Carve the Mark

  "You're grown," his mom said as she pulled away. "I've seen half a dozen versions of this moment and still had no idea you'd be so tall."

  "Never thought I'd see you surprised."

  She laughed a little.

  All wasn't forgiven, not by half. But if this was one of the last times he would get to see her, he wasn't going to spend it angry. She smoothed a hand over his hair, and he let her, though he knew his hair didn't need smoothing.

  Isae's voice broke the silence. "Hello, Sifa."

  The oracle bobbed her head at Isae. Akos didn't need to warn her not to tell the renegades who Isae was; she already knew, as always.

  "Hello," she said to Isae. "I'm glad to see you, too. We've been worried about you, back at home. Your sister, too."

  Guarded words, full of subtext. Thuvhe was probably in chaos, searching for its lost chancellor. Akos wondered, then, if Isae had even told anybody where she was going, or that she was still alive. Maybe she didn't care enough to. After all, she hadn't grown up in Thuvhe, had she? How much loyalty to their icy country did she actually have?

  "Well," Jorek said, warm as ever, "we're honored by your presence, Oracle. Please join us for a meal."

  "I will, but I must warn you, I came armed with visions," Sifa said. "I think they will interest you all."

  Someone was muttering, translating the Thuvhesit words for the renegades who didn't speak the language. Akos still struggled to hear the difference between the two languages unless he really paid attention. That was the thing about knowing something in your blood instead of your brain, he supposed. It was just there.

  He spotted Cyra at the back of the crowd, halfway between the renegades and the stairwell they'd just come out of. She looked . . . well, she looked scared. Of meeting the oracle? No--of meeting his mother. Had to be.

  Ask the girl to assassinate her own brother, or fight someone to the death, and she didn't even blink. But she was afraid of meeting his mother. He smiled.

  The others were moving back to the low stove where the renegades had set up a fire to keep them all warm. In the time Akos had been upstairs helping Cyra, they had dragged a few tables in from some of the apartments, and half a dozen different styles were represented: one square and metal, one narrow and wooden, another glass, another carved. There was some food on them, cooked saltfruit and dried strips of meat, a loaf of bread toasting on a spit, and burnt fenzu shells, a delicacy he'd never tried. Next to the food were little bowls of iceflowers, waiting to be blended and brewed. Probably by Akos, if he knew Jorek half as well as he thought. It wasn't as elaborate as what they had eaten the night before, but it was enough.

  He didn't have to guide his mom toward Cyra. She saw her and walked straight at her. It didn't make Cyra look any less scared.

  "Miss Noavek," his mom said. There was a little catch in her throat. She tilted her head to see the silverskin on Cyra's neck.

  "Oracle," Cyra said, inclining her head. He'd never seen Cyra bow to anyone like she meant it before.

  One of the shadows bloomed over Cyra's cheek and then spread into three lines of inky dark that ran down her throat like a swallow. He set his fingers on her elbow so she could shake his mother's hand when she offered it, and his mom watched the light touch with interest.

  "Mom, Cyra made sure I got home last week," he said. He wasn't sure what else to say about her. Or what else to say, period. The blush that had chased him through childhood came creeping back; he felt it behind his ears, and tried to stifle it. "At great cost to herself, as you can see."

  His mom looked Cyra over again. "Thank you, Miss Noavek, for what you've done for my son. I look forward, later, to finding out why."

  With a strange smile, Sifa turned away, linking arms with Cisi. Cyra hung back with Akos, eyebrows raised.

  "That's my mother," he said.

  "I realize that," she said. "You're . . ." She brushed her fingers over the back of his ear, where his skin was heating. "You're blushing."

  So much for trying to stifle it. The heat spread to Akos's face, and he was sure he was bright red. Shouldn't he have grown out of this by now?

  "You don't know how to explain me. You only flush when you don't know what words to use, I've noticed," she said, her finger moving down to his jaw. "It's all right. I wouldn't know how to explain me to your mother, either."

  He didn't know what he'd expected. Teasing, maybe? Cyra wasn't above teasing him, but she seemed to know, somehow, that this was off-limits. The simple, quiet understanding softened his insides. He covered her hand. Hooked his finger around hers, so they were linked.

  "Maybe now isn't the time to tell you that I'm probably not going to be any good at charming her," she said.

  "So don't be charming," he said. "She certainly isn't."

  "Careful. You don't know how not-charming I can be." Cyra brought their joined fingers to her mouth, and bit down, lightly.

  Akos settled into a place at the metal table next to Sifa. If there was a Hessa uniform, she was wearing it: her pants were a sturdy material, probably lined with something to keep her warm, and her boots had small hooks in the soles to grip ice. Her hair was tied back with red ribbon. Cisi's, he was sure. There were new lines in her forehead, and around her eyes, like the seasons had taken something from her. And of course, they had.

  All around them the renegades sat, passing bowls of food and empty plates and utensils. Across from them were Teka, with a floral-patterned eye patch this time, Jorek, his curly hair damp from a bath, and Jyo, with his lap instrument on its head, his chin resting on top of it.

  "Food first," Sifa said, when she realized the renegades were waiting for her. "Prophecy later."

  "Of course," Jorek said with a smile. "Akos, I wonder if you can make us all some tea to loosen us up a little?"

  As predicted. Akos didn't even bother to act annoyed at being given a job when his mom had just burst through the ceiling in a Thuvhesit floater. He wanted something to do with his hands.

  "I can."

  He filled the water kettle and hung it from a hook in the little stove, then stood at the other end of the patchwork of tables, mixing tea blends for as many mugs as he could find. Most were the standard inhibition-releasing formulas, meant to raise spirits and ease conversation. But he made a painkiller for Cyra, and something calming for himself. As he stood with his fingers in the iceflower bowls, he heard his mom and Cyra talking.

  "My son was eager for me to meet you, I could tell," his mom said. "You must be a good friend."

  "Um . . . yes," Cyra said. "I think so, yes."

  You think so, Akos thought, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He'd given her clear enough labels, back in the stairwell, but she still couldn't quite believe it. That was the problem with being so convinced of your own awfulness--you thought other people were lying when they didn't agree with you.

  "I have heard that you have a talent for death," his mom said. At least Akos had warned Cyra about Sifa's lack of charm.

  He glanced at Cyra. She held her armored wrist against her gut.

  "I suppose I do," she said. "But I don't have a passion for it."

  Vapor slipped from the nose of the water kettle, not yet thick enough for Akos to pour. Water had never boiled so slowly.

  "You two have spent a lot of time together," his mom said.

  "Yes."

  "Are you to blame for his survival these past few seasons?"

  "No," Cyra said. "Your son survives because of his own will."

  His mom smiled. "You sound defensive."

  "I don't take credit for other people's strength," Cyra said. "Only my own."

  His mom's smile got even bigger. "And a little cocky."

  "I've been called worse."

  The vapor was thick enough. Akos grabbed the hook with the wooden handle that hung next to the stove, and attached it to the kettle. It caught, and locked in place as he poured water in each of the mugs. Isae came forward for one, standing on tiptoe so she could whisper in his ear. r />
  "If it hasn't already, it should be dawning on you right about now that your girl and your mother are very similar people," she said. "I will pause as that irrefutable fact chills you to the core."

  Akos eyed her. "Was that humor, Chancellor?"

  "On occasion, I have been known to make a humorous remark." She sipped her tea, though it was still boiling hot. It didn't seem to hurt her. She cradled the mug against her chest. "You knew my sister well, when you were children?"

  "Not as well as Eijeh did," Akos said. "I was a little harder to talk to."

  "She talked about him a lot," Isae said. "It broke her heart when he was taken. She left Thuvhe for a while, to help me recover from the incident." She waved her hand over her face, the scars. "Couldn't have done it without her. Those fools at Assembly Headquarters didn't know what to do with me."

  Assembly Headquarters was a place Akos had only heard about in passing. A giant ship in orbit around their sun, holding a bunch of drifting ambassadors and politicians.

  "Seems like you'd fit in with them all right," he said. Not exactly a compliment, and she didn't seem to take it as one.

  "I'm not all I seem," she said with a shrug. She had worn shiny shoes at the hospital in Shissa, sure, he thought, but she also hadn't complained this whole time about her own comfort. If she really had spent most of her life on a cruiser vessel coasting through space, she hadn't lived like royalty, that much was clear. But it was hard to get a read on her. It was like she belonged to no one, and nowhere.

  "Well, no matter how well you knew her," she said, "I'm . . . grateful for your help. And Cyra's. It's not what I expected." She glanced up at the hole in the ceiling. "None of this is."

  "I know the feeling."

  She made a little sound in her throat. "If you get Eijeh out, and don't die in the process, will you come home with us?" she asked. "I could use your insights on Shotet culture. My experience with them has been somewhat one-sided, as you might imagine."

  "You think you can just have a fated traitor in your service without raising any eyebrows?" he said.

  "You could go by another name."

  "I can't hide who I am," he said. "And I can't run away from the fact that my fate lies across the Divide. Not anymore."

  She sipped her tea again. She looked almost . . . sad.

  "You call it 'the Divide,'" she said. "Like they do."

  He had done it without meaning to, without even thinking about it. Thuvhesits just called it feathergrass. Up until a little while ago, so had he.

  She set her hand on the side of Akos's head, lightly. It was odd for her to touch him--her skin was cold.

  "Just remember," she said. "These people don't care about Thuvhesit lives. And whether you have the last vestiges of Shotet ancestry in your blood or not, you are Thuvhesit. You are one of my people, not theirs."

  He'd never expected anyone from Thuvhe to claim him. More the opposite, actually.

  She let her hand fall, and carried her mug back to her seat next to Cisi. Jyo was playing Cisi a song, with that sleepy look in his eyes that was becoming familiar to Akos. Too bad for Jyo; anyone with a pair of eyes could see Cisi only wanted Isae. And he was pretty sure it went both ways.

  Akos carried the painkiller to Cyra. She and his mother had moved on to another topic. His mom was mopping up the juice from some saltfruit with a chunk of bread made from ground-up seeds, harvested in the fields outside Voa. It wasn't so different from what they'd eaten in Hessa--one of the few things Shotet and Thuvhe had in common.

  "My mother took us there once," Cyra was saying. "That's where I learned to swim, in a special suit that protected against the cold. It might have come in handy on the last sojourn."

  "Yes, you went to Pitha, didn't you?" Sifa said. "You were there, weren't you, Akos?"

  "Yes," he said. "Spent most of my time there on an island of trash."

  "You've seen the galaxy," she said with an odd smile. She slid her hand under his left sleeve, touching each kill mark. Her smile faded as she counted them.

  "Who were they?" she asked softly.

  "Two of the men who attacked our house," he said in a low voice. "And the Armored One who gave me its skin."

  Her eyes flicked to Cyra's. "Do they know him, here?"

  "As I understand it, he is the subject of quite a few rumors, most of them untrue," Cyra said. "They know he can touch me, that he can brew strong poisons, and that he is a Thuvhesit captive who somehow managed to earn armor."

  Sifa had that look in her eyes, the one she got when she saw prophecies coming to life. It scared him.

  "I have always known what you would become, remember?" Sifa said quietly. "Someone who would always be stared at. You are what you need to be. Regardless, I love the person you were, the one you are, the one you will become. Understand?"

  He was caught up in her stare, in her voice. Like he was standing in the temple with dried iceflowers burning around him, staring at her through the smoke. Like he was sitting on the floor of the Storyteller's home, watching him weave the past out of vapor. It was easy to fall into this fervor, but Akos had spent too long suffering under the weight of his own fate to let that happen.

  "Give me a straight answer, just this once," he said to her. "Do I save Eijeh or not?"

  "I have seen futures where you do, and futures where you don't," she said. And, smiling, she added, "But you always, always try."

  The renegades sat at attention, their plates stacked at one end of the big wooden table, and their mugs mostly empty. Teka was wrapped up in a blanket Sovy had embroidered for her, Akos heard her say, and Jyo had put away his instrument. Even Jorek hid his fidgeting fingers under the table while the oracle described her visions. Akos had been watching people get respectful around his mom since he was young, but it felt different here. Like another reason not to belong, as if he needed more.

  "Three visions," Sifa began. "In the first, we depart this place before daybreak, so no one sees us through that hole in the roof."

  "But . . . you made that hole," Teka interrupted. It figured she would reach the limits of her reverence so quickly, Akos thought. Teka didn't seem to like nonsense. "If you knew we would have to leave because of it, you could have avoided making it in the first place."

  "So glad you're keeping up," Sifa said, serene.

  Akos swallowed a laugh. A few seats down, Cisi seemed to be doing the same.

  "In the second vision, Ryzek Noavek stands before an immense crowd while the sun is high." She pointed straight up. A noon sun, in Voa, which was closer to the planet's equator. "In an amphitheater. There are sights and amplifiers everywhere. Very public--a ceremony, maybe."

  "They're honoring a platoon of soldiers tomorrow," Jorek said. "Could be that--otherwise there are no upcoming ceremonies until the next Sojourn Festival."

  "Possibly," Sifa said. "In the third vision, I see Orieve Benesit struggling against Vas Kuzar's grip. She is in a cell. Large, made of glass. There are no windows. The smell is . . ." She sniffed, like it was still in the air. "Musty. Underground, I think."

  "Struggling," Isae repeated. "Is she hurt? Is she--okay?"

  "There is quite a bit of life in her," Sifa said. "Or appears to be."

  "The cell made of glass--that's a cell beneath the amphitheater," Cyra said dully. "That's where I was held, before--" She stopped herself, fingers fluttering over her neck. "The second and third visions happen in the same place. Do they happen at the same time?"

  "It is my sense," Sifa said, "that they are layered over each other. But my sense of placement in time is not always accurate."

  Her hands fell to her lap, slipped into her pocket. Akos watched her take something out, a small object. It shone, catching his eye--it was a button from a jacket. It was tinted yellow at the edges where the finish had worn away from frequent buttoning. He could almost see his dad's fingers fumbling with it as he groaned about having to go to one of his sister's military dinners in Shissa, representing Hessa's iceflower flats. Like this
jacket is going to fool anyone, he had said to their mother once, as they both got ready in the hall bathroom. They'll take one look at the ice scrapes on my boots and know I'm an iceflower farm kid. Their mom had only laughed.

  Maybe in another future, Aoseh Kereseth would have been sitting next to Sifa at this strange circle of people, giving Akos a steadiness his mom never could foster, twitchy prophet that she was. Maybe she had brought that button to remind him that his dad wasn't where he should be, because of Vas. As he thought of it, he knew he was right, knew that was exactly why she had taken out that button.

  "You're manipulating me with that," he snapped, interrupting something Teka was saying. He didn't care. Sifa was only looking at him. "Put it away. I remember him well enough on my own."

  After all, he thought, I'm the one who watched him die, not you.

  Something fierce flickered in his mom's eyes, almost like she was listening to his thoughts. But she put the button back into her pocket.

  The button was a good reminder, not of his father, but of how manipulative his mother could be. If she was sharing visions, it wasn't because they were absolute, fixed in time like a fate was. It was because she had chosen a version of the future she wanted, and she was trying to push them all toward it. As a kid, he might have trusted her judgment, trusted that whatever future she had picked was the best one. Now, on the other side of his kidnapping and everything else that he'd lived through, he wasn't so sure.

  "As Teka was saying," Jorek said, into the strange silence. "Forgive me, I know she's the sister of your chancellor, but the fate of Orieve Benesit isn't particularly relevant to our interests. We are interested only in unseating Ryzek Noavek."

  "By killing him," Teka added. "In case that wasn't clear."

  "You have no interest in rescuing the sister of a chancellor?" Isae said, flinty.

  "She's not our chancellor," Teka said. "And we're not a band of heroes, or something. We're not about to risk our lives and safety for Thuvhesit strangers."

  Isae's mouth puckered.

  "It's relevant to your interests because it's an opportunity," Cyra said, lifting her head. "Since when does Ryzek Noavek call official ceremonies for platoons of sojourning soldiers? He's just doing it so he has a captive audience when he murders Orieve Benesit, to prove he can defy his fate. He will ensure that all of Shotet is watching. If you want to move against him, do it then. Do it when everyone is watching, and take away his moment of triumph."