Was that blood? Should Liv say something? “Magister Goldthorn, I’m sorry, but I have to leave. I still owe you half a class, and I’ll make it up to you. In the meantime, if you’d notify the appropriate officials, Aliviana Danavis is hereby recognized as a superviolet/yellow bichrome. Her instruction will begin immediately. I would be… disappointed if she were outfitted in a style less decent than the average Ruthgari bichrome’s. Costs should be taken from Chromeria finances. If anyone has a problem with that, direct them to me.”
Liv forgot about Gavin’s shirt instantly. She couldn’t believe what she’d just heard. With a few sentences, the Prism had changed everything. Freed her. A bichrome! In a word, she’d gone from a life writing letters for some backwater noble to a life of only Orholam knew what. She thought she was imagining it until she saw the exact same stunned expression on Magister Goldthorn’s face. It was real. The second part of what he’d said took only a moment more to sink in. Liv was to be kept in a style equivalent to a Ruthgari bichrome at the Chromeria’s expense. And the Ruthgari kept their drafters in more lavish apartments than anyone. It was all part of their strategy to attract the best talent.
If Liv played it halfway right, she could escape that hellstone harpy Aglaia Crassos.
Gavin smiled at her, a roguish, boyish joy mixing with something deeper Liv couldn’t read. Then he left.
But watching him jog down the steps out of view, Liv was filled with a vague unease. She’d gotten everything she hoped today, and everything that she hadn’t quite dared to hope. But something more had happened.
The Prism had just bought her. She didn’t know why she was worth it, but it didn’t strike her as a random gesture. She looked at Vena, who shrugged back, eyes wide. Gavin Guile had some purpose in mind for Liv, and she would perform it gladly. How could she not? But what was it?
Chapter 39
The cell’s blue was trying to sink into his brain, make him passionless, logical. No room for hatred, for envy, for fury. The dead man was muttering in his wall.
Dazen stood and walked over to him. The dead man resided in a particularly shiny section of the blue luxin wall. He was, of course, Dazen’s twin.
“The time has come,” the dead man said. “You need to kill yourself.”
The dead man liked to drop a fire in Dazen’s lap and see what he did with it.
Dazen popped his neck left and right. The dead man popped his neck right and left. “What do you mean?” Dazen asked.
“You haven’t been willing to do what you need to do. Unless you can cut deeper than Dazen, you—”
“I am Dazen now!” Dazen snapped.
The man in the wall smiled indulgently. “Not yet, you’re not. You’re still me. You’re still Gavin Guile, the brother who lost. Dazen stole your life, but you haven’t taken his. Not yet. You’re not ready. Talk to me again in another year or two.”
“You’re dead!” Dazen snapped. “You’re the dead man, not me. I am Dazen!”
But his reflection said nothing.
His son was out there. His son, not the real Dazen’s. The real Dazen was stealing his son. Just like he’d stolen his entire life.
Gavin had decided long ago that if Dazen was going to steal his life, he would steal Dazen’s in return. His younger brother had always been the smarter of the two, so the only way to escape would be to become Dazen—to outthink his brother, to dig a pace below the real Dazen’s deepest trap and spring it back on him. So far, it hadn’t worked.
“It hasn’t worked because you’re not willing to risk everything to win. That was Dazen’s genius,” the dead man said. “You remember the last time you two fought?”
“When he imprisoned me and stole my life?”
“No, the last time you fought with your fists.”
Gavin couldn’t ever forget it. He’d been the older brother. He needed to win. He couldn’t even remember what they’d fought over. That hadn’t been important. He’d probably started it. Dazen had been getting too big for his boots for a while, not giving Gavin the respect he deserved. So Gavin had punched him in the shoulder and called him something foul.
Though Gavin was older, Dazen had grown to be at least his size, if not bigger. Most days, Dazen would take the abuse with a complaint and a curse. Not that day. Dazen had attacked him, and