"Cyra said to move toward the center," Isae said softly. "She didn't remember the path exactly. Said she was out of it when she was taken here last."
But Cyra wasn't the only person who had been here. Akos closed his eyes, thinking back to the night when Vas had wrestled him from his bed after a few days' starvation--he didn't know how long exactly, just that his door was locked and nobody would explain to him what was going on, and his stomach had ached for hours on end. And then stopped aching, like it had given up.
Vas had gotten a few good hits in in the hallway, then tossed him in a floater and flew him here. To this tunnel, to this mildew-trash smell and this particular darkness.
"I remember," he said, and he slipped past Isae so he could take the lead.
He was still sweating, so he unfastened the heavy fabric covering his armor and tossed it aside. This path was hazy in his memories, and the last thing he wanted to do was go back to that time, when everything had ached and he had felt so weak he could hardly stand. Eijeh had met him and Vas at the back door, and he had curled his fingers around the armor that covered Akos's shoulder. For a tick it had felt comforting, like his brother was trying to steady him. And then Eijeh had dragged him to the prison. To be tortured.
Akos gritted his teeth, squeezed his knife, and kept going. When he rounded the first corner, saw the first guard in his path, he didn't even think, he just erupted. Slammed the shorter, broader man into the wall, using his chin to drive his skull into the stone. A knife scraped Akos's armor, and a tongue of fire issued from the palm of the guard's hand, put out immediately by Akos's touch.
Akos slammed the guard's head back again, and again, until his eyes rolled back and he slumped. A chill passed over Akos, his hair standing on end. He didn't check if the man was dead. He didn't want to know.
He did glance at Cisi. Her mouth was twisted with disgust.
"Well," Isae said--chirped, really. "That was effective."
"Yep," Teka said, and she stepped right on the guard's leg as she kept walking down the next hallway. "Whoever we run into here is a Noavek loyalist, Kereseth. Not worth crying over."
"Do you see tears on my face?" he said, trying for some of Cyra's bravado and falling short when his voice cracked a little. Still, he kept walking. He couldn't worry about Cisi's opinion of him. Not down here.
A few more turns, and Akos wasn't sweating anymore; he was shivering. The hallways all looked the same: uneven stone floor, dusty stone wall, low stone ceiling. Whenever they stepped down, Akos had to duck so he wouldn't scrape his head. The smell of trash was gone, but the mildew was back in force, choking him. He remembered staring at the side of Eijeh's head as his brother yanked him forward through these passages. Noticing that Eijeh had cut his hair short, just like Ryzek.
I can't watch you destroy yourself for someone who doesn't want to be saved, Cyra had said the night before. He had shown her just how deep his insanity ran, and she had refused to go along with it. It was hard to hold it against her. Except he did. Had to.
The door up ahead didn't look right in its stone-and-wood frame. It was made of black glass, opaque, and the locking mechanism was on the side. A keypad. Cyra had given them a list of combination options--all of them, she said, related to her mother in some way. Birthday, death day, anniversary, lucky numbers. Akos still couldn't see Ryzek as a person who cared about his mother enough to lock his doors with her birthday.
But instead of trying even one of the combinations, Teka just started unscrewing the plate that covered the keypad. Her screwdriver was as delicate as a needle, polished and clean. She moved it like it was a sixth finger. Popped the cover off the keypad and set it down, then pinched one of the wires under it, eyes shut.
"Um . . . Teka?" There were footsteps coming from behind them somewhere.
"Shut up," she snapped, pinching a different wire. She smiled a little. "Ah," she said, and it was clear she wasn't talking to them. "I see. Okay then, come along--"
All the lights went out except the emergency light above, which shone down on them from the corner, so bright it left spots on Akos's eyelids. The glass door sprang open, revealing the glass floor that Akos remembered from his very worst memory: his brother forcing him to his knees in front of Cyra Noavek. The pale emergency lights glowed in the floor in the prison hallway, dividing it into grids.
Isae sprinted through the doorway, and ran right down the middle of the hallway, looking left and right every time she reached a new cell. Akos went in after her, scanning the space, but feeling separate from it at the same time. Isae was running back now, and he knew what she was going to say before she said it.
Somehow he felt like he'd known it all along, since he watched his mother flip that button in her fingers, since he realized how easy it would be for Sifa to manipulate them into the future she wanted, no matter the cost.
"She's not here," Isae said. Since he'd known her, she'd always been in total control, hadn't even broken down when she found out Ori was kidnapped. Had never faltered, not even once. And now she was almost shrieking. Frantic. "She's not here, Ori's not here!"
He blinked, slow, like all the air around his head had turned to syrup. All the cells were empty. Ori was gone.
CHAPTER 35: CYRA
AFTER THE DOUBLE DOORS to the amphitheater opened, I knew it was time for me to move. I looked at Akos one last time, noting the red stain on his fingertips from preparing hushflower blends the night before, and the white line along his jaw where he had been scarred, and the natural gathering between his eyebrows that gave him an expression of perpetual concern. Then I slipped between the two people standing in front of me and stepped into the pack of soldiers who were about to receive their honor from my brother.
By the time one of them noticed me walking among them, we were inside the yawning tunnel to the amphitheater floor. But I had drawn my currentblade, so I wasn't concerned.
"Hey!" one of the soldiers snapped. "You're not supposed to--"
I seized him by the elbow and drew him close, touching the point of my knife to the bottom edge of his armor, right above his hip. I pressed it just enough for him to feel the sting of the point.
"Let me walk in," I told him, loud enough for the others to hear. "I'll let him go as soon as we're inside."
"Is that . . . ?" one of the others asked, leaning close to see my face.
I didn't answer. Keeping my hand on his armor, not his skin, I pressed my captive soldier toward the end of the tunnel. None of the others moved to help him, and I credited my reputation for that--my reputation, and the ropes of shadow currently wrapped around my throat and wrists.
I squinted into the bright light at the end of the passageway, and the roar of a huge crowd filled my ears. The big, heavy doors closed behind me and locked, leaving only my hostage and me on the arena floor. The other soldiers had stayed back. Above us, the force field buzzed. It smelled sour as saltfruit, and familiar as the dust that rose into the air with every footstep I took.
I had bled here. I had made others bleed here.
Ryzek was on a wide platform, halfway up the stadium's side. An amplifier swooped over his head and hovered. His mouth was open, like he had been ready to speak, but now all he could do was stare at me.
I shoved my hostage soldier aside, sheathed my currentblade, and pushed away the hood that shaded my face.
It took Ryzek only a moment to put on a mocking smile. "Well. Look at this. Cyra Noavek, back so soon? Did you miss us? Or is this how disgraced Shotet commit suicide?"
A chorus of laughter came from the crowd. The stadium was full of his most loyal supporters, the healthiest and wealthiest and best-fed people in Shotet. They would laugh at anything that resembled a joke.
One of the amplifiers--controlled by remote by someone in the amphitheater--floated over my head to catch my response. I watched it bob up and down like a swallow. I didn't have much time before he sent someone after me; I had to be direct.
I removed each of my gloves, in tur
n, and unbuttoned the heavy cloak that made me sweat. Beneath it I wore my armor. My arms were bare, and a layer of makeup--applied by Teka that morning--disguised the bruises on my face, making it look like I had healed overnight. The silverskin on my throat and head shone. It itched in earnest now as it knitted together with my scalp.
If my body ached, it didn't mention it. I was on Akos's painkiller, but it was adrenaline that really made me separate from my pain now.
"I'm here to challenge you to the arena," I said.
There was a smattering of laughter from the crowd, like they weren't sure if it was expected of them. Ryzek was certainly not laughing.
"I never knew you to be so theatrical," Ryzek said at last. His face was sweaty; he wiped his upper lip with the back of his hand. "Marching in here with a hostage to make an attempt on your brother's life is . . . well, just as cruel as we have come to expect from you, I suppose."
"No crueler than having your sister beaten to death and recording it so everyone can watch," I said.
"You are not my sister," Ryzek said. "You're my mother's murderer."
"Then come down here and avenge her," I said hotly.
The amphitheater was full of mutters again, noise poured back into it like water into a glass.
"You don't deny killing her?" Ryzek said.
I couldn't even pretend to deny it. Even after all this time, the memory was close to me. I had been yelling at her at the time, throwing a tantrum. "I don't want to go to another doctor! I won't!" I had grabbed her arm, and shoved the pain at her like a child thrusting a plate of unwanted food away. But I had pushed too hard, and she had fallen at my feet. What I most remembered were her hands, folded over her stomach. So elegant, so perfect. Even in death.
"I am not here to trade accusations with you," I said. "I am here to do what I should have done seasons ago. Fight me in the arena." I drew my knife and held it out from my side. "And before you tell me that I don't have the rank to make such a challenge, let me point out how convenient that is."
Ryzek's jaw was set. When we were young, he had lost a tooth because he ground them in his sleep. It had fractured from the force, and its replacement was capped with metal. Sometimes I saw it glinting when he spoke, a reminder of the pressure that had created the man standing in front of me.
I went on, "You stripped me of my rank so no one could ever see for themselves that I am stronger than you. Now you hide behind your throne like a cowering child, and call it law." I tilted my head. "But no one can quite forget your fate, can they? To fall to the family Benesit?" I smiled. "Refusing to fight me just confirms what everyone suspects about you: that you are weak."
I heard low whispers in the crowd. No one had declared Ryzek's fate so baldly, so publicly, without suffering the consequences. The last one who had tried had been Teka's mother on the sojourn ship's intercom, and now she was dead. The soldiers by the doors shifted, waiting for the order to kill me, but it didn't come.
All that came was Ryzek's smile, showing teeth. It was not the smile of someone who was squirming.
"All right, little Cyra. I'll spar with you," he said. "Since that seems to be the only behavior that makes sense to you."
I couldn't let him unsettle me, but he was doing well. The smile had chilled me. It made the currentshadows race around my arms and throat, my forever adornments. Always denser, faster, when my brother cued them with his voice.
"Yes, I will execute this traitor myself," he said. "Clear a path."
I knew his smile, and what it disguised. He had a plan. But hopefully mine was better.
Ryzek descended to the arena floor slowly and with grace, walking the path the crowd made for him, pausing at the barrier so a servant could check the tension of his armor straps and the sharpness of his currentblades.
In an honest fight, I would beat Ryzek within minutes. My father had taught Ryzek the art of cruelty, and my mother had taught him political scheming, but everyone had always left me alone to my own studies. My isolation had made me his superior in combat. Ryzek knew that, so he would never make this an honest fight. That meant I didn't know what weapon he was really holding.
He was taking his time on his way to the arena, which meant there was likely something he was waiting for. He didn't intend to actually fight me, obviously, just as I didn't intend to fight him.
If all was going according to plan, and Yma had slipped the contents of the vial into the calming tonic he drank with his breakfast, the iceflowers were already swimming through his body. The timing would not be exact; that depended on the person. I would have to be ready for the potion to surprise me, or fail entirely.
"You're dawdling," I said, hoping that calling him out would speed him up. "What is it you're waiting for?"
"I am waiting for the right blade," Ryzek said, and he dropped down to the arena floor. Dust rose up in a cloud around his feet. He rolled up his left sleeve, baring his kill marks. He had run out of space on his arm, and started a second row next to the first, near his elbow. He claimed every kill that he ordered as his own, even if he himself had not brought about the death.
Ryzek drew his currentblade slowly, and as he raised his arm, the crowd around us exploded into cheers. Their roar clouded my thoughts. I couldn't breathe.
He didn't look pale and unfocused, like he had actually consumed the poison. He looked, if anything, more focused than ever.
I wanted to run at him with blade extended, like an arrow released from a bow, a transport vessel breaking through the atmosphere. But I didn't. And neither did he. We both stood in the arena, waiting.
"What are you waiting for, sister?" Ryzek said. "Have you lost your nerve?"
"No," I said. "I'm waiting for the poison you swallowed this morning to settle in."
A gasp rattled through the crowd, and for once--for the first time--Ryzek's face went slack with shock. I had finally truly surprised him.
"All my life you've told me I have nothing to offer but the power that lives in my body," I said. "But I am not an instrument of torture and execution; I am the only person who knows the real Ryzek Noavek." I stepped toward him. "I know how you fear pain more than anything else in this world. I know that you gathered these people here today, not to celebrate a successful scavenge, but to witness the murder of Orieve Benesit."
I sheathed my blade. I held my hands out to my sides so the crowd could see that they were empty. "And the most important thing I know, Ryzek, is that you can't bear to kill someone unless you drug yourself first. Which is why I poisoned your calming tonic this morning."
Ryzek touched his stomach, as if he could feel the hushflower eating away at his guts through his armor.
"You made a mistake, valuing me only for my currentgift and my skill with a knife," I said.
And for once, I believed it.
CHAPTER 36: AKOS
The air in the underground prison was cool, but Akos knew that wasn't why Isae was trembling as she said, "Your mother said Ori would be here."
"There has to be a mistake," Cisi said softly. "Something she didn't see--"
Akos was pretty sure there was no mistake, but he wasn't about to share that now. They had to find Ori. If she wasn't in the prison, she had to be closer to the amphitheater--maybe above them, in the arena, or on the platform where Ryzek had cut into his own sister.
"We're wasting time. We need to go upstairs and find her," he said, surprised by how forceful his own voice sounded. "Now."
Apparently his voice had broken through Isae's panic. She took a deep breath and turned toward the door, where the distant footsteps of a few ticks ago had resolved into the menacing form of Vas Kuzar.
"Surukta. Kereseth. Ah--Benesit," Vas said, looking at Isae with a little tilt to his mouth. "Not as pretty as your twin, I have to say. Is that scar from a Shotet blade, by any chance?"
"Benesit?" Teka said, staring at Isae. "As in . . ."
Isae nodded.
Cisi had backed up against the wall of one of the cells, her hand
s flat against the glass. Akos wondered if his sister felt like she was standing in their living room again, watching Vas Kuzar murder their dad. That was how he had felt the first few times he saw Vas after the kidnapping--like everything was unraveling inside him at once. He didn't feel that way anymore.
Vas was empty-eyed as always. It had been disappointing to figure out that Vas was so empty of wrath, numb inside as well as outside. It was easier to think of him as pure evil, but the truth was, he was just a pet doing his master's bidding.
The memory of Akos's dad's death surfaced: his broken skin, the rich color of his blood, like the currentstream above them; the bloody blade that Vas had wiped on a pant leg as he left the house. The man with the polished Shotet armor and golden-brown eyes who couldn't feel pain. Unless--unless.
Unless Akos touched him.
He didn't bother to reason with Vas. It was a waste of time. Akos just started toward him, his boots scraping the grit they had tracked onto the glass floor. Vas's eyes looked even colder, despite being such a warm shade of hazel, because of the lights coming from beneath him.
Akos had the heart of prey; he wanted to run, or at least keep space between them, but he made himself press against that space. Breathed open-mouthed, with flared nose; never breathing enough.
Vas lunged, and Akos let himself be prey, then; he sprang away. Not fast enough. Vas's knife scraped his armor. Akos winced at the sound, turning again to face him.
He would let Vas get a few close calls in, let him get cocky. Cocky meant sloppy, and sloppy meant Akos might live.
Vas's eyes were like stamped metal, his arms were like twisted rope. He lunged again, but instead of trying to stab Akos, he grabbed his arm with his free hand and slammed him, hard, against the cell wall. Akos's head snapped back, smacking into the glass. He saw bursts of color and the glow of the floor against the flat ceiling. Vas's hand was clamped around him, stern enough to bruise.
And close enough to grab. Akos seized him before he could try to stab again, pressing his knife arm back as hard as he could muster. Vas's eyes went wide, startled by his touch. In pain, maybe. Akos tried to slam his forehead into Vas's nose, but he just tossed Akos aside.