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noid.  The hell am I supposed to see out
here, anyway? Swivin wolves.
Very, very carefully, Kip started walking
away. He had to get deeper into the mist and
darkness before the soldier s night vision re-
covered, but if he made noise, the man might
fire blindly. Kip walked on his toes, silently,
his back itching, sure that a lead ball was go-
ing to tear through him at any moment.
But he made it. A hundred paces, more,
and no one yelled. No shot cracked the night.
Farther. Two hundred paces more, and he
saw light off to his left, a campfire. It had
burned so low it was barely more than coals
now. Kip tried not to look directly at it to
save his vision. There was no tent, no bed-
rolls nearby, just the fire.
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Kip tried Master Danavis s trick for seeing
in darkness. He let his focus relax and tried
to view things from the periphery of his vis-
ion. Nothing but an irregularity, perhaps. He
moved closer.
Two men lay on the cold ground. One was
a soldier. Kip had seen his mother uncon-
scious plenty of times; he knew instantly this
man wasn t passed out. He was sprawled un-
naturally, there were no blankets, and his
mouth hung open, slack-jawed, eyes staring
unblinking at the night. Next to the dead sol-
dier lay another man, bound in chains but
alive. He lay on his side, hands manacled be-
hind his back, a black bag over his head and
cinched tight around his neck.
The prisoner was alive, trembling. No,
weeping. Kip looked around; there was no
one else in sight.
 Why don t you just finish it, damn you?
the prisoner said.
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Kip froze. He thought he d approached
silently.
 Coward, the prisoner said.  Just follow-
ing your orders, I suppose? Orholam will
smite you for what you re about to do to that
little town.
Kip had no idea what the man was talking
about.
Apparently his silence spoke for him.
 You re not one of them. A note of hope
entered the prisoner s voice.  Please, help
me!
Kip stepped forward. The man was suffer-
ing. Then he stopped. Looked at the dead
soldier. The front of the soldier s shirt was
soaked with blood. Had this prisoner killed
him? How?
 Please, leave me chained if you must. But
please, I don t want to die in darkness.
Kip stayed back, though it felt cruel.  You
killed him?
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 I m supposed to be executed at first light.
I got away. He chased me down and got the
bag over my head before he died. If dawn s
close, his replacement is coming anytime
now.
Kip still wasn t putting it together. No one
in Rekton trusted the soldiers who came
through, and the alcaldesa had told the
town s young people to give any soldiers a
wide berth for a while apparently the new
satrap Garadul had declared himself free of
the Chromeria s control. Now he was King
Garadul, he said, but he wanted the usual
levies from the town s young people. The al-
caldesa had told his representative that if he
wasn t the satrap anymore, he didn t have
the right to raise levies. King or satrap,
Garadul couldn t be happy with that, but
Rekton was too small to bother with. Still, it
would be wise to avoid his soldiers until this
all blew over.
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On the other hand, just because Rekton
wasn t getting along with the satrap right
now didn t make this man Kip s friend.
 So you are a criminal? Kip asked.
 Of six shades to Sun Day, the man said.
The hope leaked out of his voice.  Look,
boy you are a child, aren t you? You sound
like one. I m going to die today. I can t get
away. Truth to tell, I don t want to. I ve run
enough. This time, I fight.
 I don t understand.
 You will. Take off my hood.
Though some vague doubt nagged Kip, he
untied the half-knot around the man s neck
and pulled off the hood.
At first, Kip had no idea what the prisoner
was talking about. The man sat up, arms still
bound behind his back. He was perhaps
thirty years old, Tyrean like Kip but with a
lighter complexion, his hair wavy rather than
kinky, his limbs thin and muscular. Then Kip
saw his eyes.
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Men and women who could harness light
and make luxin drafters always had un-
usual eyes. A little residue of whatever color
they drafted ended up in their eyes. Over the
course of their life, it would stain the entire
iris red, or blue, or whatever their color was.
The prisoner was a green drafter or had
been. Instead of the green being bound in a
halo within the iris, it was shattered like
crockery smashed to the floor. Little green
fragments glowed even in the whites of his
eyes. Kip gasped and shrank back.
 Please! the man said.  Please, the mad-
ness isn t on me. I won t hurt you.
 You re a color wight.
 And now you know why I ran away from
the Chromeria, the man said.
Kip was on the verge of bolting, but the
man wasn t making any threatening moves.
And besides, it was still dark. Even color
wights needed light to draft. The mist did
seem lighter, though, gray beginning to
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touch the horizon. It was crazy to talk to a
madman, but maybe it wasn t too crazy. At [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]