The Fates Divide (Carve the Mark #2)(71)
“And you,” she says, glancing at Ast. “Ast, you have never looked more uncomfortable.”
“Then I look how I feel,” he says stiffly.
The doors slide open in front of us, and standing just beyond them is the Othyrian woman from earlier. I don’t remember her name. Most Othyrian names have at least three syllables, which means I forget them right away.
We follow her to a floater that hovers near the edge of the balcony. It’s different from the ones back home—more like an enclosed platform than an actual vehicle. We stand together inside it, and the woman—Cardenzia? Something with a “zia,” I think—pilots us, by which I mean she presses a button and we zoom toward a preprogrammed destination. The floater doesn’t shake or jolt at all, just glides over manicured parks and past gleaming buildings. It lifts us through a layer of wispy clouds, then pauses by a loading dock—I’m not sure what else to call it, though I’ve never seen a loading dock so fancy in my life. It’s also enclosed, since we’re high up, and the floors are reflective black tile, as if heavy spacecraft don’t have to land on top of them all the time.
Cardenzia, as I’ve now decided to call her, leads us across the empty dock to a maze of wide hallways, lined with portraits of former Othyrian leaders, or framed flags of all the Othyrian provinces. Doormen wearing black gloves open a set of gilded double doors for us at the end of one such hallway.
I thought I was ready for more Othyrian extravagance, but I have to stop and stare in awe in the next room. Someone cultivated a garden inside this place. Above us, the sunset-light glows through skylights, casting orange-tinted streaks on the dark leaves of vines that wrap around chair legs and creep across the edges of the table. Trees stand in a line on one side of the room, their leaves dark purple and blue, with lighter veins running through them. Strings of light hang from the ceiling—their actual “strings” are near invisible, creating the illusion of glowing orbs that hang like falling raindrops in midair all over the room.
A woman comes over to greet us. I know by the circlet of gold atop her head that she is a ruler of Othyr, and her name falls right out of my head, like my manners. A man follows her, wearing a similar circlet, and another man behind him. All three have even skin and perfect hair and white teeth. The men have facial hair that looks like it was drawn on with a fine-tipped pen.
“Welcome to Othyr!” the woman says, smiling that white, white smile. “Chancellor Benesit, it is a pleasure to meet you at last. Is this your first time visiting our beautiful planet?”
“Yes, it is,” Isae replies. “Thank you for hosting us, Councilwoman Harth. These are my advisers, Cisi Kereseth and Ast.”
“Ast, no surname?” Councilwoman Harth says.
“No need for surnames in the brim,” Ast replies. “Not like we’re keeping track of dynasties or anything, Your Grace.”
“The brim!” one of the men bellows. “How charming. This must be quite different for you, then.”
“Plates are plates, whether they’re shiny or not,” Ast replies. It’s the most I’ve ever liked him.
“My name is Councilman Sharva,” the shorter of the two men says. His hair is black, his mustache curled at the ends. He has a big nose, perfectly straight and narrow through the bridge. “And this is Councilman Chezel. The three of us are in charge of interplanetary cooperation and aid.” They want us to use their surnames, then. I guess that’s what makes this a business meeting instead of a casual get-together. He continues, “And you, Cisi—are you also from the brim?”
A woman wearing the same black gloves as the men who opened the doors earlier passes out small glasses of something I don’t recognize. It smells sharp and tangy. I wait for the Othyrians to drink before I do, so I can see how they manage it. They take dainty sips from the glasses, which are only large enough to be pinched between two fingers. They are etched with swirling designs.
“No,” I say. “I’m from Hessa, on Thuvhe.”
“Kereseth, was it?” Councilwoman Harth addresses me. “Where have I heard that name before?”
“My family line is fated,” I say. “And my mother is the sitting oracle of Thuvhe.”
Everybody goes quiet. Even the woman with the tray of glasses—empty now—pauses to look at me before leaving the room. I know Othyrians don’t revere the oracles, but I didn’t know being related to one was such a scandal.
“Oh,” Harth says, lips pursed. “You must have had a very . . . interesting upbringing.”
I smile, even though my heartbeat is picking up speed. I won’t panic. If anyone can make these people love the daughter of an oracle, it’s me.
“Speaking to my mother is a little like trying to grab hold of a fish,” I say. “I love her dearly, of course, but I am always relieved to talk with people who are not allergic to specificity.”
Chezel laughs, at least, and I send them all a feeling as fine as the softest fabric, gliding over them. I’d be surprised if it didn’t work. Othyrians irritate me, but they’re not complicated—they’re not guarded against people like me, people with gentle voices and titles like “adviser.”
“So you are not a fanatic, then,” Chezel says. “That is a relief. I was not looking forward to hearing discussion of how we ought to elevate the oracles’ position instead of overseeing them.”