“The oracle’s esteemed colleague, Sifa Kereseth, of course,” Pary said, inclining his head to Akos’s mother.
“I am honored,” Sifa said, and they walked away together, leaving me, Akos, Eijeh, Cisi, and Yssa.
“Anything we should know?” I said to Yssa. “You used to live here, I assume? You seem to know as much about it as Pary does.”
“Yes. Pary and I both worked here, once, before I was sent to be an ambassador,” she said. She switched into Shotet. “I’m afraid I have nothing useful to say except that the oracle is far more than she initially seems, and if she wants to see each of you separately, that is because she has something distinct to say to each of you.”
Akos repeated this in Thuvhesit to Cisi, on a slight delay. I had never seen Cisi look quite this way—not frightened, exactly, but tense, like she was bracing herself.
I didn’t often think of Cisi’s fate, but I thought of it then. The first child of the family Kereseth will succumb to the blade.
The little buildings where Pary had told us we could stay were arranged in a circle around a garden, and all the walls were open, so it was easy to track who came and went. Sifa didn’t return from the oracle, but Pary came to collect Eijeh, who was increasingly making me feel like I was in the presence of Ryzek again.
Akos joined me in the garden, after ensuring there were no killer beetles flying around. Still, he stayed close to me, closer than he normally would.
“What do you think she’ll say?” I asked him.
He sighed, and I felt it against my hair. “I don’t know. I’ve given up trying to know what oracles are going to say to me.”
I laughed. “I bet you’re tired of them.”
“I am.” He stepped closer, so his chest was against my back and his nose was in my hair, tilted down so I could feel his breaths against the nape of my neck. It would have been simple to move away. He wasn’t holding me there; he was hardly touching me, in fact.
But so help me, I didn’t want to move.
“I’m tired of everything,” he said. “I’m tired all the time.”
He sighed again, heavily.
“Mostly,” he said, “I’m tired of not being near you.”
I found myself relaxing, shifting back so I was pressed against him, a wall of heat all the way down my spine. He rested his hands on my hips, his fingers creeping under the hem of my shirt just enough to dull my pain. Let the damn poison beetles come, I thought, as I felt a kiss on my neck, right behind my ear.
This was inviting further pain, and I knew it. His fate wouldn’t let him choose me, and even if that wasn’t the case, I suspected the deep well of his grief wouldn’t let him choose anything at all. But I was sick of doing what was good for me.
He kissed where my neck met my shoulder, lingering, his tongue tasting my skin, which was likely salty from sweat. I reached up and buried my fingers in his hair, holding him against me for a moment, and then twisting my neck so our mouths collided. Our teeth clacked together, and normally we would have drawn back and laughed, but neither of us was in a laughing mood. I pulled at his hair, and his hands tightened around my hips so hard it was just on the good side of painful.
I had buried myself in rage since the destruction of the sojourn ship, and since the illusions between him and me fell away. Now I buried myself in wanting him instead, twisting into him, grabbing his body wherever my hands found purchase. Want me, I told him, with each clutch of my fingers. Choose me. Want me.
I leaned back for just a moment, just to look at him. The straight line of his nose, and its scattered freckles. His skin was the color of sandstone, and the powder people used to keep their skin from shining, and the envelopes my mother had used to send letters. His eyes were insistent on mine, their color exactly like a storm rolling in over Voa, carrying in them the same apprehension, like even now he was afraid I might stop. I understood. I was afraid I might stop, too. So I pressed into him again, before I could.
We stumbled together toward one of the rooms, stumbled out of our shoes. I yanked a curtain across the space exposed to the courtyard, but really, I didn’t care if anyone saw, I didn’t care if we were interrupted, I just wanted to take and take and take whatever he would give, knowing that this might be the last time I let myself.
CHAPTER 25: CISI
THE HALL OF PROPHECY, where I go to meet the Ogran oracle, is big and grand, like its name suggests. It’s about what I expect, since that’s what the hall in Hessa Temple is like, and I used to go visit Mom at work all the time.
The Ogran space isn’t as colorful as Hessa’s, though. The walls are paneled with dark wood. Carved and etched into the wood are elegant designs that take the shape of what I assume are Ogran plants. They look almost like they’re writhing and snapping right in front of me.
There are windows near the ceiling, untinted, that must be lit from outside, because they glow with a light that’s not natural to Ogra itself. The room itself is narrow and long, with sculptures about an armspan away from each other. Some of them are as carefully shaped as the carvings on the walls, and others are hard and grotesque, but all have a kind of menace to them. Most things on Ogra do.
The oracle herself stands in front of one of the sculptures—one of the taller ones, made of metal plates that arc toward the ceiling and twist around each other. They’re all polished on one side and raw on the other, and fastened to each other with big bolts the size of my fist. The oracle’s hands are folded in front of her. Her oracle robes are a deep, rich blue, and she’s barefoot. Stouter than Mom, and smaller. She glances at me, and offers me a smile.
“Cisi Kereseth,” she says. “My name is Vara. Come, look at this.”
I smile back, and stand next to her, looking up at the sculpture. I only do it out of politeness. I’m no good at looking at art.
“This sculpture was constructed about thirty seasons ago, when the city of Pokgo began to expand. People were angry that we were losing some of what they called ‘Ogran humility.’ The traditional Ogran belief is that our planet humbles us—reminds us that there are some things we cannot overcome.” Vara shrugs. “Some things we should not try to control.”
She gives me a pointed look. I’m not sure what to make of it. My instinct is to calm her. I try water, the most useful of my textures, but I can tell it doesn’t do much to her. What makes Ograns comfortable, I wonder? Wind, the warmth of a fire, the softness of a blanket? I sift through a few in my mind before finding one I think seems right—the feeling of cool glass under your palm.
Vara raises an eyebrow.
“I have often wondered what that felt like,” she says. “It is a heady thing, to be touched by your gift. It is all too easy to succumb to its influence.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t mean to—”
Vara rolls her eyes. “Come on, girl. You can fool people who don’t know you that well, but I, along with every other oracle in my generation, have been seeing visions of you from birth. I know that your control is far more advanced than most who can influence their own gifts. I also know that you are trying to do good, when you use it against people. So let’s talk about Isae Benesit, Cisi.”
The way she lays it all bare makes me feel jumpy, and all the words I could say to defend myself get stuck in my throat. I nod, because that’s all I can do to show her that I heard what she said.
“Do you truly care about her?” she asks. “Or are you just manipulating her to accomplish your own aims?”
“My aims—” I choke out.