The Fates Divide (Carve the Mark #2)(75)

“I don’t know politics, it’s true,” he says, more quietly now. “But I know Shotet, Isae. We both do.”

He touches the tips of his fingers to the screwdriver he keeps at his side instead of a knife.

“They took my family from me,” he said, “and they took your family from you. They promised a peaceful scavenge, and then resorted to murder and theft. That is who they are.”

He holds out his hands, palms up, and she places hers on top of them, letting him squeeze her fingers, gently.

“You promised to give Noavek a week before acting. You didn’t promise what action you would take,” he says. He’s created a kind of bubble around them, and I am not inside it. “If she can’t kill Lazmet Noavek, you will have to act, and deportation of Shotet exiles won’t be enough. Remember the names? The names you’ve been reciting?”

Isae blinks tears from her eyes.

“So many people,” she says.

“Yes,” he says. “Too many people. It can’t happen again, Isae. You can’t let it.”

My face is hot with anger. He is preying on her grief, her sorrow for the loss Thuvhe suffered as well as the loss she herself suffered. She hasn’t been right since Ori’s death. She’s drowning in hurt. And he is taking advantage of that.

“We need stronger weapons,” he says. “We can’t engage in a land war with the Shotet, because we’ll die. I know supporting Othyr might lead to something you don’t like. But you won’t even get the chance to fight that battle if you don’t win this one.”

She’s nodding at Ast when I slip out of the room. I have to do something about this. And if my currentgift won’t let me talk, I’ll have to do it another way.

Making contact with Ogra isn’t difficult. It’s just a matter of finding Cardenzia. I wait until evening settles into night before seeking her out. I touch her arm, gentle, as I explain that my mom is on Ogra visiting the Ogran oracle, and I want to make sure she’s all right. I keep my smile wide and I use my currentgift to wrap her in fine fabric, the kind that slides over your skin.

I must be getting stronger with all this practice, because she relaxes right away under its influence, and leads me to the communication tower. Her secure code gets me access to the satellite, and I gush my gratitude—with another touch of cloth.

I sit in the broadcasting chair, which is metal with a rigid back, to keep people from fidgeting while they send their messages. The room is full of technicians, but it doesn’t matter. They don’t speak Thuvhesit. Othyrians learn more common languages, like Pithar or Trellan, not our silky, windswept tongue.

“This message is for Cyra Noavek,” I say to the sight capturing my face and voice. “Isae Benesit is considering aggressive action. Othyr intends to make a play against the oracles, and they have requested Thuvhe’s support in exchange for weapons. She’s—she’s grieving. She’s desperate. We all are. And at the heart of her, I don’t think she’ll ever believe the word of a Shotet.”

I look down.

“You can’t fail,” I say. “Kill Lazmet Noavek. Don’t fail. Transmission complete.”

I tap the screen in front of me to begin compressing the recording into the smallest possible data file. The Ogran satellite ship delivers data to Ogra’s surface once a day, so Cyra will receive it by tomorrow, if she’s going to see it at all.

“What was that?”

It’s Ast.

I use the hard back of the chair to steady my hands when I get to my feet. I don’t know how much of my message he heard.

I brush off my skirt and turn toward him. He’s disheveled, like he ran here, the beetle buzzing in a quick circle around his head before it coasts around the perimeter of the room, and flies a tight circle around my body.

His eyes are unfocused and stationary, as always, but his brow is furrowed.

“Because it sounded like you were giving our enemies confidential information about Thuvhe’s negotiations with Othyr,” he said. His voice trembles with rage. I need to be careful.

“You . . .” I begin, but I can’t go any further. He is too angry. My currentgift is too strong. I struggle against it, working the muscles of my throat, my mouth. In my head is a string of silent curses. Why this gift, why now, why—

“Cancel that message!” he shouts to one of the technicians. “It contains classified information that should not be shared.”

One of the technicians looks from Ast to me.

“I’m sorry, but whatever this is,” she says, “I don’t want to be in the middle of it.”

With the tap of a screen and the press of a button, my message, my last, desperate call to Cyra, is gone.

I try to think of a currentgift texture I haven’t used against him before. Blankets and sweaters have never worked on him. Finery is a waste of time. Water doesn’t affect him. I wish I knew more about the brim, or about the ship he grew up on, so I could suss out what’s calming to him.

“You try to control her with that evil power you call a gift,” he says. “And now you betray her to the very people she is fighting?”

You try to control her, too, I want to say.

She could fight them without blowing up their city, I want to say.

He speaks a command to the beetle in a language I don’t know, and it lands on my shoulder, letting out its high-pitched whistle. He follows the sound, grabbing my upper arm. I jerk back, but he’s too strong.