Carve the Mark

  I walked to the platform where Ryzek stood braced against the railing, Eijeh at his right. Where was Vas?

  I wore my Shotet armor, polished to perfection, over a long, sleeveless black dress. The fabric brushed the toes of my boots as I moved.

  Ryzek's kill marks were on full display; he kept his arm flexed to show them at their best. Someday he would begin a second row, like my father. When I arrived, he flashed a smile at me, which made me shudder.

  I took my place on his left at the railing. I was supposed to display my currentgift at times like these, to remind all the people around us that despite Ryzek's charm, we were not to be trifled with. I tried to accept the pain, absorb it like I did the cold wind when I had forgotten to wear the right coat, but I found it difficult to focus. In front of me, the waiting crowd wavered and swam. I wasn't supposed to wince; I wouldn't, I wouldn't. . . .

  I let out a relieved exhale when the last two transport vessels drifted through the open loading bay hatch. Everyone applauded when the ships' doors opened, and the last group of Shotet spilled in. Ryzek held up both of his hands to quiet the crowd. It was time for his welcoming speech.

  But just as Ryzek opened his mouth, a young woman stepped forward from the group that had just left the transport vessel. She had a long blond braid and wore, not the bright colors of the more common Shotet in the crowd below, but subtle blue-gray finery to match her eyes. It was a popular color among Shotet's wealthy.

  She was Lety Zetsyvis, Uzul's daughter. She held a currentblade high in the air, and the dark tendrils wrapped around her hand like strings, binding the blade to her body.

  "The first child of the family Noavek," she shouted, "will fall to the family Benesit!"

  It was my brother's fate, spoken plainly.

  "That is your fate, Ryzek Noavek!" Lety shouted. "To fail us, and to fall!"

  Vas, who had pushed through the crowd, now seized her wrist with the certainty of a well-trained warrior. He bent over her, pressing her hand back so she was forced to her knees. Her currentblade clattered to the floor.

  "Lety Zetsyvis," Ryzek said, lilting. It was so quiet in the room that he didn't even need to raise his voice. He was smiling as she struggled against Vas's grip, her fingers turning white under the pressure.

  "That fate . . . is a lie told by the people who want to destroy us," he began. Beside him, Eijeh bobbed his head a little, like Ryzek's voice was a song he knew by heart. Maybe that was why Ryzek didn't look surprised to see Lety on her knees below us--because Eijeh had seen it coming. Thanks to his oracle, Ryzek already knew what to say, what to do.

  "They are people who fear us for our strength and seek to undermine us: the Assembly. Thuvhe," Ryzek continued. "Who taught you to believe such lies, Lety? I wonder why it is that you espouse the same views as the people who came to your house to murder your father?"

  So that was how Ryzek was twisting things. Now, instead of Lety declaring my brother's fate, a crusader for the truth, she was spouting the same lies that our Thuvhesit enemies supposedly told. She was a traitor, possibly even one who had allowed assassins to penetrate her family's home so they could kill her father. Ridiculous, really, but sometimes people just believed what they were told. It was easier to survive that way.

  "My father was not murdered," Lety said in a low voice. "He took his own life, because you tortured him, you tortured him with that thing you call a sister, and the pain was driving him mad."

  Ryzek smiled at her as if she was the mad one, spewing nonsense. He cast his gaze all around him at the people who waited with bated breath to hear his response.

  "This," he said, gesturing to Lety. "This is the poison our enemies wish to use to destroy us--from within, not without. They tell lies to turn us against each other, to turn us against our own families and friends. That is why we must protect ourselves against not only their potential threats to our lives, but also their words. We are a people who has been weak before. We must not become so again."

  I felt it, the shiver that went through the crowd at his words. We had just spent a week remembering how far our ancestors had come, battered across the galaxy, our children taken from us, our beliefs about scavenging and renewal universally derided. We had learned to fight back, season by season. Even though I knew that Ryzek's true intentions were not to protect Shotet, but rather himself and the Noavek dynasty, I was still almost taken in by the emotion in his voice, and the power he offered us like an outstretched hand.

  "And there is no more effective blow than to strike against me, the leader of our great people." He shook his head. "This poison cannot be allowed to spread through our society. It must be drained, drop by drop, until it poses no more harm."

  Lety's eyes were full of hate.

  "Because you are the daughter of one of our most beloved families, and because you are clearly in pain after the loss of your father, I will give you a chance to fight for your life in the arena instead of simply losing it. And since you assign some of this supposed blame to my sister, it is she who will face you there," Ryzek said. "I hope you see this as the mercy it is."

  I was too stunned to protest--and too aware of what the consequences would be: Ryzek's wrath. Looking like a coward in front of all these people. Losing my reputation as someone to fear, which was my only leverage. And then, of course, the truth about my mother, which always loomed over Ryzek and me.

  I remembered the way people chanted my mother's name as we walked the streets of Voa during my first Procession. Her people had loved her, the way she held strength and mercy in tension. If they knew that I was responsible for her passing, they would destroy me.

  Veins of dark stained my skin as I stared down at Lety. She gritted her teeth, and stared back. I could tell she would take my life with pleasure.

  As Vas jerked Lety to her feet, people in the crowd shouted at her: "Traitor!" "Liar!" I felt nothing, not even fear. Not even Akos's hand, catching my arm to soothe me.

  "You okay?" Akos asked me.

  I shook my head.

  We stood in the anteroom just outside the arena. It was dim but for the glow of our city through the porthole, reflecting sunlight for a few hours yet. The room was adorned with portraits of the Noavek family over the door: my grandmother, Lasma Noavek, who had murdered all her brothers and sisters to ensure that her own bloodline was fate-favored; my father, Lazmet Noavek, who had tormented the goodness from my brother because of his weak fate; and Ryzek Noavek, pale and young, the product of two vicious generations. My darker skin and sturdier build meant I took after my mother's family, a branch of the Radix line, distant relation to the first man Akos had killed. All the portraits wore the same mild smiles, bound by their dark wooden frames and fine clothing.

  Ryzek and every Shotet soldier who could fit in the hall waited outside. I could hear their chatter through the walls. Challenges weren't permitted during the sojourn, but there was an arena in the ship anyway, for practice matches and the occasional performance. My brother had declared that the challenge would take place just after his welcome speech, but before the feast. Nothing like a good fight to the death to make Shotet soldiers hungry, after all.

  "Was it true, what that woman said?" Akos said. "Did you do that to her father?"

  "Yes," I said, because I thought it was better not to lie. But it wasn't better; it didn't feel better that way.

  "What is Ryzek holding over you?" Akos said. "To make you do things you can barely stand to admit to?"

  The door opened, and I shuddered, thinking the time had come. But Ryzek closed the door behind him, standing beneath his own portrait. It didn't look quite like him anymore, the face in it too round and spotted.

  "What do you want?" I said to him. "Aside from the execution you commanded without even consulting me, that is."

  "What would I have gained by consulting you?" Ryzek said. "I would have had to hear your irritating protestations first, and then, when I reminded you of how foolish you were to trust this one"--here he nodded toward Akos-
-"how that foolishness nearly lost me my oracle, when I offered this arena challenge to you as a way to make it up to me, you would agree to do it."

  I closed my eyes, briefly.

  "I came to tell you that you are to leave your knife behind," Ryzek said.

  "No knife?" Akos demanded. "She could get stabbed before she ever has a chance to lay a hand on that woman! Do you want her to die?"

  No, I answered in my own head. He wanted me to kill. Just not with a knife.

  "She knows what I want," Ryzek said. "And she knows what will happen if I don't get it. Best of luck, little sister."

  He swept out of the room. He was right: I knew, I always knew. He wanted everyone to see that the shadows that traveled under my skin were good for more than just pain, they also made me lethal. Not just Ryzek's Scourge. Time for my promotion to Ryzek's Executioner.

  "Help me take my armor off," I mumbled.

  "What? What are you talking about?"

  "Don't question me," I snapped. "Help me take my armor off."

  "You don't want your armor?" Akos said. "Are you just going to let her kill you?"

  I started on the first strap. My fingers were callused, but the straps were pulled so tight they still stung my fingertips. I forced them back and forth in small increments, my movements jerky and frantic. Akos covered my hand with his own.

  "No," I said. "I don't need armor. I don't need a knife."

  Twisting around my knuckles were the shadows, dense and dark as paint.

  I had taken great pains to ensure that no one else discovered what had happened to my mother--what I had done to her. But it was better that Akos knew, before he suffered for knowing me, more than he already had. Better that he never look at me with sympathy again than that he believe a lie.

  "How do you think my mother died?" I laughed. "I touched her, and I pushed all the light and all the pain into her, all because I was angry about having to go to some other doctor for some other ineffective treatment for my currentgift. All she wanted to do was help me, but I threw a tantrum, and it killed her." I tugged my forearm guard down just enough to reveal a crooked scar carved just below my elbow, on the outside of my arm. My first kill mark. "My father carved the mark. He hated me for it, but he was also . . . proud."

  I choked on the word.

  "You want to know what Ryzek is holding over me?" I laughed again, this time through tears. I tugged the last strap of my chest armor loose, yanked it over my head, and hurled it at the wall with both hands. When it collided with the metal, the sound was deafening in the small anteroom.

  The armor dropped to the floor, unharmed. It hadn't even lost its shape.

  "My mother. My beloved, revered mother was taken from him, from Shotet," I spat at him. Loud, my voice was loud. "I took her. I took her from myself."

  It would have been easier if he had looked at me with loathing or disgust. He didn't. He reached for me, his hands carrying relief, and I walked out of the anteroom and into the arena. I didn't want relief. I had earned this pain.

  The crowd roared when I walked out. The black floor of the arena shone like glass; it had likely just been polished for the occasion. I saw my boots reflected in it, the buckles undone. Rising up all around me were rows of metal benches, packed with observers, their faces too dark to see clearly. Lety was already there, dressed in her Shotet armor, wearing heavy shoes with metal toes, shaking out her hands.

  I assessed her right away, according to the teachings of elmetahak: she was a head shorter than I was, but muscular. Her blond hair was tied in a tight knot at the back of her head to keep it out of the way. She was a student of zivatahak, so she would be fast, nimble, in the seconds before she lost.

  "Didn't even bother to put on your armor?" Lety sneered at me. "This will be easy."

  Yes, it would.

  She drew her currentblade, her hand wrapped in dark current--like my currentshadows in color, but not in form. For her, though they wrapped around her wrist, they never touched her skin. But my current was buried inside me. She paused, waiting for me to draw.

  "Go on," I said, and I beckoned to her.

  The crowd roared again, and then I couldn't hear them anymore. I was focused on Lety, the way she was inching toward me, trying to read strategy into my actions. But I was just standing there, my arms limp at my sides, letting my currentgift's strength build along with my fear.

  Finally she decided to make her first move. I saw it in her arms and legs before she budged, and stepped aside when she lunged, arching away from her like an Ogra dancer. The move startled her; she stumbled forward, catching herself on the arena wall.

  My currentshadows were so dense now, so painful, that I could hardly see straight. Pain roared through me, and I welcomed it. I remembered Uzul Zetsyvis's contorted face between my stained hands, and I saw him in his daughter, her brow furrowed with concentration.

  She lunged again, this time driving her blade toward my ribs, and I batted her aside with my forearm, then reached over her to grab her wrist. I twisted, hard, and forced her head down. I kneed her in the face. Blood spilled over her lips, and she screamed. But not from the wound. From my touch.

  The currentblade fell between us. Keeping my hand on one of her arms, I pushed her to her knees with the other, and moved to stand behind her. I found Ryzek in the crowd, sitting on the raised platform with his legs crossed, like he was watching a lecture or a speech instead of a murder.

  I waited until his eyes found mine, and then I pushed. I pushed all the shadow, all the pain, into Lety Zetsyvis's body, keeping none of it for myself. It was easy, so easy, and quick. I closed my eyes as she screamed and shuddered, and then she was gone.

  For a moment, everything was dim. I released her limp body, then turned to walk into the anteroom again. The entire crowd was silent. As I passed through the doorway to the anteroom, I was, for once, clear of shadows. It was only temporary. They would return soon.

  Just out of sight, Akos reached for me, pulling me against him. He pressed me to his chest in something like an embrace, and said something to me in the language of my enemies.

  "It's over," he said, in whispered Thuvhesit. "It's over now."

  Later that night, I barred the door to my quarters so no one could come in. Akos sterilized a knife over the burners in his room, and cooled it with water from the faucet. I rested my arm on the table, then undid the fasteners on my forearm guard, one by one, beginning at the wrist and ending at the elbow. The guard was stiff and hard, and despite its lining, made my skin moist with sweat by the end of the day.

  Akos sat across from me, sterilized knife in hand, and watched me peel the edges of the wrist guard back to reveal the bare skin beneath. I didn't ask him what he imagined. He had probably assumed, like most people, that the guard covered row after row of kill marks. That I had chosen to cover them because, somehow, fostering the mystery around them made me more menacing. I had never discouraged that rumor. The truth was so much worse.

  There were marks up and down my arm, from elbow to wrist, row after row. Little dark lines, perfectly spaced, each one the same length. And through each one, a small diagonal hash mark, negating it under Shotet law.

  Akos's brow furrowed, and he took my arm in both hands, holding me with just his fingertips. He turned my arm over, running his fingers down one of the rows. When he reached the end, he touched his index finger to one of the hashes, turning his arm to compare it to his own. I shivered to see our skin side by side, mine tawny and his pale.

  "These aren't kills," he said quietly.

  "I only marked my mother's passing," I said, just as quietly. "Make no mistake, I am responsible for more deaths, but I stopped recording them after her. Until Zetsyvis, anyway."

  "And instead, you record . . . what?" He squeezed my arm. "What are all these marks for?"

  "Death is a mercy compared to the agony I have caused. So I keep a record of pain, not kills. Each mark is someone I have hurt because Ryzek told me to." I had counted the marks, at f
irst, always sure of their number. I had not known, then, exactly how long Ryzek would put me to use as his interrogator. Over time, though, I had just stopped keeping track. Knowing the number only made it worse.

  "How old were you, when he first asked you to do this?"

  I didn't understand the tone of his voice, with all its softness. I had just shown him proof of my own monstrousness, and still his eyes fixed on mine with sympathy instead of judgment. He couldn't possibly understand what I was telling him, to look at me like that. Or he thought I was lying, or exaggerating.

  "Old enough to know it was wrong," I snapped.

  "Cyra." Soft again. "How old?"

  I sat back in my chair. "Ten," I admitted. "And it was my father, not Ryzek, who first asked."

  His head bobbed. He touched the point of the knife to the table and spun the handle in quick circles, marking the wood.

  Finally, he said, "When I was ten, I didn't know my fate yet. So I wanted to be a Hessa soldier, like the ones that patrolled my father's iceflower fields. He was a farmer." Akos balanced his chin on a hand as he looked me over. "But one day criminals went into the fields while he was working, to steal some of the harvest, and Dad tried to stop them before the soldiers got there. He came home with this huge gash across his cheek. Mom just started screaming at him." He laughed a little. "Doesn't make much sense, does it, yelling at someone for getting hurt?"

  "Well, she was afraid for him," I said.

  "Yeah. I was scared, too, I guess, because that night I decided I never wanted to be a soldier, if my job would be to get cut up like that."

  I couldn't help but laugh a little.

  "I know," he said, his lip curling at the corner. "Little did I know how I would be spending my days now."

  He tapped the table, and I noticed, for the first time, how jagged his nails were, and all the cuts along his cuticles. I would have to break him of the habit of chewing on his own hands.

  "My point is," he continued, "that when I was ten I was so scared of even seeing pain that I could hardly stand it. Meanwhile, when you were ten, you were being told to cause it, over and over again, by someone much more powerful than you were. Someone who was supposed to be taking care of you."