Carve the Mark (Carve the Mark #1)(43)

“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.”