OTHYRIANS HAVE SOFT HANDS. That’s the first thing I notice.
Soft hands, and soft bodies. The woman who greets us at the elegant apartments where we’ll be staying for this short visit carries more weight around her hips and thighs than most Thuvhesit women. Something about it appeals to me. I wonder what it would feel like, to touch a body with so much give.
Judging by the look she gives me, she’s wondering something similar about me. I don’t look like a Hessa girl, really—most people from Hessa work the iceflower farms or do some other kind of hard labor, so they’re muscled and lean. I’m built more like the people in Shissa, where I went to school, narrow with a store of flesh around the waist. For the colder months, people sometimes joked.
Most of those people are dead now.
The Othyrian tells us, in an unctuous voice, where we’ll go for dinner and what our “attire” should be like. I very nearly exchange a Look with Ast at that, and then I remember he can’t see it—and likely wouldn’t want to share a moment like that with me anyway.
Still, I do put on my formal gown for dinner. The one formal thing I own. It’s in the Hessan style, which means it looks almost like a military uniform on top, buttoning across my heart from shoulder to ribs. It’s tailored tight to my body, down to my waist, and then flows in a softer skirt to the floor. The color is crimson. Hushflower red, for luck.
In the hallway, Ast fusses with the buttons on his cuffs. They’re small and made of glass, slippery. I don’t think much about it when I take his wrist in mine and do them up for him. I’m surprised he lets me, though.
“She told me I’m being too rough on you,” he says to me, his voice hard. The beetle he uses to guide him flies a fast circle around my head and shoulders, close enough to skim my clothes with its little legs, clicking all the while.
“Did she,” I say, flat, grabbing his other wrist.
“The thing is—” He seizes my hand, suddenly, and holds me fast. Too hard. Leaning close so I can smell something sharp on his breath. “I don’t think I am, Cisi. I think you’re too clever, too motivated, and too—sweet.”
I finish up with his buttons, and walk away without responding. There’s not much to say, really.
Isae waits near the doors where the Othyrian woman said she’d meet us. Isae turns, and the sight of her hits me hard, like I’ve run right into it. Her eyelids are traced with perfect black lines, her lips stained a faint pink. Her hair is pulled back tight, and shines like polished glass. She is dressed in the Osoc style, a body-skimming under layer—dark blue—with loose fabric draped over it, giving hints of her hip’s curves when it presses here or there.
“Wow,” I say to her.
She rolls her eyes a little, doing a quick slashing gesture with one of her fingers to point out the scars that cross her face. I notice them, of course, every time I look at her, but to me, they don’t detract from her beauty. They are just distinct, like a birthmark or a dusting of freckles. I lean in to touch my lips to the one above her eyebrow.
“Still wow,” I say.
“And you,” she says, glancing at Ast. “Ast, you have never looked more uncomfortable.”
“Then I look how I feel,” he says stiffly.
The doors slide open in front of us, and standing just beyond them is the Othyrian woman from earlier. I don’t remember her name. Most Othyrian names have at least three syllables, which means I forget them right away.
We follow her to a floater that hovers near the edge of the balcony. It’s different from the ones back home—more like an enclosed platform than an actual vehicle. We stand together inside it, and the woman—Cardenzia? Something with a “zia,” I think—pilots us, by which I mean she presses a button and we zoom toward a preprogrammed destination. The floater doesn’t shake or jolt at all, just glides over manicured parks and past gleaming buildings. It lifts us through a layer of wispy clouds, then pauses by a loading dock—I’m not sure what else to call it, though I’ve never seen a loading dock so fancy in my life. It’s also enclosed, since we’re high up, and the floors are reflective black tile, as if heavy spacecraft don’t have to land on top of them all the time.
Cardenzia, as I’ve now decided to call her, leads us across the empty dock to a maze of wide hallways, lined with portraits of former Othyrian leaders, or framed flags of all the Othyrian provinces. Doormen wearing black gloves open a set of gilded double doors for us at the end of one such hallway.
I thought I was ready for more Othyrian extravagance, but I have to stop and stare in awe in the next room. Someone cultivated a garden inside this place. Above us, the sunset-light glows through skylights, casting orange-tinted streaks on the dark leaves of vines that wrap around chair legs and creep across the edges of the table. Trees stand in a line on one side of the room, their leaves dark purple and blue, with lighter veins running through them. Strings of light hang from the ceiling—their actual “strings” are near invisible, creating the illusion of glowing orbs that hang like falling raindrops in midair all over the room.
A woman comes over to greet us. I know by the circlet of gold atop her head that she is a ruler of Othyr, and her name falls right out of my head, like my manners. A man follows her, wearing a similar circlet, and another man behind him. All three have even skin and perfect hair and white teeth. The men have facial hair that looks like it was drawn on with a fine-tipped pen.
“Welcome to Othyr!” the woman says, smiling that white, white smile. “Chancellor Benesit, it is a pleasure to meet you at last. Is this your first time visiting our beautiful planet?”
“Yes, it is,” Isae replies. “Thank you for hosting us, Councilwoman Harth. These are my advisers, Cisi Kereseth and Ast.”
“Ast, no surname?” Councilwoman Harth says.
“No need for surnames in the brim,” Ast replies. “Not like we’re keeping track of dynasties or anything, Your Grace.”
“The brim!” one of the men bellows. “How charming. This must be quite different for you, then.”
“Plates are plates, whether they’re shiny or not,” Ast replies. It’s the most I’ve ever liked him.
“My name is Councilman Sharva,” the shorter of the two men says. His hair is black, his mustache curled at the ends. He has a big nose, perfectly straight and narrow through the bridge. “And this is Councilman Chezel. The three of us are in charge of interplanetary cooperation and aid.” They want us to use their surnames, then. I guess that’s what makes this a business meeting instead of a casual get-together. He continues, “And you, Cisi—are you also from the brim?”
A woman wearing the same black gloves as the men who opened the doors earlier passes out small glasses of something I don’t recognize. It smells sharp and tangy. I wait for the Othyrians to drink before I do, so I can see how they manage it. They take dainty sips from the glasses, which are only large enough to be pinched between two fingers. They are etched with swirling designs.
“No,” I say. “I’m from Hessa, on Thuvhe.”
“Kereseth, was it?” Councilwoman Harth addresses me. “Where have I heard that name before?”
“My family line is fated,” I say. “And my mother is the sitting oracle of Thuvhe.”
Everybody goes quiet. Even the woman with the tray of glasses—empty now—pauses to look at me before leaving the room. I know Othyrians don’t revere the oracles, but I didn’t know being related to one was such a scandal.
“Oh,” Harth says, lips pursed. “You must have had a very . . . interesting upbringing.”
I smile, even though my heartbeat is picking up speed. I won’t panic. If anyone can make these people love the daughter of an oracle, it’s me.
“Speaking to my mother is a little like trying to grab hold of a fish,” I say. “I love her dearly, of course, but I am always relieved to talk with people who are not allergic to specificity.”
Chezel laughs, at least, and I send them all a feeling as fine as the softest fabric, gliding over them. I’d be surprised if it didn’t work. Othyrians irritate me, but they’re not complicated—they’re not guarded against people like me, people with gentle voices and titles like “adviser.”
“So you are not a fanatic, then,” Chezel says. “That is a relief. I was not looking forward to hearing discussion of how we ought to elevate the oracles’ position instead of overseeing them.”
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.
“I don’t know if Isae—oh, I mean Chancellor Benesit—” I pause, letting myself blush. A nice show for the Othyrians. “I don’t know if Chancellor Benesit told you, Councilwoman Harth, but I was in school to be a chemist before I was Her Highness’s adviser. I am reasonably good at preparing iceflowers for medicine.”
“Are you,” Harth says, sounding bored. “How fascinating.”
“My research was in the area of breaking down iceflowers to their basic compounds,” I say, layering a heavy, rich fabric over Harth in particular. She appears to need more of my currentgift. “Which I am certain would be useful to Othyr, since it relies on us so heavily for its most potent ingredients.”
“Yes,” Isae says. “I assume you have still been unsuccessful in cultivating iceflowers here on Othyr?”
“We have, in fact,” Harth says. “It seems they will only grow on your planet. It’s very strange.”
“Ah, well, Thuvhe is an odd little place, always changing,” I say. “We are so flattered that you have taken an interest in us.”
Isae glances at me sidelong, like she’s not sure what I’m angling at. I let my comment dangle, awkward, between Harth and me.
“Of course,” Harth says. “We only wish to offer our support.”
“What do you mean when you say ‘support’?” Ast asks, and for once, I’m glad he’s here. He can ask the questions my currentgift won’t let me ask.
“Sorry,” he says, propping his elbows up on the edge of the table. “I’m no good with manners, or whatever—when I want to know something, I just ask it.”
“An admirable quality, Ast,” Harth says. It’s probably a dig at me, and it stings. “Our intention was actually to ask Chancellor Benesit what Thuvhe needs in this struggle against Shotet. We have a great deal of resources at our disposal.”
Ast looks at Isae, and shrugs.
“Weapons,” he says.
“Ast.” Isae says his name like a warning. “We haven’t agreed that’s necessary yet.”
“I mean, go ahead and dither all you want, Isae,” he says. “But eventually we’re gonna need to fight back. Pitha gave us one anticurrent blast, and we could use another one, to start. Better ships, too, probably, since Thuvhe’s are out of date and slow . . . and can’t even carry the damn weapon.”
Harth laughs. Chezel and Sharva join in.
“Well,” Chezel says. “Those requests don’t sound too difficult to grant, do they, Councilwoman?”
“No,” she replies with a smile. “We will be happy to give you what you need, provided Chancellor Benesit agrees.”
“While I’d prefer it if my advisers would handle things with more delicacy,” Isae says, sharp, “Thuvhe does need to protect itself. It would be helpful to have another long-distance weapon to use against Shotet, to keep from having to fight a war on land or in the sky—as a last resort, you understand. Their combat skills are quite advanced, as we all know. And none of our ships are equipped to make use of such a weapon.”
“Then it is settled,” Chezel says, picking up his glass.
My throat feels tight. I strain against it, fighting to make a sound, any sound. Finally, the only thing I can think to do is to knock my fist against the table. I squeeze Isae’s hand, tightly, hard enough to crack her knuckles.
“Wait a moment,” Isae says. “Cisi’s currentgift unfortunately prevents her from speaking freely in some situations, and she clearly has something to say.”
“Thank you,” I manage. “I am—curious about something.”
“What’s that, dear?” Harth says. I don’t like her tone. It makes me feel about an izit tall.
“My father told me not to trust any deal where one person gains more than the other,” I say. I raise my eyebrow. I can’t quite ask the question, but I feel like I’ve gotten close enough.
“That is a good point,” Isae says quietly. “What will Othyr expect in return for its generosity?”
“Is the defeat of a galaxy-wide pest not enough of a reward?” Harth says.
I shake my head.
“There’s no precedent for this level of cooperation between us,” Isae says. “We maintain a neutral relationship because we depend on each other for the good of both Othyrians and Thuvhesits, but—”
“But we often find ourselves on different sides of particular issues, yes,” Harth says.
“Most notably,” Sharva says, speaking for the first time. His voice is a rumble, but thin, no richness to it. “Most notably, in the decision to release the fates of the favored lines to the public.”
“Yes,” Isae says tersely. “A decision that affected my planet disproportionately, as we are possessed of not one, but three favored families.”
“Nonetheless, Othyr stands behind its decision,” Sharva says. “And wishes to press for even greater oversight of the oracles moving forward.”
Ast sits back. His face is unreadable. But he doesn’t seem uncomfortable, to me. I guess I always just assumed he didn’t like me because of my currentgift, but maybe it’s my oracle mother, too. Maybe he’s on Othyr’s side in this whole thing.
“And you want Thuvhe’s support,” I say. “In exchange for weapons.”
It’s clear to me now, what the oracle Vara meant. Don’t trust the Othyrians. Don’t let her agree to it, whatever you do. This has to be the “it” she was talking about—a promise of support.
“We would hope that giving Thuvhe support now would encourage you to rethink your position on the oracles,” Sharva clarifies. “We know that Thuvhe is not an overly fate-faithful nation-planet; that it, too, wishes to embrace the future of this galaxy, and set it up for success rather than failure.”
“What kind of oversight of the oracles are you talking about?” Isae says.
“We simply want to be aware of what the oracles discuss, and what plans they are making given the future they see unfolding,” Harth says. “They make decisions on a regular basis that affect all of us. We wish to know what those decisions are. We wish to have access to the information that they possess.”
I feel . . . quiet. Not unlike the way I feel when Akos holds my hand, like all the current has gone still around me. In the past few weeks, I saw my own mom manipulate Akos into killing someone, just because she wanted the man gone. I saw her let my oldest friend die when she probably could have prevented it. She says those actions were for the greater good. But what if we don’t agree on what that “greater good” is? Should she get to decide without anybody looking over her shoulder?
Even the warning the oracle Vara gave me is manipulation. What future is Vara trying for? Is she working for my best interest, or Thuvhe’s, or Ogra’s, or the oracles’? Don’t let her agree to it. Should I listen, or no?
I chew on the inside of my cheek.
“Who will be able to access this information? Anyone who wants it?” Isae asks. “The wide release of the fates didn’t turn out well for many on my planet.”
“It will be limited, of course, to the Assembly,” Harth says. “We do not want to endanger the public.”
Isae’s head bobs, slowly.
“I’d like some time to talk this over with my advisers,” Isae says. “If you don’t mind.”
“Of course,” Harth says. “Let us eat, and move to lighter topics. We can talk in the morning, when you have made your decision.”
Isae inclines her head, agreeing.