Carve the Mark (Carve the Mark #1)(109)

“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?”