ALL THE THINGS THAT he was—
Fated traitor, Kereseth, Thuvhesit—
Had been stripped away.
He hadn’t said a word since the oracle invited them to share a cup of tea with her, and Cyra declined. The truth was, he’d lost all his words. He didn’t even know which language he ought to speak in. The categories he’d used to define them—Thuvhesit, the language of his home and his people; Othyr, the language of off-worlders; Shotet, the language of his enemies—didn’t apply anymore.
Cyra seemed to know that he couldn’t speak. Maybe she didn’t understand it, and how could she? She had lit up like a piece of kindling when Vara told them the truth; she was emotionally elastic, could throw herself out of rage just as fast as she threw herself into it. But even though she didn’t understand him, she didn’t pester him, either.
All she had done was touch him, tentative, on the shoulder, as she said, “I know. I didn’t want to share blood with them, either.”
And that was it, wasn’t it. She shared a history with the Noaveks, and he shared blood. He was hard-pressed to figure out which one was worse.
He didn’t sleep. Just walked the paths around the temple, not even bothering to avoid the dangerous plants that were growing everywhere, or the beetles that could kill him with a bite. He didn’t recognize most of the growing things, but some of them he did, and he looked for them just to give himself something else to think about, for just a little while.
The beetles came and went, except for one—a small one that perched on his hand, twitching its light-up wings and wiggling its antennae. He sat on a rock in one of the gardens to stare down at it.
It reminded him, for some reason, of the Armored One he had killed for its skin. He had been out there in the fields outside of Voa, where the Armored Ones wandered, keeping to themselves for the most part. It had taken him a while to realize they weren’t going to attack him. It was the current that enraged them, not him; he was a relief to them, just like he was to Cyra.
Maybe this beetle was the same, avoiding those who channeled the current because the energy was too harsh for it to stand. The pattern on its back was like spilled ink, taking no particular shape. It lit up blue-green, when it did light up, a soothing color.
After some time the prickle of the little clinging legs didn’t bother him, and neither did the threat of its substantial pincers. It was a little monster, just like him. It couldn’t help how it was born.
The oracle’s revelation was like a crumpled piece of paper that just kept unfolding more and more. First it showed him the things he wasn’t anymore. And then it showed him the things he was: a Shotet. A Noavek.
The man who had taken everything from him—father, family, safety, and home—had been his brother.
And the man who had made Ryzek—Lazmet. He was Akos’s father. Still alive, still so alarming to Cyra—unshakable, unfaltering Cyra—that she had panicked at the sight of his face alone.
“What do I do now?” he asked the beetle on his hand.
“Surely that thing won’t respond to you,” Pary’s voice said from behind him. “I don’t claim to understand other people’s currentgifts, though.”
Akos whipped around fast. The beetle on his hand still didn’t stir, thankfully.
“Don’t come much closer,” he said. “Killer beetles, and all.”
“They seem to like you,” Pary said. “Whatever you are is a very strange thing.”
Akos nodded. That wasn’t up for debate.
Pary stood in front of him—at a safe distance—with his hands in his pockets. “She must have told you something difficult.”
Akos wasn’t sure difficult was the right word for it. The beetle crawled from his thumb to his sleeve, pincers clicking audibly. Hopefully that wasn’t what it did before it attacked. Akos didn’t think it was going to attack him, though.
“There are a lot of people across the solar system who think oracles are elitist, you know,” Pary said. “Only giving fates—and therefore importance—to certain families. It seems like an unnecessary display of favoritism to people who don’t understand how fates work, how they do not allow an oracle to choose anything at all. But those who have fates know better.”
Pary’s eyes glinted with the glow of a flower in the garden, reflecting orange.
“A fate is a cage,” he said. “Freed from that cage, you can choose, do, go . . . whatever, wherever you’d like. You can, in some ways, finally know who you are.”
Akos had been too busy thinking about who he was related to to think about fates, though he knew that was where Cyra’s mind had gone. Maybe he ought to be happy that he wasn’t fated to die anymore, but he’d been hanging on to that so hard that it was hard to adjust. It was like he’d been carrying a weight around for so long he forgot what it was like to be without it, and now he felt too light, like he might float away.
And his true fate? The second child of the family Noavek will cross the Divide.
Well, he’d already done that, crossed the stretch of feathergrass that separated Thuvhe from Shotet. He’d done it more than once. So his fate had been fulfilled, and now, Pary was right. He could choose whatever. Do whatever.
Go.
Wherever he wanted, wherever he needed to go.
A decision was just coming together in his mind when he heard the scream, high and grating. A wail joined it, and then a low shout. Three voices raised in acknowledgment of pain. Three oracles.
By now, he knew what it meant: there had been another attack.
The beetle fled from his wrist as he ran up the hill to the room where his brother slept. He ripped the sheer curtains aside to see Eijeh sitting up in bed, his fingers knotted in his curly hair as he moaned. It had been a long time since Akos had seen Eijeh so rumpled, his shirt twisted around his torso and half his face marked by the crease of a pillowcase.
Akos hesitated at the edge of the room. Why had he come here, instead of going to his mom’s room? He’d lost the parts of Eijeh he’d been so determined to save, and now he knew that what was left of Eijeh wasn’t even related to him anyway, so what kept drawing him back?
Eijeh lifted his head, eyes locking on Akos’s face.
“Our father,” Eijeh said. “He’s attacking them.”
“Eijeh,” Akos said. “You’re confused—our father is—”
“Lazmet,” Eijeh said, rocking back and forth, still clutching his head. “Shissa. He attacked Shissa.”
“How many dead?” Akos touched Eijeh’s shoulder, and his brother—his brother?—pulled away.
“No, don’t, I need to see—”
“How many?” Akos demanded, even though deep down he knew it didn’t matter whether it was a handful or dozens or—
“Hundreds,” Eijeh said. “It’s raining glass.”
Then Eijeh burst into tears, and Akos sat on the edge of the bed.
No, it didn’t matter that it was hundreds. His path forward remained the same.