Carve the Mark (Carve the Mark #1)(95)

Cisi snorted. “They clearly have never weathered a Hessa winter.”

He led them toward the distant buildings, through patches of wildflowers so fragile they came apart under his boots.

“So are you going to tell us where we’re going, or do you expect us to just march right into those buildings up ahead?” Isae said, once they were close enough to see what the houses were made of—blue-gray stone, with small glass windows stained in all different colors. It was just a few buildings, hardly enough to be called a village. With the setting sun glinting off the glass, and the wildflowers growing right up against the stone, the place was downright pretty.

He was taking a chance, coming here, but then, no matter what he did they were in trouble, so it was as good an option as any.

He was twitchy with nerves. These houses would be connected to the Shotet news feed. They would know what happened to Cyra here. He kept his left hand up by his right shoulder as he walked, so he could draw his knife if he needed to. He didn’t know what waited for them behind those bright windows. He drew his weapon when he saw a flash of movement, one of the doors opening. A small, sly-looking woman stepped out, her hands dripping water. She was holding a cloth. He knew her—Ara Kuzar. The late Suzao’s wife, and Jorek’s mother.

Well, at least they were in the right place.

“Hello,” Ara said. Her voice was lower than he’d expected. He’d only ever seen her once—as he walked out of the amphitheater after killing her husband. Her hand had been clutched in Jorek’s.

“Hello,” he replied. “I’m—”

“I know who you are, Akos,” she said. “My name is Ara, but I’m sure you already know that, too.”

No point in denying it. He nodded.

“Why don’t you come inside?” she said. “Your friends can come, too, as long as they don’t cause trouble.”

Isae arched an eyebrow at him as she took the lead, climbing the steps. Her hands hovered over her legs, moving to grasp fabric that wasn’t there to hold. She was used to fine clothing, probably, and still moved like an upper-class woman now, head high and shoulders back. She’d never weathered a Hessa winter, either, but there were harder things to weather.

They followed Ara down a narrow, creaky staircase to a kitchen. The floors were blue tile, the stain uneven, and the white paint flaked off the walls. But it was warm, and there was a big steady table with all the chairs pushed back, like there had been a lot of people there not long ago. A screen played the news feed on the far wall—it was jarring to see the synthetic light buried in the flaky wall, new and old married, as they were all over Shotet.

“I sent a signal to Jorek, so he should return soon,” Ara said. “Do your friends speak Shotet?”

“One of us,” Isae said. “I only learned a few seasons ago, so . . . go slowly.”

“No, we can carry on in Thuvhesit,” Ara said. Her Thuvhesit was stilted, but understandable.

“This is my sister, Cisi,” he said, gesturing to Cisi. “And my friend—”

“Badha,” Isae said easily.

“A pleasure to meet you both,” Ara said. “I have to confess, Akos, I am a little offended you didn’t accept my gift to you. The ring?”

She was looking at his hands, which were shaking a little.

“Oh,” he said. He stuck a thumb under the collar of his shirt and brought the chain out. From the end dangled the ring she’d sent him through her son. Really, he’d wanted to toss it in the garbage rather than wear it—Suzao’s death wasn’t something he wanted to remind himself of. But it was something he needed to remind himself of.

Ara nodded her approval.

“How do you two know each other?” Cisi asked. He wondered if her softened voice was intended to make this situation comfortable. Not worth the effort, he thought.

“That,” Ara said, “is a story for another time.”

Akos couldn’t stand it anymore. “I don’t want to be rude,” he said, “but I need to know about Cyra.”

Ara folded her hands over her stomach. “What about Miss Noavek?”

“Is she . . . ?” He couldn’t quite say the word.

“She is alive.”

He closed his eyes, just for a tick letting himself think about her again. She was lively in his memories, fighting in the training room like war was a dance, searching windows into black space like they were paintings. She made ugly things beautiful, somehow, and he would never understand it. But she was alive.

“I wouldn’t celebrate just yet,” spoke a voice from behind him. He turned to see a slight girl with white-blond hair and a pink eye patch over one eye. He recognized her from the sojourn ship, but didn’t remember her name.

Jorek was behind her, his mop of curly hair falling in his eyes, the shadow of a beard along his jaw.

“Akos?” he said. “What are you . . . ?”

He trailed off as he spotted Cisi and Isae.

“Cisi, Badha,” Akos said. “This is Jorek, and . . . ?”

“Teka,” the familiar girl said. That was right—she was the daughter of that renegade who had been executed before the sojourn. Cyra had gone over to talk to her before they set out for Pitha.

“Right,” Akos said. “Well, Cisi is my sister, and Badha is my . . . friend. From Thuvhe. Cisi doesn’t speak Shotet.” He waited a beat. “What did you mean by ‘don’t celebrate’?”