“NOT SURE WHY WE even need to talk about this,” Ast says gruffly.
We are in Isae’s temporary quarters on Othyr. He stands against a wall of light—a window so wide and clean it doesn’t seem to be there at all. The sun is setting behind Othyr’s glass buildings, the light refracting a dozen times over so the whole city sparkles orange. Right when we got here Ast unbuttoned his cuffs, so now they flap around his wrists whenever he gestures.
I sigh, and rub my temples with both hands. For all that Ast pretends to be a low-class mechanic from the brim, he’s not a fool—he knows this isn’t some simple exchange, Othyrian aid in exchange for a promise. It’s a tipping point for what kind of nation we’re going to be. Enemies of Othyr . . . or enemies of the oracles.
And then there’s the issue of the weapons.
“I just promised Cyra Noavek time before we pushed Ogra for Shotet deportation,” Isae says. “And now you want me to pursue an aggressive response instead of a diplomatic one. That’s why we need to talk about it.”
“Diplomacy.” Ast snorts. “Did Shotet go for a diplomatic solution in Shissa?”
The room is already so tense I can’t talk. I feel it like the humid air in a greenhouse, filling my mouth. I try to counter it with a clumsy press of my currentgift, sending the feeling of water everywhere like an overturned bucket. Ast’s mouth twists with disgust, and I pull back a little.
“Setting aside the issue of weaponry for a moment,” I say gently, “there is also the issue of oracle oversight.”
“I don’t give a shit if Othyr wants to keep an eye on the oracles,” Ast says. “Why do you?”
“That’s the problem—that Othyr will keep an eye on them, and not anyone else,” Isae says. “You don’t know these people like I do. Othyr exerts an extraordinary amount of control over the Assembly. If the information gleaned from oracle oversight is only released to the Assembly, it is essentially giving Othyr control over the fates instead of the oracles, which is only trading one problem for another.”
“You’re being indecisive,” Ast says. “You’ve been like this since we were kids. You don’t want to do something unless you can practically guarantee its outcome.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Not a word, not a sound. Isae is too focused on Ast to notice me struggling. Don’t let her, Vara’s voice says in my mind. What the hell am I supposed to do to stop her? I ask her, in my head. I can’t even talk!
“I asked you to come here because I thought you would keep me honest,” she says to Ast. “But you have to acknowledge that you don’t have experience with all this.”
“It’s because I don’t have experience that I can make it clear for you,” he says, moving closer.
Water, water, I think. I remember sinking to the bottom of the warm pool in the temple when Mom taught me to swim, how pleasant the light pressure of water around my head had been. A gentle squeeze.
“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.
“Hey,” one of the technicians says. “Let go of her, or I’ll have to call security.”
Ast releases me, and I stumble out of the room and into the hallway, shaken. I half walk, half run back to Isae’s room, which is right next to mine. I am about to knock when I see that her light is already off—she’s asleep.
I want to get to her before Ast does. Find a way to explain what I did that makes Ast seem irrational and paranoid. If I talk to her first, maybe I can destabilize whatever argument he has, maybe—
I need to think this through. I go to my room instead, so I can splash water on my face, careful to lock my door behind me.
I go to the little bathroom attached to my room and stick my head in the sink. I drink straight from the faucet, and water runs into my ear. When my throat is soothed, I reach blindly for the towel and press it to my face. I think I hear something. Clicking.
When I drag the towel down, Ast is standing behind me.
“Do you know what the children of mechanics learn to do?” he says in a low voice. “Pick locks.”
My currentgift stifles me. It doesn’t care that I’m in danger; it doesn’t care for my survival. It just strangles me, keeping me from screaming. I grab for the glass near the sink so I can break it, make a noise. While I lunge for it, he lunges for me. Something glints silver in his fist.
He’s strong. His hand is big enough to hold both of my wrists. His hands fumble over me, then find my shoulders. I drop the glass and it doesn’t break. He lifts me to my toes, and I bite, finding the flesh of his arm. I bite down as hard as I can, so hard he groans and his skin tears.
A hot pain spreads through my side. My shirt clings, wet, to my rib cage. In the mirror I see fierce red spreading down my body the same way it spread around my father’s head. It’s the color of hushflowers, the color of Blooming gowns and the glass dome of Hessa Temple. Red, the color of Thuvhe.
He stabbed me.
This is it. The first child of the family Kereseth will succumb to the blade.
This is my fate, at last.
He drops me, moaning over his arm, which bleeds in a half circle from where I bit him. I fall heavy on the floor. I haven’t made a sound. No one will come get me if I don’t make a sound. I reach for the fallen glass as Ast tries to stanch the flow of blood from his arm.
I’m going to pass out. But not yet. I raise the glass, and using all the strength I have left, I slam it against the stone floor as hard as I can. It shatters.