Carve the Mark (Carve the Mark #1)(110)

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.

“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.”