At the end of the day, Ishmael was pleased with what he had done. It wasn’t as far-reaching as Phoebe’s song, but it was nearly as good as Thomas’s work with Michael’s second machine, and they were making progress. He estimated that they had covered almost two-thirds of the trees. He would have kept going, but he had used up the last of the condensed light so he decided to head back to gather some vials of green and see if any of the others were around.
The first sign that something was wrong was the missing cart of distilled color. They had left the cart at a crossroads, where everyone could return and restock as needed. But when Ishmael arrived, the cart was gone.
It was, at first, simply an irritation. Grooves from the wheels showed in the soft, dark foundation, so at least he could follow it, but tracking it down wasted time, and time was something they just didn’t have.
He pursued the wheel ruts for a short distance before they took an odd turn. Instead of going toward the unfinished trees, they turned toward a section Ishmael knew had already been finished. What’s more, everyone else knew it had been finished, too.
It was then that he heard the voices, and one of them knocked him sideways.
Luc.
“Give it to me,” he said.
“No!” Thomas said.
Then came Matthew’s voice, soothing and calm. “Let’s talk about this before we do anything rash.”
Luc would never allow them to finish the work of coloring here—not if it meant a full spectrum of color. Ishmael berated himself for not realizing this sooner. He took off running, suddenly fearful for his friends and for the posticum.
Ishmael burst through the trees into a clearing. Luc stood by the cart, with one hand outstretched. Thomas held Michael’s machine behind his back. Matthew stood to the side, his feet planted in a firm stance. Gabriel, arms crossed, stood next to Thomas.
In the split second after Ishmael registered what was happening, Luc opened a vial of orange and threw it at Thomas. He recoiled, but not fast enough. The color caught Thomas full in the face. Orange covered every speck of his skin. He tried to wipe it out of his eyes, but there was too much and the orange just transferred to his hands.
Ishmael ran to Thomas’s side, using his tunic to wipe the orange from Thomas’s face, but the color had already soaked into his hair, his skin, his mouth, and his nose.
Gabriel stood, his bitter feet rooted at Thomas’s side. “Thomas wouldn’t give Luc the machine.”
“No, and I’m still waiting for it,” Luc said. “So glad you could join us, little brother.”
Ishmael studied Luc, trying to find any evidence of the older brother he had once been. The brother who had helped Jerusha untangle her yarn, patiently weaving the end over and under and through the mess. The brother who had seized Mam’s hand as she stumbled on a stone. The brother who had crept out of bed to show Ishmael the night sky and tell him stories about the stars. The brother who had taught him color. He saw no evidence of that person, and the loss overcame his anger.
“Why are you here?” Ishmael finally asked. “Why didn’t you go home?”
“My posticum was supposed to be my home. Now this is my home. If you are not happy with how things have turned out, you have only yourself to blame, little brother.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“Why? Don’t you want to be associated with me?” He laughed. “Have I fallen in your estimation? No longer the hero?”
Truer words were never spoken. “No hero of mine would do something like this.”
“You ruined my posticum, so I wanted revenge. But then that Sound novice missed the stores of green almost entirely and botched everything else. The little disaster forced Color Master to choose your entry for the posticum instead.” Luc practically spit the words out.
Ishmael met Luc’s eyes. They were hard as glass, and again he was struck by how different Luc was now from the person he had known back home.
“You didn’t used to be like this,” Ishmael whispered.
Luc reached into his pocket and pulled out his prism. He held it to his face and studied its flat surfaces. “No? Perhaps not. But you didn’t used to be like this, either.”
Ishmael touched the prism in his pocket, unsure of Luc’s next move. “Like what?”
Luc turned away, facing the trees behind him. “So self-righteous.”
“There’s a difference between being self-righteous and being right.”
Luc whipped around, pointing his prism at Ishmael’s face. He flinched. “You don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Perhaps not,” Ishmael said, “but I do know the spectrum. I know the rules of color. I know how color works. I know the joy that color brings.”
Luc laughed, then rubbed his hand over the tree trunk he leaned against. “You’re very sincere, but you’re wrong. What brings me joy is knowing that I am the best color keeper. That’s why I made my posticum golden. Everywhere you looked, you would see me. My color, my world.”
“The mouth that eats pride at breakfast speaks tolerance at lunch. I think you forgot about lunch,” Thomas said.
Luc took two steps toward him.
Gabriel stood taller, blocking his way, even though Luc was much larger. “Leave him alone.”
“Now might not be the best time for proverbs, Thomas,” Matthew said.
“No, now would be the best time to hand over that machine of yours.” Luc stretched out his hand again. “I had hoped this world would have only one color—even if it wasn’t my color, at least it wouldn’t be yours. I underestimated you, little brother. But enough is enough. Hand over the machine.”
“No.” Ishmael’s thin shoulders shook under the full weight of responsibility for this posticum, for the color, for Thomas and all the other artisans who had helped him. He reached for the prism in his pocket.
“Ah, ah,” Luc clucked. “If you fling your prism about in anger, you never know what might happen.” He twirled his prism and caught a ray of light, which grew into a glorious spectrum.
Ishmael didn’t know what to do. Clearly Thomas was in pain, and he needed to get him to the infirmary. But he couldn’t leave Luc here. He couldn’t leave the color here. He couldn’t leave the posticum unfinished.
Luc laughed. “See? Even with something as simple as a spectrum, I’m the better color keeper, and you? You’ll always be the little brother.” He laughed again.
Matthew cleared his throat. “I think Ishmael just wants to do his work. I think he wants to stop fighting.”
“It’s too late for that,” Luc said, brandishing the spectrum. He spun it, twirling it so the colors flashed until yellow showed. It grew, forming a sphere, just like when Ishmael first saw Luc in his posticum, only this massive sphere of yellow dazzled in a way that the other never did.
Ishmael looked at Thomas, staring blindly, a look of pain on his face. Gabriel stood by him, his jaw locked, his hands clenched. For their sakes, he couldn’t give up. For Color Master’s sake, and Head Master’s sake. For Hannah, who had sacrificed so much. For Phoebe, who was a victim of Luc’s ambition. The ground underneath him, strong from Ethan’s work, bolstered his courage. He thought of all the Halls, and the apprentices who had worked so hard to make this posticum beautiful—Michael, Thaddeus, Dora, Gabriel, Aaron, Keturah. For their sake, he couldn’t give up. The edges of the prism cut into Ishmael’s hand.
Luc laughed again, the yellow globe resting on his prism. “This is my world now.”
Ishmael just noticed Michael, who stood off to the side. He was nearly twitching trying to signal something to Ishmael. He looked at him, then looked deliberately at the light condensing machine in Ishmael’s right hand, then looked up in the air, and his eyebrows rose.
Ishmael’s eyes widened. Of course! He wasn’t sure if this would work, but he was willing to try. He opened the hatch at the top of the machine to allow light in, and immediately began turning the crank.
“Oh, please,” Luc said. “Don’t tell me you’re going to try to …” But he stopped, because he had no idea what Ishmael was going to do.
Ishmael wiped the prism on the edge of his tunic.
“If you make a spectrum, it will be no different from mine. Light is light.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Some light is stronger, especially when it’s bolstered by the light from others.” Ishmael nodded at Michael and Gabriel, then slid the compartment open, and a flash of blinding light flew out. He lifted his prism to the sky, remembering Gabriel’s admonition to aim high. He caught the light, and he held still, allowing the light to burst forth into the most glorious spectrum of color imaginable, arcing into the sky. Streams of color shot upward, higher than the tops of the trees above them, with a brilliance that made his eyes ache. It dwarfed Luc’s sphere of yellow, which slunk away to join Ishmael’s spectrum.
Second law of color, of course. In the presence of the complete spectrum, a color will always take its place among like kind.
Ishmael held his arm steady. “It’s over, Luc. You need to return home.”
Luc lowered his head and charged, knocking Ishmael to the ground. The prism flew from his hand, landing with a loud crack behind him, shattering into pieces.
Gabriel cried out just before Ishmael’s head knocked against the root of a tree. He pointed up at the sky. “I see something!” he gasped. The spectrum arced gracefully over their heads.
Luc’s clenched fist had pulled back to punch Ishmael, but at Gabriel’s words, he turned around to see.
The spectrum was still there, glowing with luster over their heads, the colors distinct and beautiful.
Luc sat there, stupefied.
Ishmael himself was shocked. He had expected the spectrum to dissolve when his prism lost contact with the beam of light. But he hadn’t counted on the strength of the light.
What’s more, Gabriel and Michael saw it, too.
The spectrum remained high above their heads. The longer they watched it, the more impossible it seemed, and the more glorious it was as it blazed across the sky. Luc’s hope for a one-color posticum would never be realized. Ishmael’s hope for a reconciliation would never be realized, either.
The future seemed crystal clear at that moment. Ishmael pushed Luc away. “You’re not the master here. And we are no longer brothers.”
Luc looked hard at Ishmael, then shoved the cart of vials as he stalked past it through the trees deep into the heart of the posticum.