The Fates Divide (Carve the Mark #2)(72)

I want to tell him to eat shit. I want to tell him that having my entire community find out I was destined to get sliced or stabbed someday was a nightmare, that the Assembly’s policy of “transparency” was the reason my brothers got kidnapped and my father, killed. But my currentgift won’t let me, and I don’t really try to force it. They want me to be docile and sweet, so that’s what I’ll be.

And if Ast glares at me the whole time, well, that’s just another thing to ignore.

“You just appeared as if from nowhere, my dear,” Harth says to Isae. “Where did your family stash you away?”

“On a pirate ship,” Isae says. Harth laughs a tinkling laugh.

Chezel comes toward me, and I see the strategy. Sharva is angled toward Ast, Harth is tackling Isae, and Chezel is on me—they are splitting us up so we can’t help each other. For what purpose, I don’t know.

“What do you think of Othyr so far?” Chezel asks me.

I sip my drink.

“It’s . . . well constructed,” I say.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“It’s designed to dazzle, and it does,” I say. “I come from a place where beauty is harder to see. My eyes are trained to search for it, but here, I guess I can give my eyes a rest.”

“I have never been to Thuvhe, I confess,” Chezel says. “Is it as cold as they say?”

“Colder than that,” I say. “Especially in Hessa, where I am from.”

“Ah, Hessa,” he says. “‘The very heart of Thuvhe.’ Is that not what they call it?”

He says the phrase—“the very heart of Thuvhe”—in labored, but accurate, Thuvhesit.

I smile. “But you must know the rest of the quote?”

He shakes his head.

“‘Hessa is a land of ill-mannered, poorly groomed, inarticulate dirt-lovers who spit on their hands to wash them,’” I say. “‘Yet it is the very heart of Thuvhe.’”

Chezel pauses for a tick, then lets out a loud guffaw. In the pause, I angle my head toward Isae to catch some of her conversation with Harth. Harth is offering condolences for the attack against Shissa. Asking for details.

“Do you find that to be accurate?” Chezel asks me.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I say airily. “Sometimes we use water to wash our hands, in the warmer months.”

Chezel laughs again. I try again to hear what Harth is saying to Isae. But her voice is too quiet, more like a murmur. I’m working so hard to pay attention to her that I keep forgetting about my gift, and I can feel the tension in the room rising like a temperature nobody else can feel but me.

“I meant,” Chezel says, voice a little harder now, “do you find Hessa to be a backward place? You are the child of an oracle, after all.”

“I’m not sure I understand the connection,” I say with some effort. If he gets more antagonistic I won’t be able to talk at all, I’ll just stand here with my mouth opening and closing like a fish.

“Simply that oracles are a relic of the past, not a reflection of our present,” he says. “People on Othyr make their own destinies. Their importance is determined by their industry, not their possession of a fate.”

“None of your fellow councilors are from fated families?” I say.

One of his eyes twitches at the corner.

“On the contrary, our elected representative is Councilwoman Harth’s cousin. Her segment of the Harth family was not ‘favored by fate,’ as they say,” he says. “That man’s fate is not a guarantee of his worth, or his fitness, but traditions do take some time to die.”

I nod. I understand now. Councilwoman Harth wants to be in power, but power was given to her cousin instead. She blames it on his fate—and maybe she’s right, or maybe he really was the one for the job, I’ll never know. But either way, she’s jealous, and it sounds like Chezel is, too.

“That must have been difficult for Councilwoman Harth,” I say. “As one who seeks to influence, to have that position granted to another in her family.”

“There is still time for everyone to get what they deserve,” Chezel says.

A bell rings on the far side of the room, signaling us to go to the table for dinner. The gilded plates have place cards on top of them. Isae and I have Harth between us, but Isae plucks Harth’s card from its place and swaps it for mine, with a smile. She reaches for my hand, folding our fingers together. It is a clear signal that we’re together, but it’s also an excuse to change the seating, I’m sure. I play along, my smile shy and my gaze lowered.

We sit, leaves framing our shoulders and lights dancing above our heads. A line of servants emerge from a hidden door on the far side of the room, covered with ivy, and carry plates to us. It’s like a dance, all their movements synchronized. I wonder if they have to practice it.

“I forgot to ask, Chancellor, if you or your advisers would like to take advantage of Othyr’s excellent doctors while you are here. We offer complimentary health screenings to our distinguished guests,” Harth says, as if I am a window between them instead of a body.

“Subpar as Thuvhe’s doctors may be,” Isae says, voice hard, “we’ll pass, thanks.”

Her accent is starting to leak into her trained voice, which I know she hates. I split my focus, sending water toward her, and wrapping the others in finery. I have to press hard to feel the tension in the room give, but give it does. Ast glances at me.