"We reject the terms of Chancellor Benesit's peace," he said. "There can be no peace between us while there is no respect. Therefore the most efficient course of action is to work against peace. I submit this message as a declaration of war against the nation of Thuvhe, led by Chancellor Isae Benesit. We will meet again in battle, Miss Benesit. Transmission complete."
The screens all switched to another piece of footage, something from the high peaks of Trella, where fog swirled so high it turned into clouds.
All around me the mess hall was oddly quiet.
We were at war.
"Cyra." Akos's voice was a comfort. So familiar, its rumble. What were the first words he had said to me? Oh, yes--they had been explaining his gift. I interrupt the current, he had said. No matter what it does.
If my life was a different kind of current--and it was, in a certain sense, a flow of energy across space, brief and temporary--he had certainly interrupted it. And I was better for it. But now the question I had held in my mind ever since he first kissed me, about whether it was his fate tying him to me or not, felt more urgent than before.
"That was my father," I said, with something between a hiccup and a giggle.
"Pleasant man," he said. "A little too soft-spoken, though, don't you think?"
The joke eased me back into the present. When before everything had been quiet, now it was roaring with conversation. Teka was having a heated argument with Ettrek, which I knew because her finger was in his face, almost jabbing him in the nose when she gestured. Aza was with a few other grave-looking people, her face half-covered with her hand.
"What happens now?" Akos said to me softly.
"You think I know?" I said, shaking my head. "I don't even know if you and I count as exiles. Or if Lazmet counts exiles as Shotet."
"Maybe we're on our own, you and me."
He said it with a glint of hope in his eyes. If I was not an exile, if I was not even Shotet, then staying with me was not a sign of his inevitable betrayal. The family Noavek had so long been synonymous with "Shotet" in his mind that the sudden paring down of everything I was appealed to him. But I could not be made smaller, and moreover, I didn't want to be.
"I am always a Shotet," I said.
He looked taken aback at first, tilting away from me. But his rejoinder came quickly, and it was sharp: "Then why do you doubt me when I tell you I am always a Thuvhesit?"
It wasn't the same. How could I explain that it wasn't the same? "Now is not the time for this debate!"
"Cyra," he said again, and he touched my arm, his touch light as ever. "Now is the only time for this debate. How can we talk about where we're going now, what we're doing now, if we haven't talked about who--and what--we are now?"
He had a point. Akos had a way of getting to the heart of things--he was, in that way, more of a knife than I was, though I was the sharper-tongued of the two of us. His soft gray eyes focused on mine like there were not over one hundred people crowded around us.
Unfortunately, we didn't possess the gift of focus in equal measure. I couldn't think in all the chatter. I jerked my head toward the door, and Akos nodded, following me out of the mess hall and into the quiet stone street beyond. Over his shoulder I saw the village, faint dots of light dancing all over it, in all different colors. It looked almost cozy, not something I had thought a place like Ogra could be.
"You asked who we are now," I said, looking up at him. "I think we need to move even further back and ask, are we a 'we'?"
"What do you mean?" he asked, with sudden intensity.
"What I mean is," I said, "are we together, or am I just some kind of . . . warden again, only it's fate keeping you prisoner this time, instead of my brother?"
"Don't make it sound simple when it isn't," he said. "That's not fair."
"Fair?" I laughed. "What, in your entire life so far, has made you think anything will be 'fair'?" I stepped wider, so I felt like I was rooted to the ground, the way I might have if we had been about to spar. "Just tell me--tell me if I'm something you're choosing, or not. Just tell me."
Just get it over with, I thought, because I already knew the answer. I was ready to hear it--even eager, because I had been bracing myself since our first kiss for this rejection. It was the inevitable by-product of what I was. Monstrous, and bound to destroy whoever was in my path, particularly if they were as kind as Akos.
"I," he said, slowly, "am a Thuvhesit, Cyra. I would never oppose my country, my home, if I felt like I had a choice."
I closed my eyes. It hurt worse--much worse--than I was expecting it to.
He went on, "But my mother used to say, 'Suffer the fate, for all else is delusion.' There's no point in fighting something that is inevitable."
I forced my eyes open. "I don't want to be something you 'suffer.'"
"That's not what I meant," he said, reaching for me. I backed up. For once, the pain that wrapped around every limb was not a curse to me--though not a gift, never a gift--but another set of armor.
"You're the one thing that makes my life bearable," he said, and the sudden tension in him, suffusing every muscle, reminded me of how he had braced himself every time Vas came around. It was the way he looked when he was guarding himself against pain. "You're this bright spot of light. You're--Cyra, before I knew you, I thought about . . ."
I raised my eyebrows.
He drew a sharp breath. His gray eyes looked glassy.
"Before I knew you," he began again, "I didn't intend to live past rescuing my brother. I didn't want to serve the Noavek family. I didn't want to give my life to them. But when it's you . . . it seems like whatever the end is, it might be worthwhile."
Maybe, to another person, this might have sounded kind. Or at least realistic. A person couldn't avoid fate. That was the whole point. Fate was the place at which all possible life paths converged--and when the oracles said "all," they meant all. So was it really so bad, being something good in the fate Akos dreaded?
Maybe not. To another person.
Unfortunately, I was not another person.
"What you're telling me," I said, "is that if you're going to have your head chopped off anyway, it's at least nice to have your head on a very soft chopping block."
"That's . . ." He made a frustrated noise. "That's the worst possible way to interpret what I said!"
"Yeah? Well, it's my way," I snapped. "I don't want to be the gift someone gets when they've already lost. I don't want to be a happy inevitability. I want to be chosen. I want to be wanted."
"You think I don't want you? Haven't I made that clear? I still chose you over my family, Cyra, and it wasn't because of fate!" He was mad now, practically spitting at me. Good. I wanted to fight. Fighting was something I could do, something I had trained myself to do whenever things got difficult. It was what kept me safe--not avoidance, because when had I ever been able to avoid the things that hurt me? No, it wasn't pretending I wouldn't get knocked down that protected me, but the knowledge that I would get back up as many times as I had to.
"How do you know?" I demanded. "It's not saying yes if you don't feel like you have a choice!"
"This isn't about me, this is about your own insecurity." He spoke fiercely, hotly, against my face. We were too close together but neither of us moved back. "You don't think anyone could possibly want you, so therefore, I must not be able to really want you. You're taking something good away from yourself because you don't think you deserve it."
"It's because no one has ever wanted me that I feel this way!" I was almost yelling. There were people milling around, and they stopped at my sudden increase in volume, but I didn't care. He was knocking me down, again and again, every time that he didn't say what I wanted him to say--that he chose me, that he wanted this, that he knew it, that fate was irrelevant.
All I wanted was for him to lie, and for me to believe it. But I didn't have to be an oracle to see that of all the possible futures that existed, there wasn't a single one where that outcome was possib
le. I would never believe a lie. And Akos would never tell me one.
"I am in love with you," I said. "But for once in my life, I want someone to choose me. And you don't. You can't."
I felt the mood change, as we stepped back, Akos looking suddenly bereft, like he had had his arms full and someone had come along and taken away everything he was carrying. I felt the same way. Empty-handed.
"I can't change the way things are," he said. "You can't blame me for that."
"I know." He was right, and that was why there was no point in arguing anymore. I had begun the conversation with a demand for honesty, but honesty didn't need to come from him--it needed to come from me. His fate was a reality, and as long as he had his fate, he couldn't care about me the way I needed him to. And I only knew that I needed him to because he had encouraged me to try to value myself more highly. So we were tangled in a web together, cause and effect and choice and fate all intermingling.
"So you're going to stay here, because your fate is with me," I said hollowly. "And I'm going to stay here, to help them figure out how to handle my father. And you and I . . ."
"Will be what we are," he said. So quiet.
"Right." My eyes burned. "Well, I need to talk to them about Lazmet. Can you find Teka and make sure she's all right?"
He nodded. I nodded. We both walked back into the mess hall, where everyone was still gathered around the screens, which now showed the wavy blur of heat above the sands of Tepes.
CHAPTER 15: CYRA
THE PROBLEM WITH OGRA, I decided, was that it was dark.
Well, that was obvious.
But it was a different kind of dark than other places, where you could turn on a lamp and see everything in a room. Here, no matter what lights you attached to your clothes or fixed to a wall, the darkness crept in, devouring.
So though everyone in the storm shelter--the most trusted and capable among the exiles, Jorek had told me--wore something that glowed, and though lanterns hung from long chains, like vines, from the ceiling, I still felt like I was surrounded by shadows.
It was thanks to Jorek that I was invited to this meeting at all. Though I had acted as something of a leader when called upon to do so, I had not earned a place among them, not really. But I knew more about the family Noavek than all the people in this room put together, so here I stood, at Jorek's shoulder, too stung by what Akos and I had said to each other to pay much attention to the exiles' bickering.
I had told him I loved him. Loved him. What had I been thinking?
Jorek elbowed me. He had embraced the bright adornments of Ogran clothing with enthusiasm, the lines of his jacket traced in bright fabric panels two fingers wide. The afterimage of the green bars lingered for a few moments after I looked away from him, and across the room, at Sifa and Eijeh Kereseth.
They were oracles, after all. A group of fate-faithful Shotet couldn't help but hunger for whatever scraps of vague wisdom they could offer, if any.
"Sorry," I said, and cleared my throat. "What did you say?"
Aza raised an eyebrow at me. Whatever I had missed had been important, it seemed.
"I asked you if you could offer us any guidance as to whether your father will come after us here, on Ogra, or not," she said.
"Oh." It was my supposed expertise on my father that had won me my place here, and now was the time to put it to use. I shook my head. "He knows better than to fight a war with two fronts, particularly when the targets are so far apart. I'm sure he doesn't view you as worthy of his attention, so he'll focus on Thuvhe."
I winced, half out of pain and half at my own clumsy phrasing. Slow down on making enemies, Akos's whisper from earlier reminded me, his lips brushing my ear. Such a short while ago, but everything was different now.
"Lovely," Aza said, sharp. "Thank you for that insight, Miss Noavek."
"We need to kill him." The words launched from my mouth without warning, sounding desperate and small. Everyone looked at me, and I was thankful to the currentshadows staining my skin and the relentless Ogran darkness for disguising my blush.
"We do," I added, as an afterthought. "He's a greater danger to Shotet than the chancellor of Thuvhe ever will be."
"Forgive me for saying so," a wry voice spoke from somewhere near Aza, coming from a man with a shadowed face and a somewhat pointed beard. "But are you really telling us that we should focus our attention on just one man instead of the declaration of war that has just come our way?"
"Just one man?" I said, anger rising fast and hot within me. "Does the chancellor of Thuvhe go after a person's family for multiple generations to punish them for disloyalty? Does the chancellor of Thuvhe collect eyeballs in jars? No. Thuvhe can wait. Lazmet needs to be handled now."
"How dare you," the bearded man said, stepping toward me fast, "even speak of the horrors committed by your father in such a cavalier fashion? How dare you even stand here--"
I moved forward to meet him in the space between us, now clear of people. I was ready, ready to fight, ready to scream. I had seen my father come back from the dead and I didn't know what to do with all that I felt about it except punch this man right in his perfectly shaped facial fuzz.
"This is unproductive," spoke a cool, clear voice from my right. It belonged, of course, to our resident oracle. Sifa came to stand between me and my would-be opponent, her hands tucked into her sleeves.
"Behave like an adult, please," she said to the man. And to me: "You, too, Miss Noavek."
My instinct was to snap back at her--I hated to be patronized--but I knew that would only make me look more impetuous, so I denied myself the impulse.
"Can you guide us, Oracle?" Aza said to Sifa.
"I am not yet sure," Sifa said. "Things are changing quickly."
"Maybe you could just tell us whether we should focus our energy on Lazmet Noavek or on Thuvhe," Aza pressed.
Sifa glanced at me.
"Thuvhe is the greater threat to you," she said.
"And we should just trust you?" I said. "Without knowing what your aim is?"
"You will speak to the oracle with respect," Aza scolded.
"The oracle's job is to work for the best future for our planet," I said. "But whose best future is that, exactly? Thuvhe's, or Shotet's? And if it's Shotet's, then is it the best path for the Shotet exiles, or the Noavek loyalists?"
"Are you suggesting I have given preferential treatment to Thuvhe thus far?" Sifa scowled at me. "Trust me, Miss Noavek, I could have buried the fates of your family, and told the other oracles to deny them as well, if I had thought it would result in the best future for our planet. But I didn't. Instead, I allowed your family to use their new 'fate-favored' status to justify seizing control of Shotet government. My lack of intervention is why your family ever came into power in the first place, because it was what needed to be done, so do not think to accuse me of favoritism!"
Well. She had a point.
"If you all ignore my father now," I said, "you will regret it. You will."
"Is that a threat, Miss Noavek?" the bearded man demanded.
"No!" Nothing was coming out right. "It's an inevitability. You asked me here to tell you about my family--well, I just did. Thuvhe may destroy Shotet lives, but Lazmet will destroy Shotet's soul."
I could almost feel them rolling their eyes at me. Perhaps I ought to have chosen less dramatic words, but I had meant them. It was difficult to explain to a person who feared for his life that death was not the worst he could encounter. Lazmet Noavek was.
CHAPTER 16: AKOS
"ARE YOU STILL SLEEPING?" Jorek said. His face was right next to Akos's somehow, even though Akos's bed--or really, his hole in the wall--was high off the ground. Jorek had to be standing on the edge of another bunk.
Akos wasn't still sleeping, and he hadn't been since the general clamor of everybody getting up and going to the mess hall woke him up. He just hadn't gotten up yet. Getting up meant splashing water on his face and neck, combing his hair flat, changing his clothes,
eating, all things he just . . . didn't care to do just then.
"And if I am?" he said, rubbing his face with his palm. "Am I neglecting some duty I don't know about?"
"No," Jorek said, frowning. "I guess not. But Cyra was arguing with exiles all morning, and I thought you'd be with her, since you two are basically welded to each other."
Akos felt guilty at that. Pretty much the only duty he did still have was to keep Cyra away from pain, and he wasn't doing such a good job at that lately, even though her currentgift was worse here.
"Well, I can't get up if you're blocking my way, can I?" he said.
Jorek flashed a smile and hopped down from his perch on one of the lower bunks. Akos put his legs over the side of the bed and dropped heavily on both feet. "They still don't want to go after Lazmet?" he said.
"We still think Thuvhe is a far greater threat than Lazmet, and we should focus our energies there," Jorek said. "Plus, we don't even know how to get to him. Or where he is. Or how to get through the wall of soldiers he's undoubtedly surrounded himself with."
"Well, we could probably find him by looking for the wall of soldiers," Akos said. "Don't see that every day."
Jorek winced, looking at him. "You're looking a little rough, there, Kereseth."
Akos grunted, and stuck his feet in his shoes. Wash face, comb hair, eat breakfast, he told himself. He went to one of the sinks that stood right in the middle of everything and stuck his head under the faucet.
He braced himself on the edge of the sink and sighed into his reflection. He did look bad. Paler than usual, dark circles, faded bruises from the fight with Vas at the corner of his eye and jaw. His freckles standing out like little pockmarks all over his nose. He dragged his fingers through his hair a couple of times just to make it flat, then touched the bruise on his jaw.
Vas's fist was swinging, split knuckles coming at him--
His stomach sucked in hard, like he was about to puke.
"You okay?" Jorek asked him.
"I'm fine," he said. "Gonna go make Cyra some painkiller."
"All right," Jorek said, but his brow was furrowed with concern.
He tapped the doorframe to Zenka's shop. She was bent over a table, digging what looked like a mix between a spoon and a knife into the pulpy flesh of an Ogran fruit. At each new dig, the fruit flickered with light, like a faltering lantern.
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