The Black Prism
Page 69
“Now, fourth, they say Orholam himself watches every initiation. Failing means failing him, farmboy. Ready?
If Kip failed, he’d be put off the island. Not only would he shame the man who’d saved his life, but he would lose his only chance for retribution on the man who’d taken his mother’s.
Kip wasn’t going to fail. He’d die first.
Ironfist saw the look on his face. “Good.”
The great doors in front of Kip rippled once more, the molten iridescent hues undulating gently and then seeming to spill left and right. It was as if something huge were surfacing from unimaginable depths. Kip’s heart seized as a great face appeared, so fast he couldn’t even comprehend all the details, just white hair, eyes like stars, and water of every shade bursting away from his features as he burst free—and opened his mouth, a yawning cavern of blackness that overwhelmed the doors. Kip flinched as it seemed the mouth would swallow him.
The doors burst open from within as if a giant had smashed them. A gust of air rushed over Kip.
“Enter,” Ironfist commanded.
Kip walked in alone to a round chamber. The walls and floor were the same smoky-clear crystal as the door. Seven figures stood in a crescent around a black disk inlaid in the floor. Kip hesitated, and none of them moved. No one told him where to go.
The figures were robed, one for each color. The superviolet wore violet robes and sub-red wore deep red robes for the benefit of those who couldn’t see into their spectra, but as Kip widened and then tightened his eyes, he saw that the sub-red was indeed radiating heat and the superviolet was clad in his color, hard pieces of superviolet luxin hooked together like rings of mail.
Still uncertain, Kip walked toward them. As he got closer, he could see beneath their hoods. His fists balled. The sub-red had blackened skin. No eyebrows. No hair. Little flame wisps escaped from its head. The green’s face was gnarled as an old oak, its eyebrows like moss, hair strung with lichen. The blue looked like cut glass, features either smoothed out to planes or sharpened to jewel-like points.
Dear Orholam, were these all color wights? Then, from within his sleek goo, the orange blinked. Kip noticed the eyes. All of their eyes.
These were drafters in masks and makeup. They represented the wights of each color. Seven different varieties of death and dishonor. Kip started breathing again, though he couldn’t control a little tremble. He stepped onto the black disk facing them.
“I am Anat, I am wrath,” the sub-red said. “I am consumed with rage.”
“I am Dagnu, I am gluttony,” the red said. “I can never be filled.”
“I am Molokh, I am greed,” the orange said. “I can never be satisfied.”
“I am Belphegor, I am sloth,” the yellow said. “I withhold my talents.”
“I am Atirat, I am lust,” the green said. “I desire ever more.”
“I am Mot, I am envy,” the blue said. “I cannot bear others’ good fortune.”
“I am Ferrilux, I am pride,” the superviolet said. “I would usurp Orholam’s own throne.”
They were the names of the old gods. Kip had barely even heard of them.
“These are the distortions of our nature.”
“The temptations of power.” The voices spoke out in turn, smoothly, overlapping, like one consciousness.
“For without mastery of ourselves, we become monsters.”
“Shameful and ashamed, hiding in the darkness.”
“But we are the sons and daughters of Orholam.”
“We are Orholam’s gift, expressions of his love.”
“His law.”
“His mercy.”
“His truth.”
“Thus we stand unashamed, clothed in his righteousness.”
The sub-red stepped forward, pulled off his mask, and stepped out of his robe. He was a young man, muscular, handsome, and naked. “Casting off wrath, I am patience,” the sub-red said. He lifted his hands and, even without looking into the sub-red, it was clear that he was drafting. The air shimmered with heat around his whole body. “Orholam’s will be done.”
The red stepped forward, pulled off her mask, and stepped out of her robe. She was young, athletic, beautiful, and also naked. Kip’s eyes widened. He tried to hold them to her face.
Somber ceremony, Kip. Orholam’s watching, Kip. Straight to hell, Kip.
“Casting off gluttony, I am temperance,” the red said. She lifted her hands and red luxin blossomed through her entire body, eyes, face, down her neck to her breasts, nipples, firm tight stomach, breasts, nipples—Kip! In an instant, she was like a statue, every bit of her skin dyed a perfect red. “Orholam’s will be done,” she said.
The orange stepped forward. A man, mercifully. “Casting off greed, I am charity,” he said. Lifting his hands, he turned a gleaming orange. “Orholam’s will be done.”
Yellow said, “Casting off sloth, I am diligence. Orholam’s will be done.” Her body filled with sparkling yellow light.
The green was a disconcertingly if appropriately curvaceous woman who looked Kip hard in the eye. That helped as she disrobed. He thought she might slap his head off if he looked at her generous—oops. “Casting off lust, I am self-control,” she said. “Orholam’s will be done.”
The blue disrobed. “Casting off envy, I am kindness,” she said softly. “Orholam’s will be done.”
The superviolet was the last man, and he was enormously muscular. “Casting off pride, I am humility,” he said in a booming voice. “Orholam’s will be done.”
As one, they brought their hands down and pointed them at Kip’s feet. Sprays of pure color blasted the black circle he stood on. It began to rumble and rattle beneath his feet. Then, abruptly, the disk of rock began sinking into the floor—and Kip with it.
In moments, Kip was down to his butt. But the hole was too narrow. His fat caught on the sharp sides of the floor. He had to shimmy just to fit, and as the hole deepened, either his stomach or his butt was pressing against a wall.
“Raise your right hand,” the superviolet said.
As Kip did, swallowing convulsively, he saw a rope dropping all the way from a ceiling so high above that he couldn’t see past the glare of its brightness. The superviolet caught the rope and put the knotted end in Kip’s upraised hand.
“Pull the rope, and it ends,” the man said. He had something akin to kindness in his voice.
Then Kip was fully in the hole, and still going down. He stopped below the floor. The light high above in the testing chamber went out. Kip could see nothing.
He tried to take a deep breath, but the chamber was so tight he couldn’t even draw a full breath.
There were whispered voices above him. “Dees, will you run this test for me?”
A man’s voice replied, awkward, “I’ve never run one before, my lord. You know, I think we set the tube too narrow. He’s fat. He could suffocate.”
“He’s the Prism’s bastard.”
“So? He’s not here.”
“So accidents happen. But I can’t be here when they do. The Prism knows I hate him. He doesn’t know you. So if an accident happens on your watch—”
Kip couldn’t hear the rest because water started pouring over his head. Cold, first a dribble, then a steady stream. It ran down the back of his neck to where his back was pressed tight against the walls. The walls around him pulsed an intense blue. Dear Orholam, they were going to kill him to get back at his father. Just like Gavin had warned him.
If Kip failed, he’d be put off the island. Not only would he shame the man who’d saved his life, but he would lose his only chance for retribution on the man who’d taken his mother’s.
Kip wasn’t going to fail. He’d die first.
Ironfist saw the look on his face. “Good.”
The great doors in front of Kip rippled once more, the molten iridescent hues undulating gently and then seeming to spill left and right. It was as if something huge were surfacing from unimaginable depths. Kip’s heart seized as a great face appeared, so fast he couldn’t even comprehend all the details, just white hair, eyes like stars, and water of every shade bursting away from his features as he burst free—and opened his mouth, a yawning cavern of blackness that overwhelmed the doors. Kip flinched as it seemed the mouth would swallow him.
The doors burst open from within as if a giant had smashed them. A gust of air rushed over Kip.
“Enter,” Ironfist commanded.
Kip walked in alone to a round chamber. The walls and floor were the same smoky-clear crystal as the door. Seven figures stood in a crescent around a black disk inlaid in the floor. Kip hesitated, and none of them moved. No one told him where to go.
The figures were robed, one for each color. The superviolet wore violet robes and sub-red wore deep red robes for the benefit of those who couldn’t see into their spectra, but as Kip widened and then tightened his eyes, he saw that the sub-red was indeed radiating heat and the superviolet was clad in his color, hard pieces of superviolet luxin hooked together like rings of mail.
Still uncertain, Kip walked toward them. As he got closer, he could see beneath their hoods. His fists balled. The sub-red had blackened skin. No eyebrows. No hair. Little flame wisps escaped from its head. The green’s face was gnarled as an old oak, its eyebrows like moss, hair strung with lichen. The blue looked like cut glass, features either smoothed out to planes or sharpened to jewel-like points.
Dear Orholam, were these all color wights? Then, from within his sleek goo, the orange blinked. Kip noticed the eyes. All of their eyes.
These were drafters in masks and makeup. They represented the wights of each color. Seven different varieties of death and dishonor. Kip started breathing again, though he couldn’t control a little tremble. He stepped onto the black disk facing them.
“I am Anat, I am wrath,” the sub-red said. “I am consumed with rage.”
“I am Dagnu, I am gluttony,” the red said. “I can never be filled.”
“I am Molokh, I am greed,” the orange said. “I can never be satisfied.”
“I am Belphegor, I am sloth,” the yellow said. “I withhold my talents.”
“I am Atirat, I am lust,” the green said. “I desire ever more.”
“I am Mot, I am envy,” the blue said. “I cannot bear others’ good fortune.”
“I am Ferrilux, I am pride,” the superviolet said. “I would usurp Orholam’s own throne.”
They were the names of the old gods. Kip had barely even heard of them.
“These are the distortions of our nature.”
“The temptations of power.” The voices spoke out in turn, smoothly, overlapping, like one consciousness.
“For without mastery of ourselves, we become monsters.”
“Shameful and ashamed, hiding in the darkness.”
“But we are the sons and daughters of Orholam.”
“We are Orholam’s gift, expressions of his love.”
“His law.”
“His mercy.”
“His truth.”
“Thus we stand unashamed, clothed in his righteousness.”
The sub-red stepped forward, pulled off his mask, and stepped out of his robe. He was a young man, muscular, handsome, and naked. “Casting off wrath, I am patience,” the sub-red said. He lifted his hands and, even without looking into the sub-red, it was clear that he was drafting. The air shimmered with heat around his whole body. “Orholam’s will be done.”
The red stepped forward, pulled off her mask, and stepped out of her robe. She was young, athletic, beautiful, and also naked. Kip’s eyes widened. He tried to hold them to her face.
Somber ceremony, Kip. Orholam’s watching, Kip. Straight to hell, Kip.
“Casting off gluttony, I am temperance,” the red said. She lifted her hands and red luxin blossomed through her entire body, eyes, face, down her neck to her breasts, nipples, firm tight stomach, breasts, nipples—Kip! In an instant, she was like a statue, every bit of her skin dyed a perfect red. “Orholam’s will be done,” she said.
The orange stepped forward. A man, mercifully. “Casting off greed, I am charity,” he said. Lifting his hands, he turned a gleaming orange. “Orholam’s will be done.”
Yellow said, “Casting off sloth, I am diligence. Orholam’s will be done.” Her body filled with sparkling yellow light.
The green was a disconcertingly if appropriately curvaceous woman who looked Kip hard in the eye. That helped as she disrobed. He thought she might slap his head off if he looked at her generous—oops. “Casting off lust, I am self-control,” she said. “Orholam’s will be done.”
The blue disrobed. “Casting off envy, I am kindness,” she said softly. “Orholam’s will be done.”
The superviolet was the last man, and he was enormously muscular. “Casting off pride, I am humility,” he said in a booming voice. “Orholam’s will be done.”
As one, they brought their hands down and pointed them at Kip’s feet. Sprays of pure color blasted the black circle he stood on. It began to rumble and rattle beneath his feet. Then, abruptly, the disk of rock began sinking into the floor—and Kip with it.
In moments, Kip was down to his butt. But the hole was too narrow. His fat caught on the sharp sides of the floor. He had to shimmy just to fit, and as the hole deepened, either his stomach or his butt was pressing against a wall.
“Raise your right hand,” the superviolet said.
As Kip did, swallowing convulsively, he saw a rope dropping all the way from a ceiling so high above that he couldn’t see past the glare of its brightness. The superviolet caught the rope and put the knotted end in Kip’s upraised hand.
“Pull the rope, and it ends,” the man said. He had something akin to kindness in his voice.
Then Kip was fully in the hole, and still going down. He stopped below the floor. The light high above in the testing chamber went out. Kip could see nothing.
He tried to take a deep breath, but the chamber was so tight he couldn’t even draw a full breath.
There were whispered voices above him. “Dees, will you run this test for me?”
A man’s voice replied, awkward, “I’ve never run one before, my lord. You know, I think we set the tube too narrow. He’s fat. He could suffocate.”
“He’s the Prism’s bastard.”
“So? He’s not here.”
“So accidents happen. But I can’t be here when they do. The Prism knows I hate him. He doesn’t know you. So if an accident happens on your watch—”
Kip couldn’t hear the rest because water started pouring over his head. Cold, first a dribble, then a steady stream. It ran down the back of his neck to where his back was pressed tight against the walls. The walls around him pulsed an intense blue. Dear Orholam, they were going to kill him to get back at his father. Just like Gavin had warned him.
