Carve the Mark (Carve the Mark #1)(99)

“How many of you—renegades—are there?” Isae asked.

“Am I likely to answer that question?” was Teka’s reply. The answer was clearly no, so Isae moved on.

“Is your involvement in the revolt why . . .” Isae waved a hand over her face. “The eye?”

“This? Oh, I have two eyes, I just like the patch,” Teka said.

“Really?” Cisi asked.

“No,” Teka said, and everyone laughed.

The food was plain, almost bland, but Akos didn’t mind it. It was a little more like home, a little less like Noavek finery. Teka started humming along to Jyo’s song, and Sovy drummed on the tabletop with her fingers, so hard Akos’s fork rattled against his plate whenever he set it down.

Then Teka and Jorek got up and danced. Isae leaned over to Jyo while he was playing and asked, “So, if this particular group of renegades is working to rescue Cyra . . . what are the other renegade groups doing? Hypothetically, I mean.”

Jyo narrowed one eye at her, but answered anyway. “Hypothetically, those of us Shotet who are low in status need things they can’t get. And they need someone to smuggle it in for them.”

“As in . . . hypothetical weapons?” Isae said.

“Possibly, but that’s not top priority.” Jyo plucked a few wrong strings, swore, and got himself on the right ones again. “Top priority would be food and medicine. Lots of runs to Othyr and back. Gotta feed people before they can fight for you, right? And the farther out of the center of Voa you get, the more diseased and starved people are.”

Isae’s face tightened, but she nodded.

Akos didn’t think about it much, what was going on outside the tangle of Noaveks he’d gotten himself into. But he thought about what Cyra had said about Ryzek keeping supplies to himself, doling them out to his people or hoarding them for later, and he felt a little bit sick.

Teka and Jorek spun around each other, and swayed, Jorek surprisingly graceful, given his gangliness. Cisi and Isae sat shoulder to shoulder, leaned back against the wall. Every so often Isae gave a tired smile. It didn’t quite look right on her face—it wasn’t one of Ori’s smiles, and she wore Ori’s face, scarred though it was. But Akos figured he would have to get used to her.

Sovy sang a few bars of Jyo’s song, and they ate until they were warm and full and tired.





CHAPTER 29: CYRA


IT WAS DIFFICULT TO sleep after someone had peeled one’s skin off with a knife, but I gave it my best effort.

My pillowcase was soaked with blood that morning when I awoke, though I had of course lain on the side Vas had not flayed from throat to skull. The only reason I hadn’t bled to death yet was that the gaping wound was covered with stitching cloth, a medical innovation from Othyr that kept wounds closed and dissolved as they healed. It was not meant for wounds as severe as mine.

I stripped the case from the pillow and tossed it in the corner. The shadows danced over my arm, pricking me. For most of my life, they had run alongside my veins, visible through my skin. When I woke up after the interrogation—a soldier had told me my heart stopped, then started again of its own accord—the shadows were traveling over the surface of my body instead. They still caused me pain, but it was more bearable. I didn’t understand why.

But then Ryzek had declared nemhalzak, and had Vas cut my skin away from my body like the rind from a fruit, and forced me to fight in the arena, so I was in just as much pain as usual.

He had asked me where I wanted it, the scar. If it could even be called that—scars were dark lines on a person’s skin, not . . . patches. But nemhalzak had to be paid for with flesh, and it had to be on display, readily visible. With my mind addled by rage, I had told him to scar me the same way he had scarred Akos, when the Kereseth brothers first arrived. Ear to jaw.

And when Vas had accomplished that much, Ryzek told him to keep going.

Get some of her hair, too.

I breathed through my nose. I didn’t want to throw up. I couldn’t afford to throw up, in fact—I needed all the strength I had left.

As he had every day since I self-revived, Eijeh Kereseth came to watch me eat breakfast. He set a tray of food at my feet and leaned against the wall across from me, hunched, his posture bad as ever. Today his jaw bore the bruise I had given him the day before, when I tried to escape on the way to the arena and managed to get a few hits in before the guards in the hallway dragged me away from him.

“I didn’t think you would be back, after yesterday,” I said to him.

“I’m not afraid of you. You won’t kill me,” Eijeh replied. He had drawn his weapon, and he was spinning the blade on his palm, catching it when it made a full rotation. He did it without looking at it.

I snorted. “I’ll kill just about anyone, haven’t you heard the rumors?”

“You won’t kill me,” Eijeh repeated. “Because you love my delusional brother far too much for your own good.”

I had to laugh at that. I hadn’t realized that silky-voiced Eijeh Kereseth read me so well.

“I feel like I know you,” Eijeh said suddenly. “I suppose I do know you, don’t I? I do now.”

“I’m not really in the mood for a philosophical discussion about what makes a person who they are,” I said. “But even if you are more Ryzek than Eijeh at this point, you still don’t know me. You—whoever you are—never bothered to.”