Carve the Mark (Carve the Mark #1)(51)

“They wouldn’t go. Besides, as long as he’s alive, he’s a danger to them. I don’t want them to have to live that way, on the run, always scared,” Jorek said, firm. “I’m not taking any unnecessary risks.”

“And there’s no one else who can help you.”

“No one can force Suzao Kuzar to do anything he doesn’t want to do.” Jorek laughed. “Except Ryzek, and I’ll give you one guess what the sovereign of Shotet would say to that request.”

Akos rubbed at the marks by his elbow, and thought of the savagery of them. He doesn’t look like much, Osno’s mother had said about him. He’s nice enough, Osno had replied. Well, neither of them had known what he could do with a knife, had they?

“You want me to kill a man,” Akos said, if only to test it out in his own mind.

“A man who aided in your kidnapping. Yes.”

“What, out of the goodness of my heart?” Akos shook his head and held out the practice knife handle-first for Jorek to take. “No.”

“In return,” Jorek said, “I can offer you your freedom. As you said, there are hundreds of floaters in the loading bay. It would be a simple thing, to help you take one. To open the doors for you. To make sure someone on the nav deck was looking the other way.”

Freedom. He offered it like someone who didn’t know what it meant, someone who had never had it taken away. Only, it didn’t exist for Akos anymore, and hadn’t since the day he found out his fate. Maybe even since he promised his dad he would get Eijeh home.

So Akos shook his head again. “No deal.”

“You don’t want to go home?”

“I have unfinished business here. And I really should get back to it, so . . .”

Jorek still wasn’t taking the practice knife, so Akos let it fall between them and started toward the door. He felt for Jorek’s mother, maybe even for Jorek himself, but he had enough family trouble of his own, and these marks weren’t getting any easier to bear.

“Then what about that brother of yours?” Jorek said. “The one who inhales when Ryzek exhales?”

Akos stopped, grinding his teeth. It’s your own fault, he told himself. You’re the one who hinted at “unfinished business.” Somehow knowing that didn’t make it any easier.

“I can get him out,” Jorek said. “Get him home, where they can fix whatever’s addled his brain.”

He thought of the almost-escape again, of Eijeh’s broken voice asking him, “Why did this happen?” His sunken cheeks, his sallow skin. He was disappearing, day by day, season by season. Soon there wouldn’t be much left to rescue.

“Okay.” It came out like a whisper, not how he meant it.

“Okay?” Jorek sounded a little breathless. “You mean you’ll do it?”

Akos forced out the word. “Yes.”

For Eijeh, the answer was always yes.

They didn’t grip hands, like two Thuvhesits might have, to settle a deal. Here, just saying the words in the language the Shotet held sacred was enough.

That there was a guard stationed at the end of Cyra’s hallway didn’t make much sense to Akos. No one got the better of Cyra in a fight. Even the guard seemed to agree—he didn’t so much as check Akos for weapons when he walked past.

Cyra was hunched in front of the stove, a pot at her feet and water pooled on the floor. There were curved dents in her palms—fingernail marks, from too-tight fists—and dark currentstreaks everywhere Akos could see. He ran to her, slipping a little on the wet floor.

Akos took up her wrists, and the streaks disappeared, like a river flowing backward to its source. He felt nothing, as always. He often heard people talking about the hum of the current, the places and times it waned, but that was just a memory for him. Not even a clear one.

Her skin felt hot in his hands. Her eyes lifted to his. Akos had figured out early that she didn’t look “upset” the way other people did—she either looked angry or she didn’t. But now that he knew her better, he could see the sadness showing through the cracks in the armor.

“Thinking about Lety?” he said, shifting his grip a little so he held her hands instead, first two fingers fitting into the cleft of her thumb.

“I just dropped it.” She nodded to the pot. “That’s all.”

That’s never “all,” he thought, but he didn’t press. On an impulse he ran a hand over her hair, smoothing it down. It was thick, and curled, sometimes tempting him to twist it around his fingers for no particular reason.

The light touch brought a stab of guilt along with it. He wasn’t supposed to do things like that—wasn’t supposed to march toward his own fate instead of being dragged. Back in Thuvhe, all who met eyes with him now would see a traitor. He couldn’t let them be right.

Sometimes, though, he felt Cyra’s pain like it was his own, and he couldn’t help but dull it for the both of them.

Cyra turned her hand in his, so her fingertips rested on his palm. Her touch was soft, curious. Then she pressed him back. Away.

“You’re early,” she said, and she grabbed a cloth to dry the floor. The water was starting to seep through the soles of Akos’s shoes. She was shadowy again, and flinching from the pain of it, but if she didn’t want his help, he wasn’t going to force it on her.