The Fates Divide (Carve the Mark #2)(78)

“Why are you doing this?” he said.

“You are the only person I have ever met that he can’t control with his currentgift,” she said. “Which means you are the only person who can kill him.”

Her eyes were wide. She seized his arm before he could lift the first mouthful to his lips.

“I need your word that you will be committed to this. No half measures,” she said. “You will do as I say, exactly as I say, even if what I tell you to do horrifies you.”

Akos was too desperate for food to really think it through, and besides, he didn’t have many options.

“Yes,” he said.

“Your word,” she said, still not releasing him.

“I give you my word,” he said. “I’ll do whatever I have to do, to kill him.”

She took her hand away.

“Good,” she said, and she returned to staring at the fire while he stuffed his face.





CHAPTER 42: CYRA


THOSE WHO SOLD THEIR goods on carts along the main thoroughfare of Galo were packing up for the day. I stopped to watch the woman who sold sculptures of blown glass—small enough to sit on a palm—wrap them in fabric and set them in a box, lovingly. The storms would come soon, but I would not see another storm on Ogra.

I moved along, toward the ship park where Teka had left her transport vessel for safekeeping and repair. I passed a man waving smoked meat in my face, and sema selling seedlings that snapped and bit at whatever came near them. I would miss the bustle of this place, so like the streets of Voa, but without the feeling of dread I got there.

I had passed the last of the carts—piled with baskets of roasted nuts of all varieties, including some from other planets—when I saw a man crouched in the middle of the street, clutching at his own head. His shirt pulled taut across his shoulders, showing the bones of his spine. I didn’t recognize him as Eijeh until I had already drawn closer. I recoiled at the recognition, bringing my hand back from his shoulder before I touched it.

“Hey,” I said, instead. “Kereseth. What is it?”

He twitched at his name, but didn’t answer, so I took hold of his shoulder, and jostled it a little.

“Eijeh,” I said.

The name was still difficult for me to say, the only vowel-consonant pattern in Thuvhesit that I still struggled with. Though part of me knew Eijeh Kereseth was indeed my brother, I was equally certain that we could never be siblings to each other, because I couldn’t even say his name.

He lifted his head, his eyes swimming with tears. That, at least, was a familiar sight. Eijeh had always been prone to tears, unlike his brother.

“What is it?” I asked him. “Are you ill?”

“No,” he forced out. “No, we got lost. In the future. I knew I would—I knew it was the worst outcome, but I had to see, I had to know—”

“Come on,” I said. “I’ll take you to your mother. I’m sure she can help.”

I couldn’t touch him—not on Ogra, where my currentgift was stronger—but I grabbed a fistful of his shirt, using it to yank him up. He lurched to his feet, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

“You know,” I said, “my mother used to tell me that those who go looking for pain—”

“Find it every time, I know,” he said.

I frowned.

That was something only Ryzek would know.

Surely it had been in one of the memories Ryzek gave Eijeh.

As he wiped his eyes, I saw that his fingernails were bitten down to the beds, and his cuticles were chewed beyond repair. Also a habit of my brother’s. Could he have learned a habit from memories?

I pinched his sleeve, and tugged him toward the temporary lodging I knew the Ograns had given him and Sifa. It was nicer than the one I shared with Teka, because it housed oracles, and it was right in the middle of town. I knew it by the flag—stitched with a red flower—that hung in the window, over the street.

There was a narrow, creaky door between two shops that led up to the place. It had been painted so many times that in the places where the paint peeled, it showed different colors—orange, red, green. The top layer was dark blue. I pushed through it and pulled Eijeh up the narrow steps to the apartment above.

I would have knocked, but the door was already open a crack. Sifa sat inside the living room—decorated with hanging fabrics, some thick and comfortable, others thin and gauzy. Her legs were crossed, her feet bare, her eyes closed. The very picture of a mystic.

My mother.

I hadn’t spoken to her since the morning after I met with Vara. I had avoided her, in fact, pretending that knowing my origins had no impact whatsoever on who I was now. My mother was still Ylira Noavek, my father still Lazmet Noavek, my brother still Ryzek Noavek. Acknowledging the truth of my origins meant admitting they had power over me. And I could not admit that.

I wouldn’t.

I rapped on the door, pushing it open. Sifa turned.

“What happened?” she said, coming to her feet. She was looking at Eijeh’s tear-streaked face.

“I didn’t—I didn’t do what you told me,” he said, wiping his eyes again. “I didn’t ground myself. It was—”

Before they could get lost in their oracle oddities, as they always seemed to when they were together, I interrupted him.