Go play in the corner and don’t bother the adults, Kip.

Teia led half a dozen students to the blue tower’s lift and they took that up to the top. There was a big, sturdy door and a nice hallway.

“Other half of the top floor is for satrapahs and nobles and religious festivals,” Teia said. “On Sun Day, this whole floor rotates so that their half faces the sun, rather than ours.”

Beyond the sturdy door was a room full of gears and pulleys and ropes and sand clocks and bells, with enormous windows. It was so bright that Kip was momentarily blinded. Teia handed him a pair of large round spectacles with darkened lenses. Once he put them on, he was able to see again.

Weary students who’d pulled the dawn shift got up from their chairs and handed off thick coats to the next shift. Some of them muttered instructions about the states of certain gears or ropes. A few traded jokes. Kip was lost.

Eventually, they got sorted. Kip and Teia took their coats and both took a chair. There were six stations, two students per station, two chairs, four sand clocks, four bells, one giant mirror per station that was bigger across than Kip was tall, and three smaller mirrors.

“The whole Chromeria rotates over the course of the day so that it’s always facing the sun more or less directly,” Teia said. “So mostly we only have to move the mirrors up and down as the sun rises. First rule, never touch the mirrors with your hands. If there’s a problem, we summon the lens grinders. They’re the best in the world, and they get furious if they find handprints on their mirrors.”

But as impressive as the mirrors and pulleys were, they weren’t what seized Kip’s attention. There were half a dozen massive holes in the floor: one huge central hole, with six mirrors above it, and then numerous smaller ones.

“Lightwells,” Teia said. “So that drafters in the tower below us will always have enough light available, no matter if they’re on the dark side of the tower, or if it’s early or late in the day. Take a peek over the side.”

So every team used their big mirror to send light to another big mirror over the central hole, where other mirrors shot the light downward.

Kip poked his head over the side. The walls of the hole were perfectly sheer, covered in silver polished to a mirror sheen, and it plunged on forever. In the glare of the gathered sunlight, he couldn’t even see the bottom.

As he was watching, about four floors down, a section of the wall opened and a mirror three feet across popped out into the light stream. Kip saw that farther down, other mirrors were similarly gathering light, offset from each other by careful degrees so that mirrors above wouldn’t block light to the mirrors below.

Kip stepped back, swallowing. It was mind-blowing, genius—and there was no railing to keep the mirror-tenders from falling straight down.

A tiny bell rang, startling him. Teia turned over the sand timer connected to the bell and grabbed a rope over one of the smaller side mirrors. She pulled a ratcheting lever, which moved the mirror by some tiny degree.

The smaller mirrors fed light to smaller holes. “Special laboratories, or polychromes’ or Colors’ chambers,” Teia answered Kip’s unspoken question. “There’s only so many private lightwells in each tower, so you have to be pretty important to get your own. But our work is pretty mindless. Once you get used to it, anyway. We don’t calibrate anything. Mirror slaves do that, setting things every dawn, and then we just move the ropes so much every time a bell goes off. Teams of two so we stay awake, and in case we have to open the windows, and for the zenith switchover.”

“Sure. Zenith switchover,” Kip said, having no idea what she was talking about.

The work seemed complicated at first, but pretty soon Teia was letting Kip pull the levers and turn the sand timers.

“Anyone ever fall down the holes?” Kip asked.

“A boy fell down one of the smaller lightwells last year. It was four floors down to the Blue’s mirror. Broke his back. Lived for six months. A few years ago, it’s said some boys fought up here, and one pushed the other one into the great well. Died instantly. The killer swore it was on accident. They didn’t believe him.”

“What’d they do?” Kip asked.

“Orholam’s Glare.”

Kip’s face apparently said it for him: I have no idea what you’re talking about. Again.

“There’s a pillar at the base of the bridge on Big Jasper. You know the Thousand Stars?”

The mirror towers all over the city. “Sure.”

“Right, all those mirrors, plus all the mirrors on Chromeria towers, are all focused on that one point. They put the condemned at the focal point at noon. Drafter’s got a choice then. You can cook to death like an ant under a glass, or you can draft. If you draft, it’s like pushing too much water through a straw. You burst.”

“That sounds… unspeakably awful,” Kip said.

“It’s not supposed to be fun. Come on, it’s time for lecture. You think you can get through it today without causing an incident?”

Kip’s brow wrinkled, not ready to let it go. “But I thought that they slaved the Thousand Stars onto the Prism every Sun Day.”

“Yes?”

“Well, how does he not die?” Kip asked.

“He’s the Prism. He can do anything.”

Chapter 21

I can’t do this.

Seven years, seven great purposes.

It was a fantasy, a fairy story, a fool’s errand. What Gavin wanted was impossible.

He lay next to Karris, close enough to share body heat. He’d slept fitfully, as always, had nightmares, as always. Last night, no doubt because of his waking fears about losing blue, he’d dreamed of his brother escaping the blue hell. He shook it off, ignored the stabbing pain and tightness in his chest. Dawn was close. Karris would wake any minute, and she would move away. They would get up; they would work. Sooner or later, the people of this island would either come to stop him or to talk. If they came to kill him, they would come at night. With dawn coming, he thought it unlikely they would attack now. Gavin would live another day.

The first of his purposes was easy enough, though he’d persistently failed: tell the whole truth to Karris. When the city had fallen to the Color Prince, he’d almost abandoned the second: saving the people of Garriston who had suffered so much because of him. Now that salvation was within sight. Other purposes, he had achieved: learning to travel faster than any man alive; undermining certain Colors on the Spectrum, the ruling council of the Chromeria. Others were still in process. All except telling Karris the truth ultimately built toward one goal, one grand design that he barely even dared to think about, lest somehow thinking it would make it even more impossible than it already was. As if, in thinking it, he would spill the secret and it would escape beyond his grasp forever.

He owed his dead little brother Sevastian better. He owed his mother better. He owed Gavin better.

He wasn’t sure, even as he thought it, if by “Gavin” he meant himself, or his brother.

Karris snuggled close to him, but the very movement seemed to raise her consciousness above the waterline, and she started. He breathed evenly, feigning sleep. She pulled back, scooted away gently so as not to wake him. She might hate him—deservedly so—but she was still kind. It was one of the things he loved about her.