“I wish I could visit more often. I hear this is a very talented class.”

She had? They were? Everyone perked up at that, even Kip.

“I wonder,” Trainer Fisk said. “Would you be willing to show us a quick takedown? Some of the girls have been very quietly grumbling that these drills are too hard because they don’t have the body weight.”

“Really?” Karris said. “Very quietly, I might imagine. Or at least I hope.” She arched an eyebrow at one of the girls, who withered. “I’d be happy to. Who’s the best fighter in the class?”

“Cruxer,” someone said. The rest of them mumbled agreement.

“Cruxer, defend yourself,” Karris said.

She walked toward him and he got in a ready stance, one foot forward, hands lightly balled and held up. She snapped an attack, a knifehand, right at his eyes. His hands shot up to block, palms out.

Then his hands and hers entwined, and Cruxer dropped to his knees as fast as he could, yelping. He had barely touched them to the dirt before she was moving in, sweeping him off his knees to the ground, rolled over, facedown, one of his hands still clasped in hers, her knee on his neck.