“I’m sorry, but, the old gods? Like Atirat and Anat and Dagnu?”

Again, a flash of irritation, and Liv felt stupid. But he spoke with kindness. “You know how you feel when you draft superviolet?”

“Of course. Alien, separated from emotion, and honestly a little proud of how clearly I see things.”

“That isn’t you,” Zymun said.

“I’m not a terribly conceited person, I’ll agree,” Liv said. But you don’t know me, so how would you know?

“I don’t mean that isn’t the ‘real you.’ I mean, that isn’t you.”

“Pardon?”

“Those aren’t your feelings. Those aren’t your perceptions. Indeed, those aren’t your abilities. Ferrilux is invisible. He is behind many of man’s greatest achievements, but he doesn’t think much of most men. He is distant and disdainful, and he has chosen to share his powers with you.”

The idea seemed repugnant to Liv. “There’s an invisible man helping me draft? This is what the Color Prince believes? My drafting’s mine.”

Zymun’s voice was cold, affect flat. “So you chose your colors? Superviolet, for an outsider, for the Tyrean girl who could never be part of the Chromeria, but who secretly despised the girls who would never let her join their petty circles. Yellow, for a clear thinker who couldn’t decide whether or not to engage with all she saw around her. Hmm, sounds very, what’s the word? Serendipitous.”

“You’re talking like a tenpenny soothsayer. If I’d been a sub-red, you’d say, oh, sub-red, for the girl so furious at being made an outsider. Or blue, oh, you envied the girls who did belong. Garbage.” Liv folded her hands, took a breath, and squeezed her fingers against each other. “I mean… your pardon, my lord, but I’m not convinced. I know the Chromeria taught lies, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to accept the first counterargument that comes along.”

Zymun didn’t seem to take it personally. “You’re cute when you’re mad. And when you do that with your arms, it shows off your bosom nicely.”

Liv looked down and dropped her clenched hands like she’d been burned. “Excuse me?!” She stopped walking and he stopped, too, facing her. She almost slapped his silly face. “That is the most inappropriate thing anyone has ever said to me. And I expect your apology right this instant!”

“Inappropriate? Why? Who says? You’re beautiful. I told you so. Who gets to decide that I can’t tell you what I think? I’d tell you, but you’re smart enough to already know. You’ve joined the Free, Aliviana. We decide for ourselves, and there’s power in that. The Chromeria wants you to be modest. Why? If Orholam existed, why would he care how tight your dress is or who comes to your bed? Should have bigger problems to tackle, you’d think, wouldn’t you?”

“Well…” But Liv didn’t have anything to follow that monosyllable.

“The Chromeria teaches you to hate the very things about yourself that make you strong. You’re beautiful. Use that. Use it however you wish. Don’t you see? You choose. Now, you could choose to become a prostitute—no, don’t take offense, dammit, it’s a hypothetical! You could do very well, no doubt, and it wouldn’t be wrong because Orholam says it’s wrong: it’s not wrong at all. It’s just stupid. It’s a poor use of all your gifts, and it limits your other choices, at least until the world changes. So it’s a bad choice, but not a wrong one. That’s how we draft, too. Some people break the halo before they’re ready, choosing to share their body permanently before they can survive the union with their minds intact. They use their choice in a way that takes away their choice, like choosing suicide. It’s a stupid action and it demeans them as moral agents. What we have here—the Free—what we offer, is a free-for-all. But it’s not chaos. Free choices, freely made, but still with consequences. You choose to join the army, you have to obey orders until your time of service is ended. This is a harder world than what you left, Liv. Freedom is hard. If you don’t want me to compliment you because someone told you that you shouldn’t be proud of your beautiful curves, your full lips, your radiant skin, the graceful lines of your neck, your bright eyes, that’s ridiculous. To hell with them. If you don’t want to bed me because you don’t like me, that’s altogether different.” He was terribly smart, wasn’t he? And supremely willful. Powerful.

She pushed down a sudden surge of admiration, and a deep and silly pleasure at his outrageous flattery. She’d never been called beautiful at the Chromeria. Tyreans couldn’t be beautiful, couldn’t be fashionable, not after the False Prism’s War. “You’re used to getting your way, aren’t you?” she asked.

“Hazard of being handsome and brilliant.”

She sniffed. “So is getting punched in the nose.”

He raised his hands and stepped back. “I didn’t say I was brave, too.” He offered her his arm, and she took it, not able to stop a grin from sneaking through her defenses. “Mm. Oh, just thought of something. Who was the Color Prince? Before he got burned?”

“Koios White Oak. Why?”

“Just curious.” Karris’s brother?

“No secret. What you were is less important to us than what you are, and what you will become. Now, you get to work on drafting. You have a lot to unlearn, and more to learn.”

“I’m still not going to bed with you,” she said.

“We’ll work on that,” he said with a wink and a big grin.

And with that, Liv’s education began.

Chapter 39

When Kip shuffled out of the library at midnight, Ironfist was waiting for him at the lift. The huge commander said nothing, but gestured to him.

Kip was instantly alert. Hungry, but alert. He was surprised to see that Adrasteia was with the commander. They stepped into the lift together, and Commander Ironfist pushed a key into a lock, and took them to a lower level in the Chromeria than Kip had ever been to. He looked at Teia. She looked back, shrugged.

The commander poked his head into a dark hallway. He walked through the darkness. Kip opened his eyes wide, wider, to the sub-red spectrum. Ironfist radiated enough heat, his whole body gray, armpits and groin lighter, and his bare, uncovered head the brightest of all. He went down the hall.

“Kip,” Teia said. Her voice was tight. He couldn’t quite read her expression: sub-red light was inexact and Kip wasn’t practiced with it, but he could tell she was nervous. Surely not scared of the dark. Not Teia.

But of course she was. Almost all drafters were afraid of the dark—even lots of sub-reds were. Light was Orholam’s gift; darkness was akin to evil; blindness was powerlessness. Her hands were out, and Kip took one. He led her down the hall. Ironfist didn’t slow.

Then Kip realized he was holding hands with Teia, and abruptly felt awkward. He sort of spasmed. She couldn’t miss it.

“Uhm,” he said. “Uh.” He put her hand on his arm instead.

Oh, like a lord leading his lady to a dinner party. Much better. Moron!

Kip cleared his throat, but then thought that anything he said would be equally stupid. He scowled and shot a look at her.